Mad Boy Next Door

Chapter Two

OLIVIA’S POV

As I woke up in the hospital, I had no desire to talk to anyone, not even the voices in my head that have been my constant companions for years. Communicating with myself has always been my solace, my way of finding comfort in the chaos of life.

Sitting beside my bed was a young man with striking green eyes, around twenty-two years old. He seemed like the type who would go against his parents' wishes, a rebel with tattoos creeping up his neck. The kind of person who would insert himself into situations that didn't concern him.

He likely thought he was a hero for saving my life, but he had no idea why I ended up in the hospital in the first place. If only he had answered the damn doorbell or stayed home, I wouldn't have nearly died in such a pitiful and embarrassing way.

He was currently engaged in a phone call. Though I had a suspicion that it was fake, I didn't want to take any chances, so I quickly interrupted him. "—I don't need any help, young man," I said, turning to catch a glimpse of his face. "Drop the phone, please."

He complied, but a mischievous grin appeared on his face. "I gotcha," he said, turning the phone around so I could see the screen. "It was a fake call. I knew you'd be forced to talk to me."

Yeah, right. My gut instinct had already told me that.

"You know what? Why don't you just give me your account number and go home? You've done more than enough, and I truly appreciate it. I'll compensate you for your kind actions."

"You talk like you have a lot of money," he remarked.

"Maybe I do," I muttered under my breath. "But what matters is that I will definitely repay you for your expenses, with an extra amount for your services."

"Fair enough. But how can I trust you when I don't even know your address?"

"I live there, where you found me. Well, not exactly there, but next door, number 43." I pretended not to know that he was the tenant in 42, my next-door neighbor. I didn't want him to think that I had noticed just any attractive guy living nearby.

"I'm number 42, which means we're neighbors. I'll come find you there if you don't keep your promise," he said, jumping down from the stool. "Would you like me to get you something to eat? I'm going to McDonald's."

"No, thanks. You probably won't find me here by the time you come back. Maybe later, if you're home, I'll ring your doorbell and give you cash instead of doing a bank transaction."

"Okay, whatever you want, Miss Olivia Pressman. I'm off."

And with that, he left.

I let out a sigh and rested my back against the pillow.

It had been seven weeks since the incident with my ex-husband, Michael, and I still didn't feel any better. I never intended to harm or kill myself, but in a moment of anger and confusion, I made a terrible mistake. Just three weeks ago, I discovered that I was pregnant with Michael's child. In my anger and madness, I made the reckless decision to abort the baby, committing an act that would haunt me forever.

No, I would never be the same again. The feeling of disgust that overwhelmed me in that bathroom was indescribable. I didn't even remember the exact details of what happened, but the regret was suffocating.

I came to my senses when my stomach started to convulse, thanks to the bleach I had ingested. My phone battery was dead because I hadn't bothered to charge it. I didn't want to talk to anyone from my company.

Death had knocked on my door, and in that moment, I became terrified. That's when I decided to seek help from the plumber boy next door, the one I had seen around the lobby making phone calls and intimidating people. But no one answered the doorbell, and I was on the verge of collapsing.

I passed out on his doorstep, and that's all I remember.

Now that I was awake, there was no need to spend another day in the hospital. I needed to return to my temporary home, a small and cozy place that didn't remind me of Michael like my other house in Manhattan.

I planned to stay there for a month until the storm passed. I called it a storm because that's exactly what it was—a storm that had shattered my trust in men and best friends, leaving my life in ruins.

The world was becoming increasingly unbearable for me. As the President of a company, a newly divorced woman, and a mother who had taken the life of her own child, I was at my breaking point.

I relied on my faith in Jesus, knowing that he wouldn't abandon me like Michael and Selena had. And, to be fair, like Olivia Pressman herself. I had forsaken myself when I recklessly drank that bleach.

The Lord would forgive my sins, help me forgive myself, and give me the strength to face my challenges head-on.

My situation required divine intervention.

Carefully, I removed the IV from my arm and swung my feet over the side of the bed, barefoot. I was sure the young man had spent a significant amount of money on me. Perhaps I would give him double the amount he spent, just to ensure his silence about what had happened.

It didn't seem like he recognized me, though. I wasn't entirely sure about that. He could be one of those boys who never paid attention to the news or was pretending not to recognize me. The nurse did, after all. That's why I didn't bother to tell her my name—it would somehow find its way into the hospital records.

I needed to go home now. The sooner I gave that tattooed boy his money, the lower the risk would be.

Just as I was about to leave the ward, the tattooed plumber boy appeared in front of me.

Not again.

"I remember you didn't have any shoes when I brought you here," he said, holding up a pair of slippers. "So I bought Crocs."