Page 80 of Oliver
Determination. Grit.
Because if Ryan thought he could walk in here, throw threats around like confetti, and leave me shaking in my heels, he’d severely underestimated the woman I’d become.
My arm pulsed, but it wasn’t the pain that sent a shiver down my spine.
It was the certainty. The absolute fucking certainty that hemeantit.
I knew that tone, that promise laced with cruelty. He’d wait until the moment he could do the most damage—maybe in front of my entire family, maybe when Oliver least expected it.
A toast?
A dance?
A well-timed whisper in the right ear?
I had hours, not days, to figure out how to stop him.
I gathered my tablet and notes, double-checking my work purely from professional habit before heading back to the hotel. I needed to talk to Oliver, to warn him about Ryan's escalating behavior.
With the rehearsal dinner later today, I didn't have time to properly process everything, but the conversation couldn't wait until after tonight's events were over.
I found Oliver in our room, sitting at the desk with his laptop open, surrounded by papers. He didn't look up when I entered, his brow furrowed in concentration.
"Hey," I said, setting down my things. "We need to talk."
"Hmm?" He glanced up, distracted, his eyes not quite focusing on me. "What's up?"
I hesitated, studying him. Something was wrong. He looked haunted. The shadows under his eyes seemed deeper, his posture more rigid.
I started to reach for him, to place a hand on his shoulder, then stopped, hesitated, and pulled my hand back.
Oliver’s gaze followed my movements, a flash of pain crossing his features when my fingers recoiled.
"Is everything okay?" I asked.
"Fine," he said automatically, already looking back at his laptop. "Just working on something."
His laptop screen glowed in the dim hotel lighting, lines of text and numbers scrolling too fast for me to track. His jaw was tight, his knuckles white where they pressed against the edge of the desk.
I opened my mouth—to say what, I wasn’t sure. Something to make himreallylook at me, to break through the wall he’d built between us.
But the words never came.
Oliver scrubbed a hand over his face and exhaled, long and slow. He still wasn’t looking at me, and suddenly, I wasn’t sure if I wanted him to.
Because the Oliver I’d fallen for, the one who smiled at me in the dark and threaded his fingers through mine as if we were meant to be linked, wasn’t here right now.
And I had no idea how to reach him.
I stood there for a moment, uncertain. I should tell him about Ryan's threat, warn him about what might happen at the wedding. But Oliver was clearly preoccupied, barely present.
Whatever battle he was fighting, he'd chosen to fight it alone, as always.
"I'm going to shower," I said finally.
He nodded absently, already lost in whatever was on his screen.
Under the hot water, I examined the red marks on my arm, already darkening into bruises. A black and blue armlet in the perfect imprint of Ryan's fingers. A brand. A reminder.
