Remy

43. Olivia

OLIVIA

“I’m going to ruin your life, Olivia. Just you wait and see.”

Hugo’s threat plays on a continuous loop in my head, the barrage only adding to the weight of instability surging through me.

He knows about the illegal misuse of the retort.

He might not have specifics, but he’s accumulated enough educated guesses to be on the mark.

The problem is, the threat of prison isn’t the epitome of my concern. Yes, it’s up there on the list. Pretty high in fact. But the thought of being arrested and spending my life behind bars comes in second place when I think about Remy and all that’s left unsaid between us if we don’t face each other again.

I need to talk to him. And not only in the hopes he can get me out of the Hugo situation. It’s so much more than that. I just can’t bring myself to go in search of him when the thought of him turning his back has me tied in knots.

“Hey, hon.” Ivy slides onto the ornate park bench beside me. “Can we talk about some of the people who attended…?” She cocks her head to take a better look at me, her brow furrowing. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Everything.

“It doesn’t seem like nothing.” She grabs my hands, clasping them with hers in my lap. “You’re shaking.”

Am I?

I don’t feel it.

The constantly building ache in my chest paired with the increased threat of nausea doesn’t leave room to notice much else.

“Why don’t we go to the staff break room and get some privacy for a little while?” Ivy pushes to her feet, the long lengths of her black dress swishing around her calves as she drags my hands with her.

“No, I…” I shake my head, unable to move from fear of throwing up. “Maybe later.”

She’s quiet a moment, the excited chatter of so-called mourners in the wake room filling the void.

“Liv, what’s going on?”

I scoff a manic laugh.

Well, both my parents are dead.

I’m going to spend the rest of my life in prison.

And the icing on the cake is that despite all that upheaval, the only thing I can think about is Remy.

Where he is.

What he’s doing.

My eyes burn, the increased threat of tears spurring my gut to counteract with a mass production of bile. I wince at the agonizing churn.

“Liv?” Ivy crouches in front of me. “You’re worrying me.”

Me, too.

I’m not sure how to recover from this. How to survive.

I’m lost. In pain. Yet I’m so goddamn numb.

“When was the last time you ate?” she asks.

I scrunch my nose at the thought.

“Do you want me to get you some sandwiches? I can check with the catering staff and see if there’s more food waiting in the kitchen.”

I pull my hands from hers to place a soothing palm over my abdomen. I’m definitely going to be sick again. There’s no escaping it.

I can already feel my body creeping toward the starting line. There’s a slight burn in my throat. A heated tightening takes over my temples.

“I need to use the bathroom.” I push to my feet, dizzy with the insurgence of nausea.

“Liv, you can’t keep doing this.” Ivy stands, running a comforting hand down my back.

The concern in her eyes undoes me, increasing the burn, triggering more bile.

“Please stay here,” I beg. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

She winces but nods.

I hustle for the wake room, accelerating my pace, trying to outrun the inevitable.

“My deepest sympathies, Olivia,” a woman says as I enter the building.

“Your dad was such a great man” comes from someone else.

Condolences shadow me across the room, hounding me like wraiths.

“I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

“You’re in my thoughts.”

“He’ll be missed.”

I blink through my blurring vision, stumbling my way across the room only to stop at the edge of the mingling mourners.

Remy’s brother stands guard in front of the men’s bathroom, making it impossible to discreetly escape into the ladies.

Oh, God.

“Are you alright, dear?” A woman I don’t recognize touches my arm. “If it’s the bathroom you’re after apparently there’s a plumbing issue, but I was told if you walk through to the reception area?—”

“Excuse me.” I turn and flee in the opposite direction.

I don’t have time to reach the other bathrooms.

My chest is too tight. My throat too hot.

I burn everywhere. My lungs. My eyes. My nose.

I head for the catering kitchen, shoving past the swinging doors, praying for privacy and an empty sink.

My feet freeze in place at the sight of two women crouched and rummaging through the cupboards beneath the counter.

I suck in an emotional breath. Are they stealing from me? At my father’s funeral?

The women abruptly turn to face me, rising to their full height, apprehension written all over their gorgeous faces.

One of them is familiar. The beautiful blonde with blue eyes.

Is she the woman from Smoke Mirrors? Remy’s date from the night I’d been attacked?

The memory is a blur. My panicked unease makes it irretrievable.

I blink and blink, trying to clear my vision. My mind. My heartache.

Is she his lover? His girlfriend?

She has to be famous. I’m sure I’ve seen her before.

I swallow, willing the nausea back down my throat, but it doesn’t quit creeping higher, pushing harder.

“Hey.” She levels me with sympathy. “I hope it’s okay that we’re in here. We wanted to help—you know, the whole family helps family thing—and didn’t know what else to do apart from washing dishes.” She indicates the sink full of suds with a wave of her hand. “It’s just taking a while to figure out where everything belongs.”

I stare at the bubbles I’m about to destroy in front of an audience. Can I even make it the few steps across the room? Everything is too much—the tightening in my chest, the ache in my nose, the sting of my eyes.

“Family?” I croak.

“Yes, Olivia.” She nods, smile pained. “I’m Remy’s sister. We’re all family.”

Sister?

I could laugh with the idiotic relief. I probably would if I didn’t find it so hard to breathe. I can’t get enough air.

“Are you okay, honey?” The woman inches forward.

No.

I yank at the top buttons of my blouse. My blazer is too tight. It feels like every gasp fills me with pressure but not oxygen. I’m a balloon about to burst.

“Go,” the woman demands of her dark-haired companion. “Get Remy.”

“No,” I beg, the word coming out in a sob.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Remy’s sister runs gentle hands over my arms, hesitant with her touch. “You’re going to get through this.”

She doesn’t understand.

Does she even know what her family have been doing? What I’ve been doing?

Is she aware of my love for her brother? Or that I pushed him away?

Nothing is right without him.

Nothing ever will be.

“Things will get better,” she soothes. “You’re in the worst of it right now. You’re under attack.”

That’s exactly what it feels like—a battle. A war.

Everything is out to get me and I don’t know if I should hide or defend myself.

I hunch, sucking in ragged breaths.

My eyes worsen—the blur, the burn. It takes over everything. My face. My throat. My lungs.

“Sweetie, are you having a panic attack?” she asks.

I shake my head.

This isn’t panic. It’s pain. Misery.

A squeak of hinges carries behind me.

“Ollie?”

I swing around at the sound of Remy’s voice, finding him standing in the doorway, his stark eyes cutting through the final string of my control.

“Remy,” I sob, my knees giving out along with the lifetime’s worth of restraint on my sadness.

He lunges forward, arms outstretched to catch my fall. He drags me into him, calling me home against his chest as the tears I’ve enslaved for years finally fall free.

“It’s okay.” He holds me tighter. “I’ve got you.”

One by one the heavy cascade heats my cheeks, accompanied by deep, ratcheting cries. I bury my face in his neck, the nausea receding as my sobs increase. I shake with the weight of them. Convulsing. Heaving.

Someone places a handkerchief in my hand.

Softly uttered words are spoken between brother and sister.

I don’t understand any of it. I’m too deep in hysteria. Forming a bond. Becoming best friends with grief.

Then I’m being lifted. Carried.

“I’m taking you home,” Remy murmurs in my ear.

I don’t protest. There’s no will to do anything but cling to him as my tears soak the shoulder of his jacket.

He takes me through the external door to the side of the building, the high hedge shadowing us, my uncontrollable weeping echoing off the wall.

I’m carried into the parking lot.

Remy talks to others. Instructs. Makes subtle demands.

I’m too busy sobbing. Devolving.

He continues holding me as we’re nestled into the backseat of an unfamiliar sedan—plush creme leather, new car smell.

I’m strapped in against his chest, his arms never losing their grip, his comfort unwavering.

I close my eyes as someone drives us from the funeral home. I let the tears take over. The pain run free.

“I’m right here, Pyro.” Remy nuzzles my cheek. “I’m not going to leave you.”

God, the way he appeases me. How he soothes.

It’s more than just his words. It’s his touch. His gaze. His existence.

He nourishes my soul, welcoming me into the destruction instead of forcing me to shut it out.

I let my sorrow surge free, wild and with abandon, as we’re driven through sightless streets and paused at innumerable intersections.

“It feels so good to hold you,” he whispers.

The tears fall harder. I don’t know where they come from. How they keep flowing.

We go somewhere dark. Somewhere echoey.

A multi-level parking lot.

Not my home. His.

The car stops and I’m carried from the vehicle, Salvatore’s surprisingly empathetic stare following me from his position behind the wheel as I cling tight to Remy’s neck.

I’m taken into the private elevator.

We ascend to the soundtrack of my hitched breaths.

Then it’s just the two of us on Remy’s sofa, me nestled on his lap while the tears slow to a trickle.

He coaxes me back to the land of the living, holding me, consoling me, whispering to me.

“You’re not alone…”

“I’m here for you…”

“Your grief is safe with me…”

One by one, he picks up my broken pieces, fitting me back together, making me whole. The silence stretches, allowing me to relax into its cocoon, the weight of my problems still right there, just no longer as heavy.

“Can I get you a glass of water?” he finally asks.

I nod through the exhaustion, my head aching, my eyes puffy and sore.

He places me gently on the seat beside him and walks for the kitchen, returning moments later and handing over a chilled glass.

“Thanks.” I keep my head low and take a sip, not ready to look at him and face the damage that’s been done.

He reclaims a seat at my side, his leg against mine, a gentle hand coming to rest on my thigh. I watch as it slowly glides against the material of my skirt, back and forth, the slight rasp of fabric the only accompaniment to my sniffs.

I don’t know how long he lets me sit there, quiet in my grief, but time stretches enough for guilt to creep back in.

I take another sip and place the glass on the coffee table. “I bet I look a treat.”

“You’re always beautiful.”

I keep my head downcast, hiding my wince. “Even when I accused you of killing my father?”

His hand raises from my thigh, lazily dragging along my jaw, gently adding pressure until I lift my chin to meet his eyes. He stares at me with such hardened sadness I’m almost plunged back into tears. “Even then.”

I crunch my nose against the burn. “I’m sorry.”

He frowns. “Why?”

“Because I accused you of something that never should’ve been thought, let alone spoken.”

He brushes away the stray strands of hair clinging to my cheeks. “Ollie, you were justified in what you said. I gave him the pento. It was ridiculous of me to think he wouldn’t use it.”

“No. It was ridiculous for you to believe he wouldn’t keep his word with something so important. I would’ve trusted him, too. Even after he’d lied to me over and over again.”

His thumb strokes my jaw. “He lied because he loved you.”

I meet his eyes. “And you gave him that pento for the same reason. I should’ve realized you’d never do anything to hurt him… or me.”

His lips kick in a bittersweet smile as he continues dragging that thumb over my skin with attentive reassurance.

He’s so good to me.

So patient.

So understanding.

“Do you forgive him?” I ask, hoping not to trigger his own grief.

I’d found his letter screwed up in the parking lot, the two written words packing a savage punch. I’d regretted the way I spoke to Remy before then, had endured multiple hours of guilt while at my father’s bedside to know I’d reacted horribly. But forgive me was my undoing.

“I don’t know, Pyro,” he admits. “I’m still angry. I’ve done a lot of bad shit over the years, but this hits different.”

I wince, leaning into his touch, wishing I could place a kiss to his palm, but we’re not where we once were.

“I think the worst part is what was left unsaid.” His brow furrows. “Carlo ended up meaning a lot to me. It was more than a working relationship, and I’m not sure he knew that.”

“He knew.” I choke on my words, trying to rein in my sympathy.

He shrugs. “Maybe.”

“No, not maybe.” I slide a hand into the pocket of my blazer and retrieve my father’s letter. “I want you to read this.”

He eyes the envelope with trepidation. “That’s between you and your dad. I don’t?—”

“Please.” I reach it toward him. “I want you to read what he had to say.”