As the door to Liam’s office clicks shut, sealing us in the quiet gloom, the air pulls close, too intimate now that it’s just the two of us.
Every instinct screams at me to bolt back to the others, but I made this choice, and now I have to see it through.
“I’ll ask again,” Oliver says, leaning against the desk. “What are you afraid of?”
“I’m not afraid of anything.” If only that sounded convincing.
“You’re a bad liar, sweetheart.” His voice is low, stripped of its usual teasing edge. “I have the files Landon needs to bury Jerome for good. I have the vote you need so you can marry Liam. Isn’t that what you want?”
“It’s not that simple.” I press my lips together, avoiding his gaze, and the mahogany bookshelves blur in my vision.
“Then let me make it simple. I know you want to see justice for your friend. I want that, too.” He pushes off the desk, and the space between us shrinks, sizzling with thisthingthat won’t quit. “We have something, Novalee. You can’t deny you enjoyed your time with me. So what’s holding you back?”
The truth winds around my neck, making it impossible to speak.
“Are you worried about upsetting Liam?”
My fingernails bite into my palms.
He sighs. “Is it Sebastian?”
For a wild second, I think he knows—that he’s seen straight through me since the morning after Sebastian came and went at the Davenport Estate.
Instead of calling me out, he softens his expression. “Losing someone like that, it takes time. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that we have to move on. He wouldn’t want you living your life for the ghost of him.”
The savage irony of it makes my head spin. I have to suck in a breath to keep from laughing, or maybe sobbing.
Sebastian isn’t a ghost.
He’s alive, trying to get home, and I’m standing here letting Oliver Whitney believe he’s comforting me.
And I’m protesting too much. If I keep fighting his terms, pretending the idea of spending time with him is some unspeakable punishment, he’ll start digging.
Elise’s face flashes in my mind. Her tears in front of that baby boutique, the shame she carries because of Jerome.
My guilt can’t decide this—not when it leaves her in the crosshairs.
Giving Oliver what he wants protects her.
It protects Sebastian.
My resistance deflates, leaving me cold and hollow.
Oliver registers the change, and something in his posture shifts. He knows he has me.
There’s no point dragging it out. “What are your terms?”
“One weekend a month.”
“In your house?”
“Yes.” A hint of a satisfied smile tugs at his lips. “The locked room is optional. You will always have a say with me, Novalee.”
“But I don’t. Not really, right?”
“You do. It’s just not what you want to hear.” He steps into me, one palm on my cheek. “Do we have a deal?”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “We have a deal.”