Page 37 of Wicked God
I nod, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.
“Oh, honey.” She sighs. “Be careful, okay? Remember why you’re doing this.”
My little sister. I’m doing this for Tiffany.
“How will I possibly explain to Tiffany that I am engaged to a man she has never even heard of?” I begin to spiral.
“Can’t you just tell her the truth?” Cassandra offers tentatively. “Once she knows about the engagement, it’ll be too late for her to change anything.”
But telling Tiffany the truth would devastate her. She still believes our uncle is just an eccentric old man and not evil personified.
“She would never let me go through with this charade if she knew what was going on.”
“Then she’ll have to believe that you’ve lost your mind and agreed to marry Alex because you’re madly in love with him.”
I sigh, knowing that lying to Tiffany will eat at me every day, but it’s necessary.
“I’ll tell her,” I say finally. “But only after the wedding.”
“You’re playing with fire, Olivia,” Cassandra warns me.
I may be playing with fire, but I have no other choice.
Chapter 18
Alexander
Iwonder if any of my friends have ever been this pussy whipped. I leave the office at 2 p.m. for the third day in a row, all to see if I can make Olivia smile again.
My Bentley purrs to life as I pull into the bank’s private client entrance. The teller’s perfectly shaped eyebrow arches when I request an unlimited credit card in my name—something I’ve never done before. I don’t need to flaunt my wealth—the Hawthorne name does that for me. But Olivia is my fiancée, so she deserves the world. Or, at the very least, an embossed piece of plastic that won’t get declined at the Gallery’s charity auction.
“Mr. Hawthorne, we’ll have this ready for you within half an hour,” the teller says. “Would you like to wait, or shall we have it delivered to your office?”
“I’ll wait,” I reply, checking my watch.
While sitting in the plush leather chair of the VIP waiting area, I contemplate what I’m doing. Father would call this reckless—giving anyone, even my fiancée, unlimited access to the Hawthorne fortune. But that’s precisely why I’m doing it. I wouldn’t mind that much if she maxed it out before sunset. Money’s purpose is to be spent, and I’ve not been spending it on anyone worthwhile for a long time.
After collecting the sleek black card, I head to the flower shop.
“I need something that says ‘I care about you’ without being too overwhelming,” I tell the florist, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes who seems to understand exactly what I’m after.
“Roses are always classic, Mr. Hawthorne,” she suggests, “but perhaps something more unique would be appropriate?”
I nod, scanning the colorful array of blooms. “She’s an artist. Something vibrant, but elegant.”
The woman leads me to a selection of exotic flowers I couldn’t name if my life depended on it. I choose an arrangement with deep purples and soft whites, with delicate green stems that curl artistically. It looks like something Olivia might like. She was oohing and ahhing while looking at similar violet flowers at the market a week ago, and I find myself hoping this arrangement will remind her of that moment. It’s ridiculous how much I want to please her.
The florist arranges the flowers carefully. “For someone special, I presume?”
“Very,” I answer, surprising myself with how easily the admission comes.
With both the card and flowers, I make my way to Olivia’s gallery. My heart beats faster as I approach the entrance, like some lovesick teenager rather than the COO of a multinational corporation. It’s both embarrassing and exhilarating.
The gallery is quiet today, just a few patrons wandering among the exhibits. I spot her immediately, gesturing animatedly to anelderly couple examining one of the larger canvases. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a loose bun, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She’s wearing a white shirt and black slacks, and I know for a fact that no one else in the world could make such a simple outfit look so captivating.
I stand for a moment, watching her work. There’s something about the way she moves, the passion in her gestures as she explains the artwork, that makes it impossible to look away. I’m caught in her orbit, willingly.
I wait until she finishes with the couple before approaching. When she turns and sees me, her expression shifts from professional courtesy to something more complex—surprise, pleasure, and—could that be annoyance?
