Page 46 of Oliver
Oliver’s hand slipping into mine cut through the memory, but I could see it in his eyes—the pain, the anger. The betrayal.
Despite everything I’d done, everything Ryan made me do, Oliver still tried to help me. And he paid for it.
One shove sent him to the dirt. One stomp shattered his glasses. One lie—Peeping Tom—followed him for the rest of the year, whispered behind hands, scrawled on bathroom stalls. Ryan made sure of it. Just like he made sure I knew what would happen if Oliver so much as looked at his property again.
Yet here he was, unshaken, standing as a shield between me and the monster who had torn me down. The same monster I’d let abuse him. I had stood by. I had let it happen. And despite that, despite everything, Oliver was still choosing to protect me.
I didn’t deserve it. I didn’t deservehim. And I hated myself for clinging to him anyway.
“I remember,” Oliver answered, his voice carrying a casual tone, as if none of this bothered him.
"Who knows?" Ryan grinned, raising his mimosa. "Maybe it's my turn to walk in on you two."
The threat wrapped in nostalgia made my stomach turn. My hand tightened on the tablet, knuckles white.
Oliver went completely still beside me, then his arm settled casually around my shoulders, and he laughed along, though it was a cold laughter that raised goosebumps on my arms.
"Well, Ryan, Zahra and I aren't rowdy teenagers, so we keep our PDA behind locked doors." With a pointed look that couldn't be mistaken for anything but threatening, despite his casual smile, he continued. "If you somehow do end up in our honeymoon suite, I'm going to have to wonder if that whole peeping tom rumor wasn’t you projecting."
The room burst into loud laughter, and Ryan was forced to play along, though I could see his eye twitching—a telltale sign of his barely contained fury that I recognized all too well.
Even now, after everything, Oliver was more concerned with protecting me than any threat to his own reputation. Or was this just another box he ticked off his contract to-do list?
"You know, that makes me think about the photoshoot on Sunday?" Ryan asked, directing the question to Parisa but looking straight at me. "Why don’t we do it at the old football field for nostalgia's sake?"
The implication was clear—if words wouldn't do the trick, he'd take us back to the scene of the crime, conjure memories to drive a wedge between us.
"Actually," I said, my professional voice firmly in place despite the tremor I could feel building inside me. "We've confirmed the rose garden at the historical society. Better lighting, and the groundskeeper has agreed to delay his pruning schedule." I turned to Parisa. "I was going to surprise you, but the climbing roses on the south trellis are in full bloom. They'll make a stunning backdrop."
Parisa squealed with delight. "You're a miracle worker!"
"Just doing my job," I replied, fingers flying over the tablet as I updated the shared schedule. My hands trembled slightly as I typed, but I kept my expression neutral, my posture perfect.
Ryan's eyes narrowed, but he recovered quickly. "I've got some great stories about our high school sweethearts over here," he said, gesturing to Oliver and me as he turned to the bridesmaids. "Did you know they were the original couple before Zahra and I got together?"
For a moment, I stopped breathing. This was new territory. Ryan was a manipulator of reality, but a blatant lie designed to rewrite history in a way that painted Oliver as my cast-off, someone Ryan had "won" me from? The calculated cruelty of it made my chest tight, but, at the same time, made me wonder how rattled Ryan was from Oliver’s unwavering confidence that he’d stoop that low.
"Zahra and I were always just friends." Oliver smiled at me, warm and genuine, his voice deceptively light. "It’s our foundation. Everything else is built around our friendship."
"Friends," Ryan repeated, his tone making the word sound dirty. "Right. That's why you followed her around like a lost puppy."
The familiar accusation hung in the air, and I felt Oliver tense beside me. This had been Ryan's favorite ammunition: implying Oliver was obsessed with me and turning any genuine concern or acts of friendship into something creepy and unwanted.
"I don’t remember it that way,” Parisa suddenly chimed in, scratching her cheek in thought, and my former annoyance at her lack of filters morphed into gratitude. “I vividly remember asking you guys if you’re in love when we were freshmen and you both made gag noises.”
“Now that,” I pointed at Parisa, “is a true story.” Then I turned my gaze to Ryan. He was glaring, almost sneering at me for daring to break his word, but I wasn’t done. I plucked a flute of champagne off a passing tray and lifted it high in the air. “To love based on mutual respect and genuine connection. To Parisa and Darryl.”
There was a collective roar of the bride and groom’s names, followed by an uptick in the room’s energy. Ryan had lost his crowd, and my job for the night was done.
“Let’s get out of here,” I whispered to Oliver, and he nodded, relief evident in his eyes.
"You okay?" Oliver asked once we were in the elevator, and I nodded, not trusting my voice. I wasn't okay, not even close. But I couldn't afford to fall apart. Not here, not now. There were schedules to maintain, vendors to confirm, a bride to support.
Too many emotions swirled inside my chest, my head, my stomach. But most of all self-loathing and shame. I had let it happen. For years, I let it continue. I spun a beautiful tale offriendship and respect, but when it truly mattered, I chose self-preservation.
“I’m proud of you,” Oliver said softly, catching me by surprise. “The way you stood up to Ryan tonight? I know that wasn’t easy, and I’m proud of you.”
Tears welled in my eyes, but I couldn’t bring myself to speak, to thank him. Not without spilling every secret I’d been fighting so hard to keep. But with every story Ryan told, I could sense Oliver putting the pieces together, and I didn't know how to protect us both.
