Page 40 of Wicked God
It’s only been two days since we came up with the plan to use paparazzi photos to create the illusion of a passionate and intense relationship between Olivia and me. And already Cassandra has coordinated their presence for today’s outing. When it comes to efficiency, Cassandra Moore is unmatched.
“Ready for our grand performance?” I whisper in Olivia’s ear, hinting subtly towards the photographers. “Shall we give them something real to talk about?”
Her lips curve into a coy smile. “Why, Alexander, I thought you’d never ask.”
Before I can react, she rises onto her tiptoes and plants a soft kiss on my lips. It’s supposed to be for show, but I can’t help the way my body reacts, or the way my heart races. In response, I deepen the kiss and wrap one hand around her face while the other rests at the small of her back.
“You’re quite the actress, Miss Jackson,” I say, still holding her close.
We hold the moment just long enough for Cassandra’s eager wind-up toy to get its money shot. Then I guide her away, our fingers entwined as we stroll down the busy streets of Empire Heights. As we walk, I sneak glances at Olivia. She wears a bright turquoise dress that swishes with each step, and her confidence is palpable, spine straight, and shoulders back, as if she’s claiming the day and everything in it.
“Have you ever been to the art museum downtown?” she asks as we cross a busy intersection.
“I have,” I admit, “but it’s been a while. Have you ever visited?”
“Yes, I love it there. They have an incredible exhibit of art from the early 20th century. The paintings are so vibrant and full of life.”
“It’s been ages since I last went. Let’s change that today. It’s a date.”
She playfully rolls her eyes at me. There’s something about being with Olivia that makes the world seem brighter, like the sun is shining just a little bit more. It’s an energy that makes my heart race and my palms sweat in anticipation. I love it. I crave it. And it scares me just how much I am affected by her presence.
The museum is beautiful; its exterior is a blend of sleek glass and intricate stone, glistening in the morning sunlight. Inside, the spacious galleries are adorned with ornately carved pillars and grand archways, leading to vibrant canvases and striking sculptures.
Olivia guides me through the museum, pointing out her favorite pieces, describing their significance to the art world, and her interpretation.
As we venture deeper into the museum, Olivia leads me to a particular gallery that houses a series of paintings dating back to the early 20th century. The paintings are indeed vibrant, each one telling a story through its colors and brushstrokes. I’m transfixed by one painting in particular—a woman with haunting green eyes, lost in thought, standing on a cliff overlooking the ocean. There’s a sense of melancholy about her, yet she seems at peace with her solitude.
“This is my favorite piece in the entire museum,” Olivia says. “It reminds me of when I was a little girl, dreaming of all the places I’d go and the person I’d become.”
I step closer to study the painting myself, taken by its beauty and the emotions it elicits. When I turn back to Olivia, she’s watching me with a hint of curiosity in her eyes. For a moment, we simply stand there, taking each other in—me seeing beyond her radiant exterior to the complex woman within, she observing my every move and reaction.
Finally, she breaks the silence. “You know what they say about artists—they paint what they know.” She gestures towards the painting. “Sometimes it’s easier to express ourselves through art than through words.”
We spend another hour wandering through the museum, never quite letting go of each other for long. Sometimes our hands brush, sometimes they drift apart, but the distance is never permanent. There is laughter, the kind that comes easily. I learn more about Olivia’s passion for art and her dreams of becoming an artist herself, something she’s kept hidden from her family for fear of their disapproval.
“Why art?” I ask when we are slowly moving towards the exit.
She tilts her head. “John Carter, probably. Funny, isn’t it? You try to escape your environment’s influence, but it still shapes you. If my mother hadn’t married into the Carter family, I doubt art would have touched my life at all. I grew up in cramped, treeless apartments. Then John Carter appeared, and suddenly there was art.“ Her voice is soft, distant. “He had this incredible collection. I’d lose myself in those paintings, invent stories for each one. It felt like stepping into another world.”
I nod, encouraging her to go on. This is the most she’s ever shared about her past, and I’m hanging on every word.
“But it wasn’t just about looking at art,” Olivia continues. “John noticed how much I loved it. He’d sit with me, teaching me about color, technique, and theory. Hours would pass, just the two of us. It became our special thing.”
“He sounds like he was very important to you.”
“He was. For a long time, he was the only person who really saw me, you know? Not as someone to be molded into the family image, but just... me.”
“What happened?”
“He and my mother died in a car accident,” Olivia’s voice catches. “I was sixteen.”
My heart aches for her. I squeeze her hand gently. “I’m so sorry, Olivia. That must have been devastating.”
She nods, blinking rapidly. “It was. Suddenly, everything changed. The art lessons stopped, the gallery visits ended. Tiffany was all I had left.”
I want to pull her into my arms, to shield her from the pain of those memories. But I hold back, unsure if she’d welcome such intimacy. Instead, I keep hold of her hand as we walk towards the exit.
“Is that why you opened your gallery?” I ask. “To keep that connection alive?”
