Chapter Two #2
I don't want to look him up, she had told her godfather. Because if she had, and the man she was married to wasn't what she was hoping for, what then?
Chelsea had never really believed in God, but miraculously waking up from a coma after three years had opened her eyes and heart to His existence.
From the moment she woke up, she had known she was different. She was new. Born again.
And since then, it was how she had done her best to live.
She read the Bible to know and trust Him more, and the more she knew Him, the more she realized how much He loved her.
The more time she spent with Him, the more she wanted to obey Him and as such, when Edgar told her what he had done to protect her inheritance—-
What God had joined together, no man shall put asunder.
Chelsea had insisted on meeting her husband face to face. She hadn't wanted to give herself any chance to back out, hadn't wanted to let the world tempt her into compromising just to play it "safe".
God's plans were always the best, even if they didn't seem to make sense at first, and because she also believed there was no such thing as coincidence when one had faith...
It was why Chelsea knew she had to at least try. If Olivio Cannizzaro rejected her outright, and he asked for a divorce or an annulment, that would be it. The Bible also had that covered.
But if he did not...
Gulp.
For this man to still be staring at her—-
Either he couldn't believe how horrible she looked...or it was something else.
Something that went along the lines of him also considering making a go of their marriage?
Gulp.
Chelsea's heart felt as if it was about to leap out of her chest any moment. They were passing the eighth floor now, and she could still feel the burning weight of his gaze, and oh, it was just getting harder and harder not to steal a look.
Don't peek, don't peek, don't, oh, I give up I'm peeking!
But just as she lifted her head, the elevator opened its doors at the tenth floor, and Edgar stepped sideways as two men in conversation and a woman joined them.
Chelsea's eyes met the mirrored wall instead of Olivio's face, and what she caught there—-just a flash, barely a second before he redirected his attention to the closing doors—-was him looking at the place where her braid had come undone at the nape of her neck.
Her hand flew up before she could stop it, fingers finding the loose strand and tucking it back.
She didn't see his jaw tighten. But Edgar, standing between them, did.
The elevator doors opened again at the eleventh, and more people stepped in. Chelsea started feeling nervous as the space compressed.
If this continued...then what?
The same thought, unbeknownst to Chelsea, was running through Olivio's mind.
And at first, he simply intended to stay where he was.
But when he saw one of the men shifting slightly toward her, Olivio found himself moving, and the next thing he knew, he had placed himself between Chelsea and the man, which had the secondary effect of positioning her behind him and against the mirrored wall.
What the hell am I doing?
Olivio tensed as more people came in, the space tightening again and again, bodies rearranging with the wordless efficiency of people who rode elevators in expensive buildings.
Chelsea herself was struggling to put some distance between her and Olivio, trying at first to make herself smaller as her shoulder blades pressed against the mirrored wall while she held her quilted case in front of her like a shield.
Oh please, let this be it!
If more people came in after this, there was nothing else she could do, and she just didn't want to risk Olivio thinking she was coming on to him or anything.
Please let that be it.
But instead it was the opposite, with more people entering at twenty-two, and then twenty-five.
The physics of the situation simply overruled her, and the next thing she knew they were completely pressed against each other, and there was no mistaking the lethally masculine power he radiated through the fabric of his suit.
Oh no.
The scent of his aftershave reached her first. It wasn't overpowering like the lady's perfume from earlier.
It was more subtle. But also...more complicated.
She couldn't explain if this had more to do with the man wearing the scent or the scent itself, but there was just something about it that made Chelsea want to lean closer rather than further away.
Control yourself, Chelsea Regis!
She pressed her fingernails into the quilted fabric of her case, but it was no use. Her body, which had been "dormant" for years, suddenly felt more alive than ever, and it was all because of...him.
The scent that she couldn't get enough of. The masculine strength that his powerful form radiated. Everything about him was just so...oh, how to put what she was feeling into words?
There was just something about him that had every nerve ending from her collarbones to the backs of her knees straining, just yearning and helplessly aching to close the last millimeter of distance between her and the warm wall of his back and just...stay there.
I think I'm going crazy.
Because this...this didn't make sense. The way she could feel his breathing and how every breath he drew mattered. To her. Meanwhile, her own breathing had gone completely rogue, shallow and fast and happening at a rate that she hoped he didn't notice.
But alas, it wasn't to be.
Because Olivio did notice.
And the fact that he did had Olivio gritting his teeth.
He had never been the type of man who was so easily affected by mere proximity. No matter how beautiful a woman was, he had never struggled to maintain his control, and it was always the woman who ended up begging, always the woman who ended up succumbing first.
But this time...
This girl who was now his wife...
Everything about her was different.
She wasn't even touching him, but the impact of her just being near to him was maddening. In fact, he was experienced enough to know it was the opposite, with how Chelsea was doing her rigid best to hold herself away to keep her body from coming into contact with his.
He had no idea if that was her being coy or something else.
All he knew was how hard she was trying not to press against him, and she was just trying so hard that she didn't realize it was making things worse for both of them, her efforts turning into an unbearable tension that was just a touch away from turning into attraction and desire.
By Floor 26, someone shifted, the compression increasing by a degree, and her forehead came to rest against his back.
It was the slightest of contact, the lightest of pressure.
It was also completely accidental because in the next second, she had jerked away as if burned, and her reaction had his hand, the one in his pocket, closing into a fist.
This was not the first time a woman had stumbled against him in a crowded elevator, whether accidental or on purpose (and more often than not it was the latter).
But this was the first time that his own body had reacted, the first time that he found himself actually fighting against the urge to manufacture another accident—-
I must be losing my mind.
—-so that she would come into contact with him again.
Oblivious to how Olivio was struggling to contain his own reactions, Chelsea nearly went boneless with relief when most of the passengers stepped out of the elevator as soon as its doors opened at the 28th floor.
Note to self: 28/F is the cafeteria.
Where to find food was always a good thing to know, but right now she was just glad—-so, so glad—-that she could finally start breathing again, and it became even easier once Olivio had moved away, and there was absolutely no chance at all for her to stumble against him like earlier.
Phew.
She could feel him studying her once again, but she still couldn't make herself meet his gaze.
It felt too soon, and she just wasn't ready.
She would only look into his eyes once she was sure she had the courage to confront whatever she would find, and that would only happen once she figured out two things.
What did she feel about him...and what God wanted her to do moving forward.
Olivio had sufficiently regained his composure by the time the doors opened at his floor. Edgar led the girl out, and his gaze turned hooded as he followed behind them, not wanting the others to see just how closely he was studying her.
The first thing he noticed was her limp, and only because of how intently he was watching her every move.
Why was she limping at her age? Was it temporary or permanent?
Was it caused by an accident? Had someone harmed her?
Or had she done this to herself, being governed by the same youthful impulses that had inevitably caused Russell's demise?
He watched the way she moved, with her left leg landing with a fraction less certainty than her right.
Not a limp exactly. More like an ongoing negotiation between her body and the ground, as if she'd recently had to relearn the terms of their agreement.
It reminded him of something he couldn't place, and then it came to him: the way his brother walked after a bad crash at Silverstone.
Not injured enough to stop. Just injured enough that stopping was no longer something the body took for granted.
He also noticed how her left hand trailed the wall as she walked. Not leaning on it. Just touching, the way a person touched things when they'd learned not to trust their own balance completely.
Everyone else on his floor was staring at her...even while doing their best to hide it. Confusion and curiosity on every face, and all of them smart enough not to reveal anything negative toward any person being accompanied by the man on whom their livelihoods depended.