Chapter 23
Olivia
T he rest of the week is a strange, sweet blur. At work, Cassandra keeps giving me these sly, sidelong looks whenever I pass her desk, and when I return from lunch flushed and messy-haired, she just waves a hand and says, “You look like a woman with a secret.”
I don’t even bother denying it. I grin and float through the rest of my shift, finishing projects with machine-like efficiency, so my evenings are free for Alex.
He insists on driving me home every day.
Sometimes, he picks me up in one of his beautiful cars.
Sometimes, we walk hand-in-hand, like the most ordinary couple in the world.
Once, when we’re halfway down Oak Street, he ducks into an alley and kisses me breathless; I feel his hands everywhere, and I want him, right there against the graffiti and dumpsters.
The thought makes me ache for hours after.
But there is more. He cooks for me—actual meals with more skill and care than I have ever managed with a recipe in my life.
He texts me pictures of half-prepped vegetables and smeared wooden spoons, asks me what wine to get, and if I have a favorite dessert.
I reply with emojis and GIFs, and sometimes we end up FaceTiming while he stands in his kitchen in an apron, stirring something red and brilliant on the stove, bare forearms dusted with flour.
The only time I come back to my apartment is to grab clothes or check on Duchess. Even then, I’m restless, counting the minutes until I can return to Alex. It’s dangerous, this addiction I’ve developed for him, but I can’t stop myself.
I am happy. No, more than that: I am electric, a little drunk on this sudden brightness that’s overtaken the gray rationality of my existence.
Any time I catch my reflection—elevator doors, train windows, gallery restrooms—I see the same thing Cassandra must: a woman with a secret, a woman transformed.
There’s a part of me that whispers this isn’t sustainable, that I’m losing myself in him, but I silence it quickly. I’ve spent so much of my life holding back, controlling every move, every word. With Alex, I feel free in a way I never have before. It’s intoxicating, and I don’t want it to end.
Still, the cracks are starting to show. Tiffany’s calls go unanswered more often than not, and when I do pick up, I can hear the frustration in her voice.
“Liv, you’ve been MIA for weeks. What’s going on?” she asks.
I make excuses—work, stress, exhaustion—but she doesn’t buy it.
She knows me too well.
I shake off the haze on Friday afternoon when I realize I don’t have a thing to wear to Hawthorne Industries’ party—the one where Alex and I are supposed to appear side by side as the perfect engaged couple.
Cassandra and I leave Millhouse gallery in the capable hands of Anna, then she whisks me straight to Empire Heights’ most exclusive boutique: Silk the fabric hugs my curves perfectly. But as I look at my reflection, I frown. “It’s beautiful but...”
Cassandra shakes her head. “Too Jessica Rabbit. Next!”
We go through gown after gown. A black velvet number (“Too somber”), a pink confection (“Too sweet”), a daring gold sequined piece (“Save that for the honeymoon”). With each rejection, my confidence wavers.
“What if I can’t find anything?” I mutter, stepping out of a green satin disaster that clings in all the wrong places.
Just as she says that, the saleswoman returns with a shimmer of blue fabric draped over her arm. “I think this might be the one, Ms. Carter.”
The moment I slip it on, I know she’s right. The gown is a deep sapphire with a sweetheart neckline and a flowing skirt that seems to float around me. Tiny crystals stitched along the bodice catch the light and sparkle with every movement.
I step out, and Cassandra’s gasp tells me everything.
“Olivia,” she breathes. “You look breathtaking. Alexander won’t know what hit him when he sees you in this.”
Gazing at my reflection, I hardly recognize myself. The gown fits perfectly, highlighting every curve and making me look elegant and regal. The fabric is soft and dreamlike against my skin, and I smile at the sight.
“This is it,” I agree. “This is the one.”
Cassandra looks at me the way a proud parent might. “You’re going to steal the show tonight. Alex won’t be able to look away.”
I snort. “That’s an exaggeration, but thank you.” I catch Cassandra’s gaze in the mirror. Her knowing smile lets me know she sees right through me.
She doesn’t let it go. “Is it? Do you also exaggerate the way your whole face lights up anytime he’s mentioned?”
I try for a shrug, but heat tickles my cheeks. “Is it that obvious?”
“To me? Completely.”
The seamstress discreetly excuses herself, giving us a moment alone. I turn to face Cassandra, my heart beating faster.
“I… think I might be falling for him, Cass. It’s not just physical attraction anymore. He’s kind, funny, and he actually listens to what I have to say. But this situation is so complicated. What if this is all just a fantasy?”
Cassandra takes my hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “It’s okay to have feelings, Olivia. But you’re right, things are complicated. Have you told him?”
I shake my head. “I’m afraid to. What if he doesn’t feel the same way?”
Cassandra raises an eyebrow. “Do you think that a man like Alexander would marry you without having any feelings for you? Olivia, he’s smart, perceptive, and he cares about you.”
Alex might care about me, but that doesn’t mean he’s falling in love with me.
“What do I do, Cass?”
She places a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “First, we get this dress and make a statement tonight. The rest will work itself out. Just be honest—with him and with yourself.”
I want to believe her, but I’m old enough to know better than to trust in fairytales.
I finally step out of the fitting room, reaching for my credit card as the shopping assistant begins to wrap the blue dress like something precious. My phone vibrates; Tiffany’s name flashes on the screen. I silence it, the unease settling in my gut.
“Is everything alright, Miss?” the assistant asks.
“Yes, thank you.” My credit card is out, ready; I’m already bracing for the sticker shock. “I’ll take it.”
The assistant smiles. “There’s no need, Ms. Jackson. Your fiancé already called. The dress is paid for.”
I blink. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Mr. Alexander Hawthorne paid in advance. He said it was a gift for his fiancée.”
My jaw drops. “What? But... how did he...?”
I stand there, blindsided. Cassandra doesn’t bother hiding her satisfaction. “He may not like me, my ass,” she mutters. “At least he knows you well enough to realize you wouldn’t use his credit card.”
“He only wants to make sure I look good for tonight,” I reason.
Cassandra wrinkles her nose, but her grin doesn’t falter. “If you say so.”
“Alex is thoughtful.”
“Yeah? Thoughtful enough to buy you a dress that costs more than my yearly rent. Admit it, Liv, you’ve hit the jackpot.”
A small smile tugs at the corners of my lips. “I suppose I have.”
And it seems too good to be true.
Hours later, I stand before the full-length mirror in Alex’s apartment, barely recognizing the woman staring back at me. The blue dress hugs my curves, its color making my eyes pop. My hair cascades down my back in soft waves, and my makeup is subtle yet glamorous.
You can do this, Olivia, I tell my reflection, smoothing down the front of the dress with trembling hands. It’s just one night. One very public, very important night.
I’m so lost in my thoughts that I don’t hear the door open.
It’s only when I catch a glimpse of Alex in the mirror that I realize he’s entered the room.
I turn, my breath catching in my throat as I take in his appearance.
He’s devastatingly handsome in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, his dark hair artfully tousled.
His eyes rake down my body like hands, and I swear his pupils darken.
“Jesus, Liv,” he murmurs, his voice lower than usual. “You’re going to kill me.”
He closes the distance in three long strides. I brace for his arms—his lips—but he just stands there, inches away, as if I’m an art piece he’s afraid to touch. My skin tingles all over. Finally, he brushes the underside of my chin with his knuckles, gentle and reverent.
“We should cancel the party,” Alex says. “And just stay at home.”
Suddenly, the idea seems wildly appealing. I look up at him through my lashes. “Is that an option?”
A smile tugs at his mouth, the dimple in his left cheek deepening. “There would probably be riots in the boardroom. And possibly from your friend Cassandra.”
I huff a laugh. “She’s expecting me to send selfies from the bathroom. She thinks you’ll be all over me all night.”
He leans in then, lips grazing the shell of my ear. “She’s not wrong.”
His hands find my waist, pulling me into him with a confidence that sparks heat in my veins. I feel myself melting into him, my hands sneaking up to smooth his lapels, to remind myself that this is real. That he’s real. All mine—even if only for one glorious, amazing year.
“Are you nervous?” I ask.
He takes my hand, his thumb tracing gentle circles on my skin. “As long as you’re by my side, I think I can handle anything.”
God, if I could bottle this feeling—this weightlessness and giddiness—I’d never need coffee or sleep again.
I rest my hands on his chest. “Then let’s give them a show.”