Page 16 of The Contract Marriage

The injustice of it all burns until I can barely drag in air.

“Are you all right?” Andrew says, his voice lower but still taut.

“Yes, I’m fine,” I rasp. “And the account’s already settled. I… I need to go.”

He doesn’t reply, but his tight jaw betrays his thoughts.

Brielle and Tyler leave first. I murmur an apology to Andrew for the scene and then walk out, my eyes following them as they walk down the block, drenched in the bright late afternoon sun. Without thinking, I take a few steps back into the shaded alley beside the store. She’s able to stand in the light, flaunting everything she has, while I can’t even hint at who I care about without a cold sweat slickening my palms.

A chill seeps into my bones, and I shiver. Why is it that Brielle always has people protecting her? It doesn’t matter that they’re horrible people. They’re always ready to keep her safe. And me? I’m out here on my own. Nobody to keep me safe, and I can’t protect anyone who really matters.

I imagine Brielle tilting her head with a smile. And Tyler looking down at her, his eyes crinkling with endless patience and indulgence. The image blends with the scene from twenty years ago, and suddenly I feel alone and adrift, without an anchor in this turbulent world. The weight of everything I’ve been planning presses down, and finally my knees buckle.

Getting them to marry each other is just the first step to my revenge. I need a husband and a child before justice can be fully served, and Simon is taking too long to come up with a list. Given how efficient and capable he is, there might not be anyone I can marry without getting hurt in the process.

Or maybe no one wants to marry me. I have too many secrets, and I don’t share more than I have to with anybody.

I wouldn’t want to marry me.

The gaping hole Mom’s death has left in my heart throbs. I push a fist against my chest, willing it to return to its usual cold state, but the pain only intensifies.

If Mom were alive, I wouldn’t have to suffer like this. I’d probably be married by now to a man I love. And had a child out of love. Be able to look at dogs without feeling like my heart is being ripped out. And I would’ve been able to do more than just start a charity to help rescues.

Hot tears soak my cold cheeks. I’d give everything I have right now just to see my mom one more time, have her put her arms around me and tell me everything’s going to be fine.

But nothing in the world can bring her back.

I squat, then bury my face between my knees. Have to hide until my control is steadier. Can’t afford to let anything slip if I run into Brielle and Tyler again.

“Olivia?”

Liam’s voice. Except how could he be here?

After wiping my cheeks against my dress, I lift my head. Sure enough, it’s him. In his hand is a bouquet of white gardenias. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was on his way to a romantic date. But the tuxedo is too formal. Maybe a wedding…?

His? A sharp shard digs into my heart at the possibility.

He extends a hand to help me up, which I stare at blankly. He drops it awkwardly. “Is it Tyler again?” His soft tone can’t hide the frustration simmering underneath.

Grief still clutches my throat, choking off all my words. I nod, then slowly rise to my feet.

He runs his fingers through his hair. “You should just kick his ass.”

A fresh wave of tears gathers—for reasons I can’t articulate. I choke, then clear my throat. “It isn’t that simple.”

“Sure, it is. A lot of things in life are much simpler than you think. The problem is you have to act, not just think.”

I look at him. He’s limned by the golden sunlight like a god of wisdom—or a patron saint of broken people.

He glances down, then extends his hand. The tips of his ears redden a little. “Here. Flowers. Uh…I give them to you.”

Yup. Definitely a saint. I bury my face in the soft blossoms, their sweet scent soothing the pain roiling in my heart. When was the last time somebody gave me flowers because I looked sad?

As I inhale the fragrance, an event from our sophomore year at Stanford superimposes itself over him looking at me with eyes full of concern while offering me flowers. Back then he did something similar, except he’d held out the pocket watch Mom left me.

I thought I’d never see it again. Brielle had managed to get into my dorm, telling my roommate that she came by to see how I was doing after spraining my ankle in a field hockey game, and snatched the watch from my desk and ran out with it.

I hobbled after her, refusing to lose one of the very few things Mom had left me. The pocket watch belonged to my great-grandfather, then my grandfather, then Mom. Inside was a photo of her holding me in her arms when I was a baby.