Chapter 6
749 Words
"Lucas Hayes is dead."
The sentence kept echoing in Olivia's head, she wanted to be sure of what she heard. She muttered under her breath, “Dead.”
She stared at Connor, still standing near the door, expression unreadable. The man who had just delivered the news was already gone—just a shadow slipping back into the chaos of the reception. But the damage was done. The moment was scorched into her memory.
Something inside her shifted. It wasn’t relief exactly, but something close. Like breathing for the first time after being underwater too long. She hadn't wished death on Lucas—but now that it had found him, she couldn’t lie to herself and pretend she felt nothing.
She’d spent years looking over her shoulder, waiting for the past to catch up. And now, just like that, the past had been silenced.
But with it came guilt. Cold, creeping guilt wrapped around her spine and settled in her chest. Lucas had hurt her, yes. Manipulated her. Used her. But death felt too final, too brutal—even for someone like him.
“I…” Her voice cracked. She swallowed hard. “It’s over, then.”
Connor’s gaze was still locked on her, sharp and probing. “This changes things,” he said, tone too steady for the weight of what had just been said.
She nodded, but her stomach was twisting itself into knots. “Whatever he wanted... it doesn’t matter now.”
There was a silence between them that said more than words could. The kind that crackled with things neither of them dared to say aloud.
Connor was the first to move. He straightened his jacket, adjusted his cuffs, and looked back at her. “Come on. We need to return to the reception.”
She followed him without protest, her thoughts still stuck in the hallway, in the dark corners of her mind where Lucas’s memory still lingered. But the crowd didn’t care about that. They didn’t care about her past or her pain. They cared about the show.
The reception hadn’t missed a beat. Laughter rang out, champagne flowed, and the music from the quartet swelled with elegance. Olivia felt like a ghost, drifting between tables and glittering chandeliers, her soul lagging somewhere behind her body.
She caught fragments of conversation—backhanded compliments, superficial congratulations—and forced herself to smile through it all. This was her role now. A pretty mask beside a powerful man.
“Mrs. McCoy,” someone said, too brightly. A woman with perfect curls and teeth that gleamed like polished pearls. “You must be thrilled.”
Olivia nodded. “It’s... been a beautiful night.” The words tasted metallic.
She could feel Connor watching her, not just beside her but behind her eyes, like he was always calculating, always waiting for her to slip. And she was slipping. She felt it in the frayed edges of her composure, the tightness of her skin. The ghosts didn’t go away just because someone said they were dead.
As if on cue, Connor reached for her hand, his grip just a touch too firm. “Let’s dance,” he said.
She wanted to say no. Wanted to tell him she needed air, needed space. But saying no to Connor wasn’t that simple. Not anymore.
The guests stepped aside like they were part of some grand, rehearsed production. Eyes followed them as they moved to the center of the dance floor. Olivia felt every gaze like a pin pressed to her skin.
Connor pulled her close, too close. The music swirled, romantic and slow, but there was no warmth between them. Just pressure. Expectation. Possession.
“You’re doing well,” he murmured, his lips near her ear.
She wanted to ask what exactly she was doing well at—pretending? Smiling through the weight of it all? Surviving?
“I’m trying,” she said instead.
His hand slid lower on her back, possessive in a way that made her heart stutter. “We’ll talk later,” he said, quiet enough that no one else could hear.
She turned her head slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. “About what?”
Connor didn’t answer right away. The orchestra reached a soft crescendo, and they turned, the movement slow and practiced. His gaze never wavered from hers.
Then he leaned in, his breath warm and deliberate.
“About the truth, Olivia,” he whispered. “About who you really are.”
- Writer
