Chapter 38
Olivia
ME: Oh my god. This is a total mess.
RILEY: I’m sure it’s not that bad.
ME: It is. It is that bad.
I refresh the webpage, just to be sure that I’m not exaggerating. Nope. I’m not. It’s terrible.
Ever since Reed left for work this morning, I’ve been struggling to create a passable website for my business. Struggling, and failing.
Turns out that web design is harder than I imagined it would be, and I’m not exactly tech savvy.
“Oh, come on, “ I mutter to myself as I refresh the page again. This time, the image I’m trying to put on it—a photo of one of my best sweaters—is halfway off the page, overlapping with the text.
I pull out my phone and tap out another message to Riley.
ME: I can’t get anything to line up.
RILEY: lol
ME: Glad you’re enjoying this
RILEY: It’s hilarious, sorry!
I sigh, setting my laptop aside, and turn my attention to the notepad that’s sitting on the coffee table. If I’m having trouble with the website, I might just ask Reed to help me with it tonight. For now, there are other things I need to pay attention to.
Like figuring out what I’m actually going to offer in my shop.
So far, I’ve got a running list of the items I usually make. Sweaters, mittens, hats, scarves. But I’ve been wondering if I should diversify the list a little, or possibly offer customs.
While I’m deliberating, tapping my chin with my pen, I hear the whir of the elevator in action. I look up excitedly; in all likelihood, this means that Reed is home early. Who else would show up at his penthouse at this hour? And who else would Henry let up, no questions asked?
To my surprise, though, when the doors roll open, it isn’t Reed who steps through.
It’s Lionel.
Immediately, I toss my notepad on the couch, face-down. Reed may be endlessly supportive, but his father has a way of making me feel judged. I have a feeling I’d lose some confidence in my business plan if he found out about it.
I don’t want to give him any reasons to dislike me, though, so I force a courteous smile onto my face. “Oh, Mr. Eastwood. Um. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I just thought I would come by to talk,” he says lightly, stepping into the room.
“Can I get you anything? A drink, or—”
“No, no. That’s alright.”
There are a few seconds of painfully awkward silence. Then he breathes in through his nose sharply and says, “I hope you enjoyed the holiday party.”
“Oh, yes, I did,” I say, grateful for the conversation topic to latch onto. “The decorations were beautiful. It was great.”
He purses his lips and nods. “Cecily outdoes herself every year.”
“I’m sure.”
There’s another uncomfortable pause, in which he regards me, his gaze analytical. I shift on the couch, nervous under his scrutiny.
Finally, he says, “I know you’re getting a lot out of this deal.”
My brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
“You clearly hoped for more,” he adds, “so I’m willing to sweeten the deal, if it helps us clean our hands of this.” There’s a sour look on his face now, as if he’s tasted something unpleasant.
Something shifts in my chest. This isn’t a social visit. I open my mouth to respond, but he cuts across me before I can speak.
“I’ll offer you ten million dollars to step out of my son’s life.”
I close my mouth, my teeth clicking together in shock. After a moment, I manage to stammer, “Y-you—what?”
“Fade away into the background. Let the family choose a better wife for him.”
I’m stunned—speechless. I have no idea how to react to this, even though I can tell he’s waiting for a response.
After a few seconds of silence, he folds his arms and says, “It would be better this way. You’ll be set for life, and you can leave my son alone.”
His condescending tone makes my hackles rise, but I don’t dare snap at him like I want to. Instead, I just stare at him, feeling sick to my stomach.
He reaches into his pocket and produces a slip of paper, which he sets on the coffee table.
“That’s a check for ten million,” he says. “I’ll leave this with you.”
He turns away, back toward the elevator, and I remain on the couch, motionless. Frozen in place.
I can’t see the elevator doors closing, but I can hear the chime and the low rumble. Lionel doesn’t say another word as he leaves, and even after he’s gone, I can’t bring myself to relax.
I stare at the check. I don’t want to touch it; I feel like it would burn my skin. I sit and watch it, though, feeling as if the entire world is tilting around me.
There’s only one thing for it. I need to talk to Reed. I won’t be able to move on from this until I’ve spoken to him about it. He needs to know what just happened.
I force myself to stand, scooping up the check and shoving it into my pocket. Then I grab my phone from the couch cushions and dial Reed’s number.
I wait anxiously to hear his voice, but he doesn’t answer. I get his voicemail, but don’t bother to leave a message.
Instead, I pace the apartment, doing my best to calm down. I try everything that I can think of.
I spend a few minutes knitting, but my hands are shaking, and I don’t want to mess up my project. I try drinking some tea, but it does nothing to soothe the worry in my gut.
I need to talk to him. I need him to know about this.
After around half an hour of anxious fretting, I give up. I grab my stuff and head for the elevator. I don’t want to let my panic spiral any further, and there’s one surefire way to address this: to bring it up with Reed directly.
When I arrive at Reed’s office, I take the elevator straight to his floor. Marjorie, at her desk, looks up and makes eye contact with me, smiling. She waves me back, and with a grateful nod, I head past her, toward the slightly-ajar door of Reed’s office.
As I near the door, I hear voices. Two, drifting out into the hallway.
“—time for you to face that fact, son.” It’s Lionel. He must have come straight back here after leaving the apartment. At the sound of his voice, I instinctively bristle.
Reed doesn’t respond. The silence lasts for almost a full second, and I slow down, lingering outside the door. Whatever this is, I don’t want to interrupt it. Not while Lionel is here.
“It’s for the good of the entire family, and your image,” Lionel adds. “You know that you made a rash choice, and the only reason I didn’t put my foot down to stop you was because I knew that it had an end date. That there was documentation protecting you.”
“Protecting me?” Reed says, a note of bitterness in his voice. “Is that what this is about?”
My heart thuds in my chest as I realize that they’re talking about me. I lean in closer to the door, willing myself to breathe quietly—I don’t want them to know I’m here.
“Of course.” I hear some shifting sounds, as if Lionel is pacing up and down one side of the office. “At the end of the day, I think you and I both know that the Quinn girl isn’t wife material.”
I catch my breath, waiting for his response. There’s a long pause, and enough anxiety fills me that I start to feel dizzy.
Then Reed says, “No. Olivia isn’t… wife material.”
My chest clenches, and I stagger away from the door as if burned by it.
No. No. How could he say that? How could he…
The walls and floor of the hallway spin around me, and suddenly, all I can think is that I need to get out of here. I need to get out of here before I break down, and that breakdown is imminent.
Everything he told me about our future—everything he promised me—was fragile, weak, ready to collapse at the slightest pressure.
I head straight for the elevators, my gaze locked on the floor. I don’t look up at Reed’s secretary as I pass her desk; I don’t want her to see the tears gathering in my eyes.
As I break free from the Eastwood Corp building, out onto the sidewalk, I take a huge gulp of air. The tears begin to fall, slowly. Once they start, they’re impossible to stop.
God, I was so stupid. I was stupid, and idealistic, and short-sighted. I thought he loved me. I thought we had a future together.
Idly, in the back of my mind, I wonder how much of our relationship was real. Out of all the times he complimented me, or told me he loved me, how many times was the sentiment genuine?
Maybe it was none.
Perhaps I’m just uniquely gullible, thinking that something this nice could ever happen to someone like me.