Page 38 of Wicked God
Huh.
“Cassandra didn’t tell me that photographers are coming today. I’m not prepared at all.” She shoots me an accusing look.
I stand there, flowers in one hand, feeling ridiculous. Photographers? What is she talking about?
“I’m not sure what you mean. I wanted to surprise you.”
Her eyes dart to the flowers, then to my face, then back to the flowers. “Oh,” she says, and a blush creeps across her cheeks. “I thought you were... never mind. What are you doing here, Alexander?”
I step closer, extending the bouquet. “I brought you these. And this.” I hold out the black card, watching her expression carefully.
She takes the flowers first, burying her nose in them. “They’re beautiful. You didn’t need to, but thank you.” When she notices the card, her eyebrows knit together. “What’s this?”
I clear my throat. “A little something for emergencies.”
Her eyes widen as she takes it from me, turning it over in her hands. “Alexander, I can’t accept this.”
“Why not?”
“Because...” She lowers her voice, glancing around the gallery. “Because it’s too much. We’ve only known each other for a week.”
I step closer, lowering my voice to match hers. “You’re going to be my wife, Olivia. Everything that’s mine will be yours.”
“Temporarily.” Her eyes meet mine. “I don’t need your money, Alexander.”
“I know you don’t,” I say, my voice steady despite the sting of her words. “But that’s not the point. This isn’t about what you need. It’s about what I want to give you. I want you to have the freedom to do whatever you want, buy whatever you want, without worrying about the cost. You deserve that.”
She stares at the card, her fingers tracing its edges as if she’s trying to make sense of it. I can’t read her expression, and it’s driving me crazy. Is she touched? Annoyed? Offended? I wish I could crawl inside her head to find out what she’s thinking.
Her eyes flick up to mine, and for a moment, I think she’s going to argue. But then she sighs, a small, almost imperceptible sound. “You’re impossible, you know that?” she says, her voice quieter now. “You show up here with flowers and a credit card like some billionaire cliché.”
“I’m just a man who wants to make you happy. Even if it means looking a little ridiculous in the process.”
She chuckles softly, and the tension in her shoulders eases. “You do look a little ridiculous,” she admits, a small smile playing on her lips. “But it’s... sweet. I didn’t expect this from you.”
“I wanted to see you again.”
“You don’t have to do this.” The smile disappears from her face. “I mean, we both know this arrangement isn’t... real. Not in the way you’re making it seem.”
I tilt my head. “Does it have to be fake?”
She swallows hard, her fingers tightening around the card. “Alexander, you know why we’re doing this. Your family, my family—it’s all about appearances. This isn’t about us. It’s about what people expect.”
“And what if I don’t care about other people? Please know that I’m not being kind or nice. I’m selfish and greedy. I want to give you things that will make you happy. I want to see you smile because of something I did. Can you understand that?”
“This is still too much.”
“Then use it only for the gallery,” I suggest, not willing to take the card back. “For supplies, for new pieces you want to acquire. Think of it as an investment in your passion.”
She looks around at her gallery, and I can see the wheels turning in her head. I’ve found her weakness—not money, but the possibility of what she could do with her art space without financial constraints.
“I’ll think about it,” she concedes, slipping the card into her pocket. Not a yes, but not a no either. I’ll take it.
“That’s all I ask.” I glance at my watch. “I should let you get back to work. Dinner tonight?”
“Actually,” she says, looking genuinely regretful, “I promise I’d help Cassandra with something tonight. But she organized our first public appearance as a couple for tomorrow morning. Some photographers from social media outlets will be there. She says it’s to get the ball rolling once our engagement is announced.”
I run a hand through my hair, trying not to look too eager. “What time?”
