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"It's fine. You wanted to know, and now you do."

I notice Olivia's shoulders relax, the tension leaving her body as she processes what I've told her. Her fingers trace the stem of her wineglass, a nervous habit I've come to recognize.

"What was he like?" she asks suddenly. "Your father."

The question catches me off guard. People don't usually ask about him — they ask about his business, his connections, his power. Never about who he was.

"He was..." I search for the right words. "Complicated. Strong. Principled, in his own way."

I take another sip of bourbon as memories surface. "He taught me how to fish when I was six. Had the patience of a saint when it came to untangling my line every five minutes."

A small smile plays on Olivia's lips, encouraging me to continue.

"He loved my mother more than anything. After she died, something in him changed. Hardened." I look down at my glass. "But he never stopped trying to protect me."

Olivia reaches across the table, her fingers hesitating just inches away. Then, with a decisiveness that surprises me, she places her hand over mine. Her touch is warm, gentle, a stark contrast to everything else in my world.

"I'm sorry about what happened to you," she says, barely above a whisper. "Being blamed for something you didn't do."

For a moment, I'm frozen, unable to process the simple comfort of her touch. It's been so long since anyone has reached for me like this, without wanting something in return.

"Thank you," I manage, my voice rougher than I intend.

Her eyes meet mine, and I see something there I wasn't expecting…understanding. Not pity, not fear, just...recognition of pain.

I turn my hand over, our palms meeting, and gently close my fingers around hers. The dining room falls away, the empire, the enemies, the responsibilities — all of it recedes until there's just this: her hand in mine, a quiet moment of connection I didn't know I was starving for.

I should end this now. Before I care too much. Before she becomes something I can't bear to lose.

Before history repeats itself in the worst possible way.

TWENTY-FOUR

Olivia

There's a hairbrush tangled in my wet hair when Sam knocks on my door the next morning. My thoughts are a jumbled mess after reading a text from my mother begging me to come home.

I'm not even sure I could if I wanted to. What would Sam say if I told himoh, I'm just gonna move back home and forget any of this even happened.Would he just let me pack my bags and send me on my way?

Doubtful.

But I don't even want to go home. What would I do there? Go back to Rhett and fake happy with the cheating asshole? Put on a fake smile and pretend to be his trophy wife?

When I responded to her message, telling her I was happy here, she replied by asking why I hate her. Guilt churns in my gut. That's always been my mother’s response. If I don't immediately agree or do whatever she asks, it must be because I secretly hate her and I’m trying to make her miserable. It couldn't possibly be because I have any thoughts or wishes of my own.

It doesn’t help that I tossed and turned all night, thinking about Sam. My brain is a confusing mess. I want to hate him for taking me, for keeping me here. But that seems to be getting harder and harder to do. The more I learn about him…the more I understand why he is the way is.

Sam doesn't wait for me to answer before the door to my bedroom is swinging open. I gasp, dropping the hairbrush to the floor and clutching my towel tighter.

"Shit," Sam mutters, turning around so he's facing the hallway. "Sorry."

"Did you need something?" I ask.

"You're coming with me today. You should wear black."

"Why would I wear?—"

"We're leaving in thirty minutes."