Chapter 17 OLIVE #2
“That sounds dangerously close to trust.”
He smiles, slow and genuine. “Good. Because I do.”
The car slows. My heart rate spikes. I hear the thrum of music and the buzz of a crowd even before the door opens.
Ash notices my death grip again and slides his fingers between mine, palm warm against mine. “Olive.”
I turn to him.
“You’re going to be fine,” he says, steady and low. “And if it gets to be too much, just lean into me.”
I nod, because my throat’s too tight for words.
He leans in, brushing his lips to my temple. “Let them see what a lucky bastard I am.”
And just like that, the door swings open.
Ash steps out first, cameras exploding in a frenzy of white flashes and shouting voices.
Then he turns, extends his hand toward me, and smiles like there’s no one else in the world.
I take his hand.
And step into the spotlight.
Flashes explode like fireworks, and voices shout from every direction. “Ash! Over here! Ash, who’s the girl?” “Is that your fiancée? Give us a kiss!”
Ash’s hand finds the small of my back, steady and warm. He leans close, voice low in my ear. “Smile like I just whispered something filthy.”
I bite back a laugh. “You do have a habit of doing that.”
We step forward together, hand in hand, and the frenzy intensifies. Ash raises our joined hands for the cameras, the diamond on my finger catching the light in a dazzling flash. I swear half the crowd gasps.
“Hold still,” he murmurs, then slides his arm around my waist, drawing me into his side like we’ve done this a thousand times. He angles us just right for the cameras—his rockstar instincts kicking in—and I try to follow his lead. Chin up. Shoulders back. Soft smile.
He turns toward me slightly, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. It’s nothing, really—barely a touch. But the flashes pop like grenades, and the crowd noise crescendos.
“You’re doing great,” he says quietly, lips close to my cheek. “You look beautiful, Hart.”
I feel beautiful. Nervous, but beautiful. The gown fits like a dream, the glam team gave me cheekbones I didn’t know I had, and the man beside me is looking at me like I’m the main event—not the accessory.
A photographer shouts, “Can we get a kiss?”
My heart stutters. Ash doesn’t miss a beat. He leans in—not to my lips, but to my temple, pressing the gentlest kiss there. The crowd reacts anyway, like he just dipped me in a passionate movie moment. His lips linger for a beat longer than they should.
I watch as he works the crowd, posing and smiling.
He lights up under the spotlight—not in the forced way people do for the cameras, but in that magnetic, larger-than-life way that makes people stop and stare.
He’s dazzling.
Charming the reporters with lazy smiles and clever answers, tossing a wink here, a grin there, slipping between suave and playful like it costs him nothing. And the cameras? They love him. The crowd practically surges when he waves. One woman actually squeals.
And he doesn’t even flinch. Just smiles wider, poses smoother, drops a hand casually to my waist like he’s done it a thousand times.
This is his world. Glossy, electric, fast.
And he’s so good at it.
Ash answers a question about his “upcoming wedding” with a smirk and a vague answer, somehow both teasing and respectful, and the reporter eats it up like it’s gourmet gossip.
He knows exactly what to give them—and exactly what to keep for himself.
Next to him, I feel like a kindergartener on a field trip. I smile, nod, cling to his cues like a lifeline. But he never lets me drift. Every so often, his fingers brush mine, or he leans in like he’s whispering something private just for me. Little touches. Small anchors.
I’m not used to this version of him. This Ash is a star.
Sparkling. Effortless. Untouchable.
Another reporter approaches. She’s stunning.
Legs for days, a designer gown that fits like it was sewn on her body, and a glossy microphone held like an accessory.
I recognize her from somewhere—an entertainment segment maybe?
She probably hosts some kind of late-night celebrity gossip show with four million followers and a verified checkmark.
And now she’s interviewing Ash.
Correction: she’s flirting with Ash.
“Rock god Ash Ryder,” she purrs into the mic, her manicured hand landing on his arm like she owns it. “Looking sharp tonight. Who are you wearing?”
Ash flashes her a lazy grin. “Dolce & Gabbana. You approve?”
She laughs—too loud, too practiced—and squeezes his arm like she’s forgotten it isn’t hers to touch. “I do. Honestly? You’re outshining everyone on this carpet tonight.”
I stand next to him, clutching my tiny purse like a lifeline and feeling increasingly invisible. The reporter hasn’t even looked at me. Not once. Until—
“And who’s this?” she asks, barely glancing my way. “Your assistant?”
I blink. “I—”
Ash’s arm is around my waist in a second. “This is my fiancée,” he says smoothly, his tone cool but firm.
“Oh!” Her smile wavers for a beat before snapping back into place—brighter, faker. “Right. The wedding. So exciting!”
Now she actually looks at me—up, down, through me. And I swear, her lashes flutter with barely concealed judgment.
“I’m Olive,” I say, my smile sharp enough to draw blood.
Ash’s fingers tighten slightly on my hip. I can’t tell if it’s meant to steady me—or hold me back.
The reporter plows ahead, turning back to Ash like I’ve evaporated. “So, Ash—tell us, will there be new music coming before or after the honeymoon?”
I tune her out after that. Because watching her touch him—again—and ignore me—again—is grating on every nerve I have. It shouldn’t bother me. We’re fake. This whole thing is a performance.
Except… it doesn’t feel fake right now.
Not the warmth of his body next to mine. Not the way my heart kicks when he glances at me mid-interview like he’s checking in.
And definitely not the way I’m itching to yank her perfectly manicured hand off his bicep and hiss mine.
Which is ridiculous.
Because he’s not.