Page 43 of Wicked God
“It wouldn’t even fit her,” I say, picturing Olivia’s delicate hands. This ring, meant for Tiffany, would be all wrong on Olivia’s finger. But more than that, the thought of giving her a ring meant for someone else makes my stomach churn.
I snap the box shut, the soft click echoing in the silence of my office. This ring represents everything I’ve been fighting against—the cold, calculated alliances that have nothing to do with love or companionship. It’s a symbol of duty, not devotion.
I straighten my tie and press the intercom button. “Jackson, could you come in here for a moment?”
My assistant appears in the doorway seconds later, his usual efficient demeanor in place. “Yes, Mr. Hawthorne?”
I lean forward, resting my elbows on the desk. “I need you to book an appointment with the best jeweler in town for tomorrow afternoon. Make sure it’s discreet.”
Jackson’s eyebrows raise. “Of course, sir. Any particular preferences for the jeweler?”
I pause, considering. The image of Olivia’s radiant smile flashes through my mind. “Someone who specializes in unique, custom pieces. I want to find something special.”
His eyes flicker to the velvet box on my desk, then back to me. I can see the wheels turning in his head, but heremains professional. “Understood, Mr. Hawthorne. I’ll make the arrangements immediately.”
As Jackson turns to leave, I can’t help but add, “And Jackson? This stays between us.”
“Absolutely, Mr. Hawthorne. Your privacy is always my priority.”
Once he’s gone, I slump back in my chair. Am I really doing this? Buying a ring for Olivia when our relationship is supposed to be a charade? But as I picture her face, her laughter, the way she challenges me, I know I can’t imagine giving a ring to anyone else.
“You’re in deep, Hawthorne,” I mutter to myself, spinning my chair to face the city skyline. The bustling streets of Empire Heights spread out before me, but all I can see is Olivia’s face.
Tomorrow, I’ll find a ring worthy of her because she deserves nothing less than perfect.
Chapter 20
Olivia
Just to the right of Millhouse Gallery, there’s a little café with a shaded patio, half-hidden by trailing ivy. Most days, I spend my lunch break there—a quick thirty minutes with a latte and a pastry, watching the world go by. But today, Alex asked me to meet him in his office. I don’t know why, but Cassandra’s sly, knowing smile lingers in my mind as I make my way to Hawthorne Tower.
The lobby is all sharp lines and polished marble, glass gleaming in the afternoon light. I give my name to the receptionist, who directs me to the executive elevator. As I ride up to the top floor, I smooth my hair, straighten my blouse, and try not to overthink.
When the doors open, I’m greeted by the sight of Alexander Hawthorne, every inch the powerful businessman in his tailored suit, striding toward me with purpose.
“Olivia,” he says, and before I can react, he’s pulling me toward him, his arm wrapping around my waist. His cologne fills my senses, heat radiating from his body through my dress. Every inch of my skin tingles where we touch; I have to remind myself to breathe.
“Alex,” I say, aware of the curious glances from the lobby. “I thought we were meeting in your office for lunch?”
“I couldn’t wait. I needed to see you now.”
Heat blooms across my cheeks, impossible to hide. “We’re getting some looks.”
His fingers find my lower back, tracing slow, lazy circles that make it hard to breathe. “Let them look. I want everyone to see how lucky I am.”
Alex guides me back inside the elevator, his hand firm on the small of my back. I hesitate. “Shouldn’t we be going to your office?”
“Change of plans. I promise you’ll like it.”
The elevator doors close behind us, and the tension between us crackles.
“How have you been?” I ask, trying to break the charged silence.
“Better now,” he responds, never taking his eyes off of mine. The elevator ascends quickly, and I’m hyper-aware of every inch between us.
When the elevator opens, Alex steers me through the lobby, one hand on my lower back. We step into the sunlight, leaving the crowded restaurants behind, turning instead onto quieter streets lined with boutiques and galleries.
“Alex?” I question, but he just smiles.
