Page 90 of Oliver

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Ryan's face changing colors as he struggled for air.

The clinical precision with which Oliver finally released him, calmly cleaning his glasses without so much as a glance at the gasping figure crumpled at his feet.

I searched for signs of manipulation, of editing, of anything that would let me dismiss what I was seeing. But it was real.

What chilled me most wasn't the violence itself. It was Oliver's expression—cold, calculated, utterly in control. This wasn't a moment driven by protective fury. This was methodical. Deliberate. As if he'd measured exactly how much pressure to apply, how long to hold, when to release.

"He is a ticking time bomb,khoshgelam," my aunt said, her voice softening with what sounded like genuine concern. "And I won't let him ruin Parisa's wedding."

"He wouldn't..." I began, but the words died in my throat. I couldn’t vouch for the man I'd just witnessed on that screen. The man who mere minutes after calmly choking person half to death, declared he should have killed him when he had the chance.

How was that the same Oliver who'd held me so tenderly just hours ago? Who'd bound his own hands to give me control? Who'd whispered that he needed me?

"If he shows up tomorrow, I'll have no choice but to protect this family and send the video to the police."

My eyes snapped up to her face, horror settling in my chest as I comprehended the full scope of consequences that would follow the execution of her threat.

"You'll ruin him." His academic career, his work at Rent-A-Date, and Emmet's future which seemed so tied to Oliver's stability. Everything he’d worked for, all his sacrifices, gone.

Because of me.

"It's the better alternative to him ruining us." Something in her emphasis made me look up sharply. The way she said "us" suggested something larger, something beyond just a potential wedding disaster.

"What did you do?" I asked, sudden clarity cutting through my shock.

"I'm just the messenger, Zahra." She shrugged, the gesture too casual to be genuine. "I'm also a concerned aunt." Her hand came up to cup my chin, the touch gentle but her eyes hard. "Think carefully about your choices. Some scandals, you can't come back from."

She let the warning hang in the air as she turned and left, the door swinging shut behind her with finality.

I gripped the edge of the marble counter, trying to process everything. The video. The threat. The clear coordination between my aunt and Ryan. The suggestion that there was something bigger at stake than I realized.

Before I could gather my thoughts, the door opened again. I thought my aunt had doubled back for another round, or maybe a guest coming to use the restroom, but never the woman who actually walked in.

"Zahra, it's been so long." Mrs. Beck's voice carried the same false warmth I remembered from high school, when she'd smile at parent-teacher conferences while her eyes remained cold.

"You aren't part of the rehearsal dinner," I said flatly, beyond politeness at this point.

Her smile didn't waver. "Your aunt asked me to talk to you."

"I have nothing to say to you." I grabbed my clutch, attempting to walk past her to the door.

Her hand caught my arm, the grip firm.

"Then listen," she said, all pretense of warmth dropping from her tone. "I know you care about him, maybe even love him. But he didn't come here for you. He didn't even come here for your money. He's using you to get his filthy hands on his grandparents' estate. You're nothing but a cover story, and he’ll gladly sacrifice you to get what he wants."

"You're lying," I snapped, a wave of fury replacing the dread that had settled in my chest, and I yanked my arm free.

I was almost at the door when her next words stopped me cold.

"Blessed Heritage LLC."

I froze, my hand on the door handle. The name triggered an immediate flash of memory—the document I'd glimpsed in the church records while finalizing wedding details, the property deed for the abandoned house that drove Oliver to drown himself in bourbon.

I slowly turned to face her, my heart hammering against my ribs, and Mrs. Beck's smile morphed into a triumphant one.

"He’s already used your name to try and get into the church records, Zahra. Yourprofessionalname." She stepped closer, her voice softening, her gaze suddenly full of understanding and sympathy. "You think this is real, and that's not your fault, Zahra. He's had seven years to perfect his act." She sighed, pursing her lips and placing a hand over her heart as if the ordeal was paining her as much as it pained me. "He needed an excuse to come back to town and dig, which I guess isn't that bad considering you needed him to pretend to be your boyfriend. But then he dug, and he found something."

She took my hand, giving it a small squeeze of commiseration. "He needs that deed, Zahra. And you're his way in."