Page 22 of Wicked God
I reach for the door, fingers fumbling. Cold air rushes in, snapping me back to reality. I step out, legs unsteady, and grab my bag from the back seat. I can feel Alex watching me, steady and unblinking. My hand lingers on the car door, unwilling to let go, to make this goodbye real.
“Olivia.”
I look back. His eyes are hungry, memorizing every line of me.
“Yeah?”
He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a receipt, and scribbles something on the back with a pen from his console. “Here.” His fingers brush mine as he presses the paper into my palm. “My number. Use it.”
But I know I won’t. Alex will become a memory—a fleeting, impossible dream. Perhaps not as my great big love—we never had enough time for that—but a possibility of one.
“Good. Because I need to see you again.”
My heart pounds, greedy for the lie of ‘what if.’ But Alex is engaged. And I have to save my sister from the same fate.
I step back. One step becomes two, then three. “Take care, Alex.”
My farewell is lost in the morning breeze, carried away by the bustling sounds of the city.
I don’t look back because some part of me knows that if I do, my mask will crumble and he will see the naked truth in my eyes. That despite the agreement on my lips, I am walking away from something that feels terrifyingly real. And real is something Olivia—the woman who always puts her sister first, who never chooses herself—can’t afford.
My apartment doors close behind me with a soft click. I drop my bag on the floor and lean against the door, sliding down until I’m sitting on the cold hardwood, knees pulled to my chest. The receipt with Alex’s number crumples in my fist. I unfold it, staring at the messy scrawl of digits that somehow hold the weight of everything I can’t have. With a sudden, sharp movement, I ball it up and throw it toward the kitchen trash can.
Duchess emerges from the shadows, her white paws silent against the floor. She regards me with aristocratic disdain before relenting, padding over to press her warm body against my leg.
Tears stream down my face, hot and unwelcome. I press my palms against my eyes, trying to stem the flow, but it’s useless. Duchess climbs onto my lap, kneading my thighs with sharp claws as if punishing me for my absence.
I sit like that for an hour, maybe more, stroking her silky fur, unable to move, unable to think beyond the ache in my chest. Eventually, numbness finally dulls the sharp edges, and I push myself to my feet. Duchess leaps gracefully to the floor, tail high, as she leads me to the bed.
I lie there, staring at the wall, replaying every moment until it blurs, while she curls on my stomach, purring.
Was it truly worth it? Was the weekend with Alex enough to sustain me through the inevitable loneliness that stretches ahead? Or was it just a cruel tease, a glimpse of a life I can never truly have?
Duchess blinks slowly at me, already knowing the answer.
Chapter 11
Olivia
Iwake up to fur in my face and the familiar weight of Duchess sprawled across my chest. I groan, squinting against the sunlight streaming through the sheer curtains. Duchess stretches, her claws digging into my skin through the thin fabric of my sleep shirt.
“Morning, Your Highness,” I mutter, gently pushing her off me. She gives me an indignant look before hopping off the bed with a flick of her tail.
The alarm on my phone buzzes, and I fumble to silence it. I lie there for a moment, refusing to move, mind treading water in the gray space between waking and dreaming. Slowly, I glance around the room, taking in the soft glow of morning light on the cream-colored walls, the clutter of art books stackedhaphazardly on my dresser. Duchess sits primly by the door, tail twitching, eyes fixed on me. Waiting for breakfast.
“All right, all right.” I swing my legs out of bed. The hardwood floor is cold, and I shuffle toward the kitchen, Duchess trailing behind me like a shadow. The apartment is quiet, save for the distant hum of the city waking up outside. I open a can and spoon wet food into her bowl. She dives in with unusual enthusiasm. While I was away, she only had her dry kibble, and I know she’s been eagerly awaiting my return.
I lean against the counter, sipping from a glass of water as I mentally run through my to-do list. Finish writing the exhibition catalog. Start the marketing plan. Find husband. Survive.
With a sigh, I get ready for the day. I run a brush through my tangled hair, wincing as it catches on a knot. The face staring back at me in the mirror looks tired, with dark circles under my eyes. I should put on makeup, but I can’t muster the effort.
I regret that choice the second I walk into Millhouse Gallery. Cassandra is at the front desk, all bright eyes and a smile that says she’s been waiting for me.
“Good morning.” I put on a smile as I approach the desk.
“Morning.” She looks like she’s been up for hours, coffee in hand, ready to discuss plans for tonight’s event. Meanwhile, I look like a death warmed over after my sleepless night. “How are you feeling?”
“Better. Sorry for leaving early on Friday. Didn’t want to spread my germs.”
