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Olivia

I t’ll take a miracle- or a couple mugs of caffeine- to get me home. Wedding clean-up is, without a doubt, my least favorite part of planning. Not just because I’m in charge of it. Or because everyone is usually too drunk or tired to help. Orchestrating the day that two people get a glimpse of their life together has always excited me. It’s one of the reasons I started my business in the first place.

My parents were married when I was seven. Their marriage was less than conventional, but I still remember my mother’s frilly dress and the smile on her face as she walked down the aisle to my father. No wedding I plan will ever live that day down. Maybe that’s childhood innocence. Naivety. The faint outline of a memory that’s made brighter by the sunshine of childhood. I now realize just how much work goes into planning someone’s big day. Clean-up and all.

My apartment across the quarry is on the older side of Sutton, and though I can probably afford some high-rise on the affluent side of town now, I can’t help the swell of pride that fills my chest when I see the historic brick walls of my complex. It’s a shabby, run-down mess of towers that circle Marketside. But what those people living in the pretty high-rises don’t know is that the market is the true heart of the city.

Even at two in the morning, the market is alive with vendors calling out their wares. People sell rich fabrics on the corner while carts rattle with trinkets and religious chimes.

My apartment is in the third of the three towers. I make it a ritual to stop at one of the pastry carts nearby, waving my hello to the older man who owns it.

“How are you?” I ask.

He gives me a wordless nod, and when I proffer a couple of bills, he already has two steak and aioli croissants bundled up in a box for me.

“Thank you.” I flash a smile, and when I drop a couple of dollars in his tip jar, I swear the corner of his wrinkled face pinches in a smile.

Though the garlicky scent of the croissants makes my stomach howl, I don’t allow myself a bite until my apartment is in view and I hear a familiar voice: “Ms. Livia? That you?”

I feel my tiredness fade a bit further away.

“You know it is, Ricky.”

From the alley, a man crawls out from his tent, and I smile when I see Ricky Abbot stand up to greet me.

“You little minx. All this for me?” His devilish grin is enough to make every worry melt away.

Two warm brown eyes and wrinkled brown skin form Ricky’s familiar face. His clothes are tattered and worn, and I notice one of his boots is missing today, but I say nothing of it. He’s licking his lips before I even offer him one of the croissants.

“You know how much I love these things!”

“That’s why I get them.” I laugh when he grumbles a quick ‘ thank you’ before scarfing down a few bites.

“You’re the sweetest angel to ever walk this earth, Ms. Livia. The sweetest.”

When he flips over a bucket for me to sit on, I practically fall onto it. “How was today? Didn’t get into too much trouble?” I tease.

“I always get into trouble. It’s the only way to live. The question is, did you?”

I tap my chin in thought as he finishes the last of his food. “Well… I talked an almost-runaway-bride into walking down the aisle today. And there’s another wedding tomorrow too. So I’d say yes.”

“Why’s she gettin’ married if she’s having second thoughts?”

“Well…” I start, but the question is valid. I’m reminded of Emily on the brink of a breakdown earlier. Somehow what I’d said had been enough. “It’s complicated. But it keeps the bills paid.”

“Gotta keep your swanky apartment somehow.”

“It is pretty swanky, isn’t it?”

It isn’t often Ricky’s been up to my flat, but in the years he’s lived in the alley beside the apartment, we’ve gotten to know each other well. I’ve let him upstairs to shower or have dinner occasionally. It’s the least I can do without giving him a real place to stay. Most nights go like this though: I bring him something on my trip from work. We will check in, chat and do it all again tomorrow.

I tap his foot with my heel, quirking a brow. “People stealing your boots now?”

“Hey!” he defends, but the mischievous glint in his eye tells me it’s all fun. “They only got one before I got ‘em back. And I got ‘em good.”

I shake my head as he laughs. I don’t want to know how that story goes. I only care that he’s still here to tell the tale. Theft is at an all-time high, and it’s bad enough that he has to worry about it.

“I hope you did.”

Ricky licks his fingers and sighs contentedly, leaning against the wall. “You seem… different, Ms. Livia. These past months, you’ve been quiet.”

Something in my chest tightens at the words, and suddenly, all the tiredness and exhaustion and grief comes hurtling back.

The past year has sucked- for reasons more than one. It was only two months ago that my father was in the hospital after getting mugged at the train station.

At least, that’s the story he’s telling. That same week, my best friend Charlotte- who I hadn’t heard from since she disappeared last year- was in the hospital herself. We haven’t spoken since… Which is my fault. Despite Charlotte reaching out, I’ve been content to let the distance sour.

Work has been my haven, and I’ve thrown myself into it. But the truth is that I’m barely staying afloat. The fact that Ricky’s noticed makes me feel all the worse for it. So I build an imaginary wall up- a shield protecting myself from the sudden onslaught of emotion.

I offer a smile, squeezing his shoulder as I stand. “I appreciate you noticing. I’ve been a little tired. But I’m toughing it out. I’ll be back to normal before you know it.”

What makes a good liar? The thought makes the lump in my throat a bit harder to swallow.

“Normal’s overrated, if you ask me,” he shrugs. “I know what people must say about me, Ms. Livia. But I don’t ever wanna be normal.”

I cock a smile. “You’ve always been special to me, Ricky Abbot.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were a flirt, Ms. Livia.”

I blow a kiss, swiping my card over my apartment door. “Have a good night.”

“Have a safe night,” he corrects with a wave.

The door blows closed behind me, and the sight of the five flights of stairs ahead drags a sigh out of me as I trudge toward my apartment.

Only, I stop when I see a figure perched against the wall by my door. In the moonlit landing, my heart stalls.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” His voice is gruff, the sound like flint against stone, and I don’t know what it is that settles in me at the sound.

My shoulders fall, but I clench my keys a little tighter as recognition floods my veins. “Warden.”

Crew Warden. A man I was sure I’d never see again- not after the fallout with Charlotte. Yet he’s here. A shadow lingering at my door.

As I walk closer, I realize he’s scowling. Just like he has every time since the first. I don’t know why it bothers me so much. It’s unnerving. Intimidating maybe. And it isn’t just because he’s a solid wall of a man. He’s at least 6’3”. All toned muscles and strength.

Everything about him screams stay away from me, and since our last interaction, I’ve been keen on doing just that.

I plaster on my best smile, jamming my keys into the lock and twisting as I keep my voice light, “I don’t think I ever expected to see you on my doorstep.”

He all but called me a liar at our last encounter. He might as well have spat at me for all the distaste it carried.

The man despises me, and for the life of me, I don’t know why. I’m kind. I can be charming if I want to. Yet he hates my guts. I harden myself against the thought, twisting the handle to find it still locked.

My damn hands are shaking. I heave a sigh, refusing to show how much his presence affects me. I turn abruptly, finally meeting his brown eyes. “Why the hell are you here anyways?”

A flicker of surprise passes over him. As if maybe he wasn’t expecting the question. He frowns again. “Your father didn’t tell you.”

The comment grates my nerves, and when I finally pry the lock open, it’s with far more force than necessary. “My father didn’t tell me what?”

His assessment of me is so quick that I almost don’t catch it.

Almost , but his eyes narrow and his face falls flat. “That’s a conversation for you and him. There’s a car waiting downstairs.”

My father sent Crew Warden to my apartment- at two AM- because I’ve been ignoring his calls.

Confusion and annoyance flare in my chest, but as I look at Crew again, I realize I have no choice. He’s not leaving unless I go with him… and I don’t particularly feel like testing his patience on the matter.

“I’m not-” I start, but he’s already pushing off the wall and walking toward the stairwell.

“Get in the car, Ms. Hughes. Let’s not drag this out more than we have to.”

I swallow down a biting reply and begrudgingly turn after him. The entire trip down, I’m trying not to think about why Charlotte’s head of security is taking me to my father’s house in the middle of the night.

Somehow I have the creeping suspicion that I’m the one to blame.