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"Wow," I breathed. "This is gorgeous."
"It is, isn’t it?"
I glanced sideways to see him staring at me, and oh, my god, I felt his look all the way to the tips of my toes. I stood there, caught in the intensity of the moment, unable to take my gaze off of him, unable to blink, unable to breathe. It felt like there was a cord stretched between us, something that linked us—something overflowing with unsaid words, and pulsating emotions, and hopes, and dreams, and yearning. So much yearning. Something so tangible, I could reach out, touch it, and taste it if I wanted to.
I took a step forward, and so did he. His gaze narrowed, and his shoulders seemed to grow larger. His dominance thrummed in the space between us. His presence seemed to absorb all of the oxygen in the vicinity. The force of his personality slammed into my chest, making it difficult to breathe. The pores on my skin popped, heat flushed my chest, and every cell in my body seemed to be open, and throbbing, and needing him. Only him. And I hadn’t even touched him.
I remembered enough of how that night between us had been. He had consumed me. I’d come so close to opening myself up completely to him, to giving him everything. I’d have been left with nothing.
He took another step in my direction, and I turned and ran inside, away from him. I ran up the stairs, avoiding the double doors at the end of the corridor that, clearly, led to the main bedroom. I chose one of the other rooms, a guest room, and slammed the door behind me. I crawled into bed, curled into myself, and fell asleep. When I woke up the next morning, I found my bags placed next to the door leading into the walk-in closet. Did he set them here? Did he watch me sleep? I also found a key fob on my nightstand, with a note from him indicating they were for my car, which was parked in the garage.
At least he doesn’t mean for me to be a prisoner in this house, so... That’s something, I suppose.
I showered and went downstairs to find his housekeeper in the kitchen, cooking. She informed me she comes in daily, whenever someone is in the house, to take care of chores and cook for us. She also told me he’d eaten breakfast and left for the day.
I haven’t seen him since.
Now, I turn back to the makeshift office I set up on the table pushed up against the window. I’ve been on the phone with Declan’s agent, who seems positive he can get me into auditions in both London and in LA. I’ve spent the last day revamping my website and putting out feelers for the voice-over work I’d already begun doing, which actually pays quite well. Only, it isn’t what inspires me. I don’t want to hide behind my voice. I want to show my face on screen, on stage, to people. Massimo’s wrong. I don’t need therapy. I’ve faced my fears by putting myself forward for roles. Haven’t I? Nope, I’m fine.
An incoming call on my phone vibrates. I swipe the screen, and Penny’s face appears.
"Hey, hey, hey, look at you; already glowing with happiness. How’s the honeymoon going?" she chirps.
"No honeymoon. I came here to work, remember?" I sink into my seat and place the phone in its stand next to my computer.
"How boring. You only get married once… Or at least, for the first time once. Shouldn’t you be making the most of this time and bouncing on his dick and other parts of him, as well?"
I yawn. "Already done that. Next?"
She blinks, then bursts out laughing. "You cow. You didn’t. So, you slept with him before you got married, didn’t you?"
I hesitate. No harm admitting it now, is there? “And if I did?"
"And he was so enraptured by your pussy, he had to have you, to the extent that he abandoned his fiancée to-be, made you abandon your fiancé in-name-only, then killed your brother, who’d have married you off elsewhere, and married you."
When she puts it like that… It does sound excessive. I tip up my chin. "What are you trying to say?"
She sobers. "I know you’re pissed off at what happened to your face, but you can’t let it hold you back.
"It’s not holding me back. Do I look like it’s holding me back?" I gesture to myself. I’m dressed in slacks and a sweater, my hair tied up in a ponytail. Also, I’ve worn enough makeup to minimize the scar without looking like I want to hide it. I definitely don’t resemble someone with PTSD from having been shot at. Or like someone who cuts herself. My fingers tremble and I press them into the desk. "Well?" I scowl at her. "How do I look?"
"You look great," she says sincerely. "You always look great, Olivia, but you know I’m not talking about that. Sometimes, the people who look the most put together on the outside are the ones falling apart on the inside."
I stiffen. A ball of discomfort tightens my guts. "I’m not falling apart inside."
"I didn’t say you were. All I meant was, if you need help—"
"I don’t need help. Why does everyone around me think I need help? This is me, more focused than I’ve been in my entire life."
"Maybe too focused."
I begin to protest, but she holds up her palm to cut me off.
"I know you’ll deny it, and that’s fine. You can hide from yourself, but not from your friends."
"Or from my husband, apparently," I grumble.
"What was that?"
