Page 29 of Wicked God
Alexander
The cursor blinks mockingly on the empty document before me.
I exhale, long and weary, and sink back in my leather chair, closing my eyes. Olivia’s half-smile, the glint in her eyes as she made her outrageous—and, God help me, tempting—proposal. I press my palms to my eyes, trying to banish the image. It’s pointless. Olivia lingers, a siren-song I can’t shake.
I should know better. I do know better. Yet here I am, considering her offer—a marriage of convenience, a year of pretending, all to protect our families and shield the ones we care about.
Could I do it? Could I play the dutiful husband, keep up the charade, convince the world, and maybe even myself, that we’re in love?
“Goddamn it,” I curse under my breath, running my fingers through my hair in frustration. There’s no point in pretending I’ll get any work done today. I glance at the clock, and it’s just after one. Early, but I’ve already lost the fight.
I shut down my computer and shrug on my jacket, the fabric settling over my shoulders like armor, and brace myself for whatever comes next. Olivia’s art gallery is only a few blocks away, and fresh air might help clear my head.
“I’m leaving early,” I tell Jackson as I pass his desk. He doesn’t even look up from his screen. “No calls for the rest of the day.”
Outside, the city hums around me, a perfect fall day that begs to be savored. Amber sunlight filters through crimson-tipped maples lining the sidewalk. I walk straight to Millhouse Gallery, push through the glass doors, and step into the hush of polished wood floors and soft lighting.
The gallery is quiet today, with only a handful of people lingering around to admire the paintings and sculptures on display. At the counter, Cassandra is deep in conversation with a customer. When she spots me, her kohl-rimmed eyes widen—a flicker of surprise, then a knowing smile curves her red-painted lips.
“Alexander. What a surprise!” She glances at her customer, then back at me. “I’ll be right with you.”
I nod and wander the gallery, feigning interest in the art. Most of it is abstract, not my style, but it gives me something to do while I wait. Eventually, the customer leaves, and Cassandra makes her way over to me.
“Are you here to see Olivia?”
I arch an eyebrow. “How’d you guess?”
“You seemed pretty intense last night.” She shrugs. “And I know you’re not here for me.”
“Can you point me towards her?”
She nods, but pauses—a beat too long. Her eyes sharpen. “Sure. But first, a warning. Whatever’s going on between you two is none of my business. But if you hurt Olivia, I’ll make sure you regret it.” Her words are soft, but there’s steel underneath.
I flatly state, “I don’t make a habit of hurting women. And I certainly don’t want to get on Cassandra Moore’s bad side.”
She holds my gaze, steady and unblinking. “I’ve known you since I was twelve, Alex. I am aware of the walls you build around yourself. But Olivia is not like that; she wears her heart on her sleeve. If I see you hurting her, I won’t stand by.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Good. Follow me.”
Cassandra leads me down a narrow hallway to the back of the gallery. She knocks once on a door before opening it. “Hey, Oli, Alex is here.”
Olivia sits behind her desk, hair pulled up in a messy ponytail, glasses perched on her nose. She looks up, startled, her hazel eyes widening behind those lenses.
“Alexander,” she breathes, quickly recovering her composure. “I... wasn’t expecting you.”
I lean against the doorframe, drinking in the sight of her. The cream-colored dress clings to her curves, the afternoon light making her skin glow. The glasses, the tousled hair, the way she bites her lip when she’s nervous—it shouldn’t be alluring, but somehow it is.
She looks like a sexy librarian, and I never realized how much that would do it for me.
“We’ll talk later,” Cassandra says, shooting Olivia a pointed look. Olivia nods, teeth grazing her lower lip. Then Cassandra slips away, leaving us alone.
Olivia remains seated, her eyes flick over me, slow and searching. “Why are you here?” she asks.
“Hello, Olivia.” I cross my arms. “Are you busy?”
She sets her pen down. “It’s hard to focus when your thoughts are miles away.”
