Chapter Three
Olivia
Tyler gives me the cold shoulder for nearly four weeks. It’s his immature way of making his displeasure known over my refusal to apologize to Brielle. He doesn’t seem to realize that adults behave differently.
But at least it gave me a month of peace and quiet.
The point is to get married, not be all lovey-dovey.
I’m busy with my own life and business, and don’t have time to coddle his bruised ego.
Plus, I’m sure Brielle is doing a great job of that.
For all I know they’ve already been sleeping together, although maybe they take breaks on the weekends.
He’s busy living it up in Vegas on Saturdays, according to photos on his Instagram.
Nothing overt, but just enough to clue me in that he’s been gambling.
Good for him. Hope he never comes out of the den.
But after the wedding. Can’t have him disappearing before then.
Ideally, I’d never run into Brielle or anyone else from my so-called family. But I still drag myself to San Marino two weeks before the ceremony for the pre-wedding brunch Deena insisted on. “It’s so important for mothers of brides to be involved.”
Except she isn’t my mother—just Hugh’s mistress, who usurped what rightfully belonged to Mom and me.
And she said it while teetering like she was drunk.
Still, she struts around as though she’s some kind of conquering hero.
As far as she’s concerned, banging a moneyed man is winning at life, even if the money’s coming from his late wife.
After putting on my battle outfit—a tailored wine-colored jumpsuit—I drive my gray Audi to the mansion where I grew up. When I turned eighteen, I moved out and have avoided returning as much as possible ever since. The place just holds too much unresolved heartbreak and grief and fury.
The original wrought-iron gates still have the Whitmore family monogram—that Deena wouldn’t dare touch, too afraid of neighbors gossiping. A top-tier lawyer like John Highsmith, who’s the trustee for the Whitmore family’s money, would have other clients in the area.
White oaks older than the mansion form a giant canopy over the driveway.
They’ve been guarding the house and its occupants for generations.
If they could talk, they’d rage at the injustice against Mom.
Her only fault was marrying a man like Hugh.
She should’ve never fallen for a penniless man whose only assets were a pretty face and a mouth full of clever lies.
I narrow my eyes briefly at the sight of Tyler climbing out of a shiny black Mercedes. Guess he decided to show up rather than hold on to his petty displeasure. Or maybe he wants to inventory my family assets with more care. He’s never been invited to the mansion until now.
Today he’s casual, in a pale green polo shirt and khakis. His neatly cropped hair is styled, but not slicked back, the look he favors for work.
He purses his mouth and gives me a long stare, like he expects me to come over and make the first overture.
I pretend to not notice and study the enormous central fountain, which sits silently.
When the water shot high and the time of the day was just right, the angle of the sunlight hitting the water droplets made little rainbows across the garden.
Mom and I used to blow bubbles and run around it when I was little.
Carefree laughter rang in the air endlessly back then.
Pochi would join us after we got her. She was just a puppy then, brimming with endless energy.
The fountain broke the same day Brielle “accidentally” ran over Pochi while driving with a learner’s permit.
The corner is still cracked from the impact because Hugh and Deena never bothered to fix it.
The water smells of stagnation and neglect.
The stringy black and green algae sway like the hair on a drowned woman.
I stand right on the spot where Pochi’s blood pooled. It’s gone now. Deena was quick to have it scrubbed clean, as though it could erase what she and her daughter owe me.
A futile attempt. I plan to collect every bit of the debt—plus interest.
I forcibly relax my jaw and hands, push down the old pain and grief.
That dog was the last real family I had left, the only one I could give all my heart to.
Even now, I blame myself for loving her too much, drawing Brielle’s attention.
She’s never seen anything of mine she didn’t want.
If she can’t take it, she destroys it. And unlike fickle boyfriends, Pochi was loyal.
A mental image of Liam appears. He rebuffed Brielle, just like Pochi always did. If I asked him for help…
He’d agree. My gut says so. But that would put a big target on his back. Brielle would try to tempt him—and if that failed, hurt him the way she hurt Pochi.
A sour tang fills my mouth, cold sweat dampening my palms. I take a few deep and steadying breaths. I’m not a helpless young girl anymore. I’ve amassed a small fortune behind my enemies’ backs, laid all but one piece on the board so I can make my moves.
My revenge won’t be pretty. It will be catastrophic. And I want as few people as possible to see how it’s executed. Sausages are only good when you don’t know how they’re made.
Liam is the last person who should see the ugly process.
Tyler finally comes over. “Hey,” he says stiffly.
“Hey,” I say, still staring at the fountain.
“How long has it been broken?”
“About thirteen years.”
“Too complicated to fix?”
“No. Just couldn’t arrange for a convenient time.” I turn and face him. My sky-high stilettos have raised me eye-to-eye, no need to crane my neck. “It isn’t a difficult or expensive repair. Maybe fifty-k?” I shrug, casually throwing out a sum big enough to snag his attention.
His eyes flash with calculation. He looks around the garden and the fountain again. He probably didn’t do well in Vegas. The house always wins—it’s a cliché, but it’s also a mathematical truth. He has to marry strategically to cover his losses.
Time for me to show him that going along with the bride swap is the correct move.
“Let’s go in,” I say, interrupting his mental math.
He nods, putting a hand at the small of my back. Guess he finally remembered I’m his fiancée.
We step past the giant navy door, and I shift so the angle of our bodies makes it awkward for him to continue holding his hand there.
No sign of the staff. Deena doesn’t cook, so she likely made them prepare everything and then leave.
Best not to have witnesses when she and Brielle are planning to pull something sneaky.
The main house no longer smells like the fresh roses and beeswax of my childhood.
Now it’s artificial air freshener as cheap as the interloper herself.
Inhaling deeply to stop a scream welling in my chest, I close my eyes briefly at the sight of all the flashy gold-foiled furniture.
What couldn’t be covered in gold—like the throw pillows—is covered in an awful faux leopard print.
Maybe I should be grateful she didn’t drape the house with blinking lights as well.
“Wow,” Tyler breathes in awe.
It takes all my self-control not to roll my eyes. I chose him for crassness hidden underneath a pretty wrapping, but being next to his naked avarice is still painful. Eyes on the prize, Olivia.
“This is incredible. Is everything real gold?”
“Yes,” I say. “And with the price of gold being what it is, the furniture has appreciated quite a bit over the years.”
My sarcasm flies right over his head. “Damn!” he says with the joy of a man discovering a pirate’s treasure. “Amazing.”
A corner of my mouth starts to curl in contempt, but I quickly mask it with a proud smile. “But this isn’t really that much. The real value is in the antiques. Those, we keep hidden. Too valuable to be seen.”
“You have antiques?”
“Yeah. Mostly Victorian, I think? And some Ming vases. Have you ever seen one? They’re stunning.”
Tyler perks up. “Wasn’t there one that got auctioned for, like, twenty million?”
“Twenty-one. At Christie’s.”
He licks his lips. Doubt he realizes it, though.
Just how much does he owe the casinos? Some of them aren’t known for civilized collection.
“Oh my goodness, why didn’t you announce yourself, Olivia?
” comes Deena’s overly bright voice. She trots toward us in a magenta satin dress too tight to be worn in public and black heels more befitting a stripper than the mother of the would-be bride.
She looks exactly like Brielle, if you aged my half-sister about two decades.
The copper hair has been dyed to look more golden, and she’s styled it into a French twist. At least her makeup is respectable, although the glittery green eyeshadow is more suitable for a teenager than a woman in her fifties.
But underneath all that must be something that caught and kept Hugh’s interest—mutual trashiness, possibly… ? “We’ve been waiting for you.”
“Sorry, but you apparently dismissed the staff for the day. Nobody could tell us where you were.”
She lets out a gratingly cheery laugh. “Oh no, this is just family. I didn’t want too many servants around, although Mrs. Moore is in the kitchen, just in case.”
I say nothing. Our longtime housekeeper wasn’t home when Mom fell down the stairs.
But she’s always been loyal, slipping me extra snacks whenever she could.
I’ve quit interacting with her much because Deena and Brielle don’t like it when the household staff treats me with kindness, and I don’t want Mrs. Moore to be put in a difficult situation.
She has a son with a congenital heart condition, and she needs the health insurance from her job because her husband is a freelancer without benefits.
Deena looks at Tyler with an expectant gaze. “You understand, don’t you?”
“Of course, ma’am.”
He gives her an ingratiating smile as she puts a hand over her impressive bosom. She gained a couple of cup sizes in the last fifteen years. The magic of Beverly Hills surgeons.