Page 148 of Punishing His Runaway Bride
I kept my hand on the steering wheel, didn't start the car.
Streetlights came on, one by one, illuminating the street clearly. Olivia's apartment building still had lights on, a warm glow from a second-floor window, a shadow passing briefly, then gone.
I stared at that window for a long time.
The report came two hours later.
I was in my study, spread the file open, read from the top.
Olivia Adrian left New York, ended up in southern France, settled in a small town called Provence, opened a flower shop. No marriage records on file.
No marriage.
Ex-husband.
That word spun through my head, then landed on this line—no marriage records on file—like two things colliding, making a sound I couldn't quite hear.
She'd lied.
I flipped to the next page.
Leo Adrian, five years old, born in southern France. Father's name: blank.
Blank.
I set the file on the desk, leaned back in my chair.
Outside the window was the city at night, lights connecting into sheets, looking from up here like scattered sparks. I grew up in this city, took over the family business here, learned how to stay composed here, learned to press every emotion I shouldn't have into a sealed place and throw away the key.
I thought I'd pressed Olivia in there too.
I thought I hated her.
Hated that she'd used perfume to deceive me, hated that she appeared at the worst possible time, hated that she made me waver on a night I shouldn't have, hated the way she left—no argument, no tears, no sound at all, just disappeared, like she'd never been there.
I told myself that hate was real. Spent five years convincing myself it was real.
But today at that dining table, watching her serve Juliet food, watching her scold Leo for being picky, watching her brush away that loose strand of hair with the back of her hand—that feeling wasn't hate.
Never was.
I closed the file, set it in the corner of the desk.
The study was quiet. Juliet was asleep, the whole house settled into silence. In that silence, for the first time, I didn't fill the gap with any excuse. Just sat there, let that thought float up from where I'd pressed it down for five years.
I never really hated her.
All that anger, all that coldness, every blade I used against her—the edge was never aimed at Olivia. It was aimed at the rules, at the boardI'd been strapped to since birth, at realizing I couldn't control anything, not even the most basic choice, and the helplessness that came with it.
I hated those things, had nowhere to direct it, so I turned it on her.
She was closest, she was softest, she was the most unguarded.
So she took the heaviest blow.
I put my hand on the desk, looked at my reflection in the study window for a long time, until that reflection became strange, like someone I recognized but couldn't name.
Leo Adrian.
