Page 91 of Oliver
"No," I tried to make the denial forceful, but it came out broken, uncertain.
"How long has he known about the LLC?"
The question hit a nerve, triggering the memory of Oliver's reaction when I'd mentioned the deed. The sudden focus in his eyes, the way he'd withdrawn immediately afterward. The research I'd glimpsed on his laptop.
"No," I repeated, smaller this time. I pulled my hand out of hers and turned to face the wall, tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. “He wouldn’t.”
"Wouldn't he?" Mrs. Beck asked, her tone almost pitying. "In that case, how long have you known about his real reason for agreeing to your offer, despite hating you for what you did to him in high school?"
"I..." The words wouldn't come, the tears threatened to spill. The pieces were aligning too neatly, filling in gaps I hadn't realized existed.
"Oh, sweetheart, he never told you, did he?" Her voice had softened to something that might have passed for kindness in another context. I found myself shaking my head, a silent admission that felt like betrayal. "This must be so hard for you. After all, you thought you knew everything there was to know about Oliver Beck."
The air rushed out of my lungs.
Those were the exact words I'd said to Ryan earlier today.
"You're all in on it," I whispered, the full scope of the conspiracy finally becoming clear.
Mrs. Beck's heels clicked on the tiled floor as she came to stand in front of me, meeting my gaze with a cold smile.
"Does it matter?" she asked. "You're only as good to Oliver as he can use you, Zahra. Are you really going to join a fight that isn't yours, and risk losing everything you've worked so hard to achieve, for a man like that?"
She didn’t wait for my reaction, just patted my cheek before walking away, leaving me alone with the devastating possibility that everything—from accepting my booking to the way he'd looked at me just hours ago, whispering that he needed me—might have been calculated manipulation.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror, barely recognizing the woman who looked back at me. Professional mask cracked, eyes bright with unshed tears, lips slightly parted in shock.
Had it all been a lie? The tenderness, the vulnerability, the way he'd surrendered control to me—was it just another tactic to keep me compliant, to maintain his access to whatever he was really after?
I can’t do this now.
This was Parisa's night, and I wouldn't let family drama—or a boyfriend who was never supposed to be real—ruin it for her.
I wiped at my eyes, pulled my professional veneer back into place, straightened my shoulders, and returned to the dining room.
The moment I stepped out, Oliver’s gaze found me. His brow furrowed, like he knew something was wrong. Like he could see the cracks forming.
How much had he calculated? How much had he planned?
I wanted to turn away. Instead, I walked toward him. His features softened, and he excused himself, closing the distance between us and wrapping me in his arms where it was warm and safe.
For a fraction of a second, I allowed myself to hope that Mrs. Beck was lying, that my aunt was manipulating me, and that there was an explanation for everything.
Then I remembered the video, and the cold precision in Oliver's eyes as he choked Ryan. The effortless calm as he watched a man slowly die.
I remembered the way he'd gone distant the moment I mentioned the church records.
I remembered how he'd stormed into our room just when I was starting to doubt everything, saying all the right words and doing all the right things.
And I realized that I couldn’t tell what was real and what was fake anymore.
Twenty-Seven
OLIVER
The silencein the room was thick enough to choke on.
I stood at the window, watching city lights flicker across Norman's modest skyline. The view was nothing like Seattle's, but right now, I wasn't seeing either city. I was trying to ground myself, to stop the storm inside my head from tearing me apart.
