Even after what I just discovered, I’m no less aware of his beauty. He is physically perfect.
But the nervousness that jolts through me isn’t just from intimidation or awe—it’s raw fear.
“Olivia?”
Be cool. Be normal. Don’t let him know anything’s wrong.
“I… I was just exploring.”
My tone is stilted and wooden. My body language probably reflects the same. He walks up the staircase and meets me halfway. I clutch the banister, trying to suppress the image that pops into my head of him hurling me over the edge to the granite floors three storeys below.
“Exploring?” he repeats.
I nod, trying to smile. It doesn’t quite work. I pivot in a different direction. “Um… yeah, or at least, I was trying to. But then I started to feel a little… lost?”
He frowns.
“Sick,” I correct quickly. “I meant sick.”
He eyes me. “You do look a little pale.”
“Yeah, totally. I think something is up with my stomach.”
“Too much lasagna?”
I try to muster up a smile for that one. I barely manage it. “Probably. I’m heading to my room now.”
“Safe travels,” he mocks.
He moves to the side, allowing me to pass by him. As I step down, our arms brush against each other, and I feel a static zip between us.
“Oh, Olivia?”
I turn slowly, dread clawing at my chest, feeling certain he’s figured out what I stumbled upon. That he knows what I’ve seen and that being his wife isn’t enough to keep me safe from him anymore.
“Yes?” I say, swallowing past a suddenly dry throat.
“You’ll be having dinner with me tonight,” he says.
My eyes go wide. That was certainly not what I was expecting. “Oh. Um, tonight? I—”
“It wasn’t a question.”
I take a steadying breath. “Okay. Dinner. Got it.”
He nods. “See you tonight.”
He disappears upstairs. I go straight to my room, shut the door, and press myself against it, as if that’ll be enough to keep the danger outside.
“Oh God,” I gasp as tears jump to my eyes. “What is happening? What is happening?”
It takes me several minutes of hyperventilating to calm down. Even then, I’m not very calm. I do laps around the room as I mutter under my breath. It takes me ten circuits before I realize there’s something sitting on the table by the balcony.
A brown-wrapped package. Tall and sort of square, tied with a knot of twine. My name is printed neatly in charcoal pen on top.
Frowning, I undo the knot and peel away the wrapping paper. When I see what’s inside, I freeze.
Half a dozen art books, a case of pristine new colored pencils, a set of pen-and-ink tools.
There’s no note, no explanation, nothing besides my name.
But I know who sent them for me.
I close my eyes and remind myself what I just discovered. When that doesn’t work, I drop down to a seat at the table, feeling drained and helpless.
I don’t know how I’m going to get through this, but I know I have to. For my brother. For Mia. For my mom.
For the girl in the strawberry scarf.
27
OLIVIA
I pick out long black pants and a white, one-shouldered blouse. I keep my hair loose and my makeup minimal.
I don’t really care what he thinks of me—that’s what I tell myself, at least, and for the most part, I believe it—but I figure I have a better chance of getting information out of Aleks if I look like I’m trying.
And information is exactly what I need.
Finding Isabella’s scarf in that dusty bedroom has changed everything. I have to play my part just right. He can’t know that I know.
The problem is that Aleks is the most perceptive man I’ve ever met. More to the point, he does this kind of stuff all the time. The power games, the lies and deceptions.
Me? I’m a cartoonist, for God’s sake. Cloak-and-dagger spy movie shit isn’t exactly my specialty.
The longer I sit in my room, though, the slower the clock moves. I’m going to go crazy if I watch the second hand keep dragging its way through mud.
So I head to the dining room five minutes early.
The table is fully set, wine already decanted, but Aleks isn’t there when I walk in. I take a seat and try to settle my growing nerves. You can do this. You have to do this. You will do this.
I’m reaching for the glass of water in front of me when I notice his shadow fall across the table. True to form, I promptly knock the glass over and drench the thick tablecloth.
“God-fucking-shit-dammit!” I stammer, lunging for a napkin and upending my chair in the process. It’s becoming a problem.
“Maybe I should wear a collar with bells,” he suggests as I scramble in every direction at once. “Like a cat.”
I bite down on my lip. “Sorry.”
He waves away my apology. “I already warned the staff they’d have a little extra clean-up after tonight’s dinner. You do have a track record.”
“Shut up. Did you really tell them that?”
He smiles. “You can always ask one of them and find out.”
I decide that he’s kidding and take my seat. He sits opposite me and fills up his wine glass from the decanter, then swirls it and brings it to his nose. His eyes remain fixed on me as he takes a sip.
“Beautiful. Full-bodied. Delicate.” He smirks. “I’m talking about the wine, of course.”
I roll my eyes. “Of course you are.”
“Would you like to try it?” He holds the decanter out towards me.
I shake my head. “Not much of a booze aficionado.”
“No? What is your poison of choice?”
“On the rare occasions that I do drink, probably beer.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Let me guess: your father drank beer?”
“Uh, yeah.” I wrinkle my nose in confusion. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
He just nods as though, yet again, I’ve proved how predictable I am. “Mhmm.”
“What?” I snap.
“You don’t actually like the taste of beer,” he sighs. “You just drink it because it reminds you of him.”
“Thanks, Dr. Phil. Is this you proving how easily you can read me?”
“No. I proved that a long time ago.”
Acting impulsively, I snatch Aleks’s glass of wine from in front of him and steal a sip. The taste is bitter at first, but the longer it sits on my tongue, the smoother and sweeter it gets.
“Wow,” I murmur when I set it back down.
“Good, isn’t it?”
“Yeah!” I say over-enthusiastically. “Amazing. So subtle. Did you pick up on the notes of grape?”
Aleks rolls his eyes at my bratty act of sarcasm and lets loose a long-suffering sigh. “You don’t drink because you’re afraid of what might happen if you let go. But you can’t live in fear, Olivia,” he says. “Venturing beyond the safe and comfortable is how you learn what you’re truly made of. Risks make life worth living.”
It’s my turn to roll my eyes. “Again, very philosophical. But I’m not quite sure I get the point you’re trying to make.”