The water wrapped around me, fighting off the aggressive flames that would change how I looked from the neck down, forever. I stayed beneath the surface for as long as I could, fearing the fire was waiting to claw at me again when I got out.
But, then, my time was up. The need for oxygen called me to the surface.
I struggled back to Nessie and collapsed to the ground, my eyes moving in search of the vehicle that had been driving this way. . . but there was nothing. I reached out and touched my sister’s hand, holding it, while my tight chest tried to suck in air.
The scent of daisies—my favorite scent—was overpowered by something else. A man’s heavy cologne filled my nose, and I stared up to find someone standing over me. Someone I’d met before.
I looked at his face, remembering it from when he stood in my kitchen, holding Jolie back and encouraging her not to do anything stupid.
“The silent man,” I breathed out with a cough.
“The name is Olivier, actually.”
Olivier. . .
I laughed to myself, remembering that name from an actor in old movies, and when one movie in particular—a tragic love story—popped into my head, I smiled.
“Olivier,” I struggled with the name this time, for the same reason I struggled with so many other things—this damn throat and the constant closing of my airway.
“My friends call me Ollie, if that’s easier.” He smiled at me, appearing like a real friend. His white teeth—the product of amazing genes or money well-spent—were the only brightness I saw right now.
I blinked twice, but he had no idea what that meant.
When my eyes opened, he was taking off his formal jacket, giving it to me to keep warm.
“Help me find her. And don’t hurt her.”
He nodded, knowing instantly who I meant. “After we get you some help.” There was a tightness in the smile he gave to me, but I held on to his promise. . .
And I’d never let go.
Chapter 33
Olivier—present day
Ilistened to her mumbling to herself as I walked into her cell. Gray walls and lack of decoration welcomed the cold demeanor I’d pretended I’d adopted since working here.
It had been ten years. Ten years, where I’d had to bite my tongue to stop myself from screaming with the many different girls as they died. Ten years, where I watched painful deaths; the sound of necks snapping played in my head, haunting me and invading my mind every time I tried to count sheep.
Nothing helped with the sleepless nights.
The guilt was too strong.
I’d forced myself into this role. It was never meant for me. . . not until they took her—the woman I was in love with.
It was pure coincidence.
Wrong place, wrong time, wrong fucking person.
She was walking to a date with me—dinner under the trillions of pretty stars. I insisted on picking her up, but Miss Independent wanted to walk, even in her big heels and tight dress, as it wasn’t that far from home.
I negotiated, and we ended up on a call while she took a shortcut through a field, where her heels sinking into the grass had her complaining, but that would all change when she found me on the other side, waiting to propose.
I was sitting on a pretty bench, close to an embankment that showed the whole of LA. A basket sat at my side, filled with her favorite things to eat and a bottle of cheap champagne—she preferred the cheap stuff. And I enjoyed how she acted after drinking it—carefree and so fucking sexy.
The sound of sirens in the background reminded me of my busy day at work. Their screeching was loud, but I still heard a man approach her, then another, then another.
They’d been following her, and before she could shout about which way she was traversing, they’d taken her phone and stomped on it.
