Page 95 of Oliver
Good.
Because this fucking hurt. More than anything ever had.
"I was stupid," I muttered, shaking my head. The anger was building now, sharp and hot, trying to drown the wreckage. "To think you'd changed."
Her face snapped up, pain flickering in her eyes. I met her gaze one last time.
"Thank you for reminding me of that before I made the mistake of giving up everything for you."
Then, before she could say another word, I walked away.
My hand was on the doorknob, and I hesitated. I thought about turning around, seeing her face, catching her breaking. Receiving some proof that this wasn’t what she really wanted.
Instead, I exhaled sharply, shaking my head, and gripping the doorknob until my knuckles ached.
If Zahra wanted to act like this was nothing—likeIwas nothing—then she didn’t deserve my weakness.
She didn’t deserve to watch me fall apart.
Not again.
So, I walked out without looking back.
No more chances.
Twenty-Eight
OLIVER
The porch swingcreaked beneath me as I rocked back and forth, the rhythmic motion doing nothing to soothe the rage coiled tight in my chest.
I'd been waiting outside Davidson's house for nearly an hour, watching the sun sink below the horizon, bathing the modest craftsman in golden light that felt too peaceful for the storm raging inside me.
I hadn't planned this visit. After walking out on Zahra, I'd driven aimlessly through Norman's streets, my subconscious eventually guiding me to this quiet neighborhood where Thomas Davidson—church attorney, executor of my grandfather’s estate, architect of my family's betrayal—had lived for as long as I could remember.
My mother's warning echoed in my head:"If you even think of approaching Davidson or contesting the court ruling, all your sacrifices will be for nothing."
Let them try.
I had nothing left to lose.
A car turned onto the street, headlights sweeping across the darkening lawn. I straightened as it pulled into Davidson's driveway, my hands curling into fists, preparing for confrontation.
The man who emerged from the vehicle was not the Davidson I remembered. Gone was the ramrod-straight posture, the confident stride. This Davidson moved carefully, leaning heavily on a cane I didn't recall him needing before. His shoulders were stooped, his once-dark hair now completely gray.
He didn't seem surprised to find me on his porch. His expression was resigned, almost relieved, as if he'd been expecting this visit for years.
"Oliver Beck," he said, his voice raspier than I remembered. "I wondered when you'd finally show up."
I stood, towering over the diminished man who had once loomed so large.
"We need to talk," I said, the words tasting bitter on my tongue.
Davidson nodded, unlocking his front door. The calm routine of hanging his coat, placing his keys in the ceramic dish by the door, gesturing toward the kitchen—it was so at odds with the confrontation I'd planned that I found myself complying, following him inside like a docile visitor rather than an accuser.
"Tea?" he asked, moving toward the kettle.
"I didn't come here for tea."
