Page 58 of Wicked God
Emerging from the service exit, I scan the circular driveway for James. The night air has turned chilly, but I barely notice. All I can think about is reaching Olivia, explaining before this misunderstanding spirals beyond repair.
“Mr. Hawthorne!” A photographer spots me from near the main entrance. “Can we get a quick shot of you and your fiancée for the society page?”
I ignore him, relief washing over me as I spot the familiar black sedan pulling around the corner. James steps out, opening the door for me.
“Ms. Carter’s apartment, sir?” he asks as I slide into the back seat.
“Yes. As fast as you can.” I settle into the leather seat, already pulling out my phone again. “And James? Thank you.”
He nods once in the rearview mirror, understanding in his eyes as he pulls away from the curb.
I stare at my phone screen, Olivia’s contact photo smiling up at me—a candid shot I took last Saturday at the farmers’ market, her hair wild in the wind, laughing at something I’d said.
I dial her number again, counting the rings, willing her to answer. It rings once, twice, three times before going to voicemail.
“Olivia, it’s me. Please call me back. We need to talk.”
I hang up and immediately text her:
I’m on my way to your place.
I drum my fingers against my knee, fighting the urge to jump out and run the remaining fifteen blocks. My legs bounce with nervous energy, and I force myself to take deep breaths. Losing control won’t help. Olivia needs me calm, rational, and able to explain clearly what happened.
I stare at my reflection again, rehearsing what I’ll say when I see her. The truth is simple: Elena was my past—a relationship built on family expectations and mutual advantage, not love. Olivia is different. She challenges me, sees me as more than my last name, makes me laugh, makes me think. With her, I’m not Senator Hawthorne’s son or the Hawthorne heir—I’m just Alex, and that’s enough.
Chapter 26
Alexander
When James pulls up to her building, I step out into the steadily increasing downpour. Water streams down my face, plastering my hair to my forehead. The expensive fabric of my jacket grows heavy, clinging to my shoulders. I barely notice. My attention is fixed on Olivia’s apartment building. Her windows on the fourth floor are lit, a warm glow against the dark, rainy night. She’s home. Relief washes over me, followed immediately by apprehension. Will she even let me in? Will she listen?
I press her apartment number on the intercom panel, waiting for a response that doesn’t come. My finger hovers over her apartment number again, tempted to press it a second time, but I resist. Pushing too hard might only drive her further away. Water streams from my hair into my eyes, and I blink it away,refusing to move, to give up. The silence stretches longer than hope should allow, but just as I reach for my phone to try calling again, a sharp buzz cuts through the sound of rainfall. The door unlocks. She’s letting me in.
Relief washes through me as I push through the entrance. The lobby is empty, dimly lit by wall sconces that cast long shadows across the tiled floor. I don’t wait for the elevator; instead, I take the stairs two at a time, my soaked leather shoes squeaking against the steps. My heart pounds from more than just the exertion. What will I say when I see her? How do I make her understand that what she saw was nothing? That Elena means nothing?
By the time I reach the fourth floor, my breath comes in short bursts. Water leaves a trail behind me as I move down the hallway toward apartment 5B. I pause before her door, suddenly aware of how I must look—hair plastered to my forehead, five-thousand-dollar suit ruined, the composed Alexander Hawthorne completely undone. I drag a hand across my face, clearing away some of the moisture, and raise my fist to knock.
My knuckles barely make contact with the door before I hear movement inside—the soft pad of bare feet across hardwood. I knock again, more urgently.
“Olivia?” My voice cracks. “Olivia, please. It’s me.”
Silence. Then, there is the subtle shift of weight against the floorboards as she approaches the door. I lean closer, pressing my palm against the cool surface.
“I know you’re there. Please, just let me explain.”
The peephole darkens—she’s looking at me. I straighten, trying to appear less desperate than I feel, but what’s the point? I am desperate.
“Go away, Alex.” Her voice is muffled through the door, but I can hear the hurt in it. “I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Five minutes,” I plead. “That’s all I’m asking for. Five minutes to explain what happened.”
More silence. I press my forehead against the door, closing my eyes.
“Please,” I whisper.
The lock clicks, and I step back as the door opens a crack, the security chain still in place. Through the narrow gap, I see her—hair damp from a shower, face scrubbed clean of makeup, wrapped only in a bathrobe. The vulnerability of her appearance strikes me harder than any calculated society dress ever could. Her eyes are red-rimmed, her expression a complex mix of anger and hurt that makes my chest ache.
“Why are you here?” she asks, her voice steadier than her hands, which grip the edge of the door like it might keep her from drowning.
