The drive across the city is a blur. I park across the street from the bookshop, the large windows giving me a clear view inside. There she is, seated by the window, a cup of coffee untouched beside her. She’s scrolling through her phone, her brow furrowed, her expression pensive.
I pull out my own phone, accessing the clone of hers with practiced ease. The draft message appears almost immediately, and my stomach twists as I read it.
OLIVIA
Landon, I’m sorry for how our last meeting went. I know it got messy, but I’d really like to fix our friendship if you’re open to it. If you want to meet again, I promise Nathaniel won’t show up this time.
My grip on the steering wheel tightens until my knuckles ache.
She’s debating whether to reach out to him. Considering it. Planning it. The fact that she hasn’t sent the message yet is irrelevant. The idea is in her mind, and that’s enough to send a white-hot wave of jealousy crashing through me.
My mind races.
She’s here, deliberating, keeping me in the dark. My pulse thunders, my thoughts spiraling into a tangle of possessiveness and paranoia. Is this her way of testing me? Of pushing boundaries to see how far I’ll let her go? If so, she doesn’t understand the rules of this game. She never will.
I stay rooted in my car, watching her from a distance. She doesn’t move for what feels like an eternity, her thumb hovering over the screen before she locks her phone and places it on the table. Relief wars with fury. The message hasn’t been sent.Yet.
I debate walking inside, confronting her, demanding an explanation. But I know better. Confrontation will only push her further away, and I can’t risk that.
The engine roars to life as I pull away, my thoughts a storm of contradictions.She hasn’t sent the message.That’s the only consolation I cling to as I drive home, the image of her face etched into my mind.
By the time I reach the penthouse, I’m a live wire of nerves and fury, pacing the living room with my phone in hand. Again and again, I check her messages, waiting for the moment I’llneed to intervene. But it never comes. The draft remains unsent. Still, it doesn’t quell the gnawing fear inside me.
For the second time in days, I find myself turning to physical activity to burn off my frantic energy, punishing my body for my mind’s inability to keep it together. I pound the treadmill, the rhythmic thud of my footsteps the only sound in the gym as I try to drown out the noise of my own thoughts. I run faster, the numbers on the screen blurring as if speed can pull me out of my head, out of the gnawing hollow that Olivia’s absence has left behind.
My lungs burn, but it’s not enough.
Each step feels futile, like trying to outrun a shadow that’s already fused itself to my skin. No matter how fast I go, I can’t close the distance between us. She’s just out of reach—like mist slipping through my fingers the harder I try to hold on.
She hasn’t sent the message to Landon. I should feel relieved. Should tell myself that means something. But it doesn’t change the fact that shethought about it.
It’s not the lack of trust that gnaws at me. I trust Olivia. But trust isn’t the antidote to this sickness winding through my veins. I know this isn’t rational—lovedoesn’t behave this way, but I’m not wired to love her softly.
As I told her before, I need her like air.
The thought of her choosing someone else, even just emotionally, isn’t something I can allow. Survival dictates that I keep her tethered to me. Trust doesn’t matter if losing her means losingeverything.
The treadmill beeps as I slam the stop button with the heel of my palm.
A familiar voice cuts through the tension like a balm to a burn.
“Nate?”
I spin around to see Olivia leaning against the gym doorframe, watching me with a small smile that makes the knot in my chest loosen—barely.
She crosses her arms, her eyes trailing down over me, and she quirks a brow. “Well, isn’t this a sight to come home to?” She’s unabashedly staring at the sweat trickling down my abs.
I laugh under my breath, wiping the sweat from my brow. “You should have come home earlier.”
She steps forward, the space between us shrinking, and brushes her lips lightly against my cheek. The soft press of her body against mine makes my head swim. I relish the contact like a dying man savoring the last drop of water.
“How was your day?” she asks, pulling back just enough to meet my gaze.
I give her a brief answer, my thoughts elsewhere, already winding toward the question that burned in my throat all day. “Fine. Yours?”
“Oh, you know. Nothing special,” she replies lightly, but the small lift of her shoulders is just a fraction too casual.
I tilt my head, watching her with careful precision, the way a wolf watches a deer edging too close to a snare. I can feel it—the calculation behind her soft smile, the deliberate vagueness.
