Page 19 of Grumpy Alien Boss

CHAPTER 19

OLIVIA

I ’m hunched over my laptop at the kitchen island, humming some half-remembered tune as my fingers fly across the keyboard. Spreadsheets. Glorious, calming spreadsheets. The numbers don’t lie, don’t judge, don’t care that today is the day I’m supposed to be a blushing bride. They just sit there, neat and orderly, and I love them for it.

The sound of the front door slamming open makes me jump. Mel storms in, her arms crossed and her face a mix of exasperation and disbelief.

“Olivia McGee—soon to be Rook, I might add—what the hell are you doing?”

I don’t even look up. “Crunching numbers. You know, the usual.”

She marches over and slams my laptop shut. “It’s your wedding day . You’re supposed to be getting ready, not pretending you’re in some corporate finance seminar.”

“Mel, I’m fine. Spreadsheets are my happy place. They’re keeping me calm. You know, avoiding the whole ‘bridezilla’ thing.”

She narrows her eyes. “You’re not fooling anyone. You’re nervous, and instead of dealing with it like a normal person, you’re burying yourself in Excel.”

“Guilty,” I admit, standing up and stretching. “But it’s working, isn’t it? No tears, no tantrums, just... pivot tables.”

Mel groans, grabbing my arm and dragging me toward the door. “You’re impossible. Maurice is waiting, and if we’re late, he might actually combust. And trust me, no one wants to see that.”

I let her pull me into the hallway, where Maurice is pacing like a caffeinated peacock. His tailored suit is immaculate, and his hair is so perfectly coiffed it looks like it could deflect bullets. He stops mid-stride when he sees us, his hands flying to his hips.

“There you are! Do you have any idea how much time we’ve lost? Any idea at all? This is not a rehearsal, Olivia. This is the day . The day! And you’re—what? Playing accountant?”

“Spreadsheets,” I correct him, smirking. “And I’m fine, Maurice. Really.”

He throws his hands up in exasperation. “Fine? Fine is not the word I would use. Fine is for people who don’t have a timeline that’s tighter than a corset on a Victorian debutante. Now, move!”

Mel shoves me toward the elevator, and Maurice follows, muttering something in French that I’m pretty sure isn’t complimentary. The elevator doors slide open, and we step inside. Maurice immediately starts tapping his foot, his eyes darting to his watch every two seconds.

“Relax, Maurice,” I say, leaning against the wall. “It’s not like Dar’s going to leave me at the altar if we’re five minutes late.”

He glares at me. “This is not about your fiancé, Olivia. This is about perfection . And perfection does not tolerate tardiness.”

The elevator dings, and we step out into the lobby. The limo is waiting, its black exterior gleaming under the morning sun. Maurice ushers us toward it, his hands fluttering like he’s herding cats.

“In, in, in!” he commands, opening the door and practically shoving us inside.

I slide into the plush leather seat, Mel beside me, and Maurice takes the seat opposite. He pulls out a tablet and starts scrolling through his schedule, muttering to himself.

Mel leans over and whispers, “You know, for someone who’s supposed to be calm, you’re stressing out the most high-strung man in New York.”

I grin. “Mission accomplished.”

The limo glides through Manhattan, the city a blur of steel and glass outside the tinted windows. Maurice is still muttering about timelines, his tablet glowing in his hands, but I tune him out. My stomach twists, and it’s not just wedding jitters. I glance at Mel, who’s fiddling with the hem of her dress, her brow furrowed like she’s trying to decide whether to say something.

“Spit it out,” I say, leaning back against the seat. “You’ve got that look on your face like you’re about to drop a bombshell.”

Mel hesitates, then sighs. “It’s about your mom, Liv.”

I stiffen. “What about her?”

“Dar wanted to invite her, didn’t he?” Mel says, her voice soft. “You told him no.”

I cross my arms, staring out the window. “Yeah. So?”

“So... you’re sure about that? I mean, it’s your wedding. Don’t you want her here?”

“No,” I say, my voice sharper than I intend. “I don’t need her here. She made her choices, Mel. She chose to walk out when I was sixteen. She chose to ignore every birthday, every Christmas, every time I tried to reach out. She doesn’t get to waltz back in now that I’m about to marry a billionaire.”

Mel leans forward, her eyes searching mine. “I get it. I do. But... Dar doesn’t know her like you do. He probably thought it’d be a nice gesture, you know? Including her.”

I huff a bitter laugh. “Nice gesture? Sure. Let’s invite the woman who abandoned me to watch me get married. That’ll be adorable .”

“Liv,” Mel says gently, “it’s your wedding. Your day. If you don’t want her here, that’s your call. But you need to own that decision. Don’t let it eat at you.”

I turn back to the window, watching the city blur past. “It’s not eating at me. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Mel says, rolling her eyes. “You’re Olivia McGee. You’re never fine. You’re always either furious or pretending you’re not.”

“Maybe I’m both,” I snap, then sigh, running a hand through my hair. “Look, Dar doesn’t get it. He’s all about family loyalty, even when it’s toxic. But he didn’t grow up with a mom who couldn’t be bothered to stick around. I did. And I’m not letting her ruin this for me.”

Mel nods, her expression softening. “Okay. Then don’t. You’re right—it’s your wedding, Liv. Your mom made her bed. She doesn’t get to crash your party just because she’s feeling nostalgic.”

I glance at her, a small smile tugging at my lips. “Thanks, Mel. For not pushing.”

She grins. “Hey, someone’s gotta be the voice of reason. And Maurice is too busy hyperventilating about roses or whatever.”

“I heard that!” Maurice snaps from across the seat, not looking up from his tablet.

Mel and I burst out laughing, the tension in the air dissolving. For a moment, I forget about my mom, about the wedding, about everything. For a moment, it’s just me and my best friend, laughing in the back of a limo. And for now, that’s enough.

The limo pulls up to Saint Patrick's Cathedral, and my heart skips. There, gleaming in the morning sun, sits Dar's silver Porsche 911. A week without seeing him, and just the sight of his car makes my pulse race.

"God, I've missed him," I say, pressing my face against the window like a lovesick teenager. "This whole 'week apart for tradition' thing is torture."

Mel snickers. "Need a cold shower before the ceremony?"

"Shut up," I laugh, but my cheeks flush hot. "I'm just saying, the wedding night is going to be..."

"TMI!" Mel holds up her hands. "Save it for your husband-to-be."

Maurice opens the limo door, and I step out into the crisp autumn air. The cathedral towers above us, all Gothic spires and pristine white stone. It's perfect. Everything is perfect.

Until I feel the tug on my sleeve.

I turn, expecting a well-wisher or maybe an early guest. Instead, I find myself staring into a pair of familiar green eyes—my own eyes, set in an older face.

"Mom?" The word comes out strangled. "What are you doing here?"

Elsie McGee stands before me in a powder blue dress, clutching her purse like a shield. "Olivia, honey..."

"Don't 'honey' me." I take a step back. "You can't just crash my wedding."

"Actually," Maurice interjects, his tablet already in hand, "Madame McGee is here at Monsieur Rook's personal invitation."

The world tilts sideways. Dar invited her? Without telling me?

"That's right," my mother says softly. "Darwin called me himself. Said every bride deserves her mother on her wedding day."

“Olivia, please,” my mother says, her voice trembling like she’s balancing on the edge of a cliff. “I know I’ve made mistakes. I know I should’ve believed in you. I should’ve been there. I should’ve done everything differently.” Her hands are wringing the strap of her purse like she’s trying to strangle it. “But I can’t change the past. All I can do is try to make up for it now, if you’ll let me.”

I cross my arms over my chest, my jaw tight. “You’re damn right you should’ve believed in me,” I snap, my voice sharper than I meant it to be. “You walked out, Mom. You walked out and didn’t look back. And now you’re here because of what? Some guilt? Because Dar called you? What’s the angle, huh?”

Her eyes glisten, and she shakes her head. “There’s no angle, Olivia. I just... I want to be here for you. For your wedding. For this moment. I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I’m asking—no, I’m begging—to be allowed to stay. Just for today.”

I stare at her, my chest tight. The anger’s there, bubbling under the surface, but so is this stupid, traitorous pit of sadness. She looks smaller than I remember, her red hair streaked with gray, her hands trembling.

Mel crosses her arms, giving me a sideways glance. “Liv, it’s your call. But... just so you know, if you kick her out, I’m totally buying you a drink later to celebrate.”

I let out a short, bitter laugh. “Thanks, Mel. Always got my back.”

Maurice clears his throat, tapping his tablet impatiently. “As much as I’d love to stand here and watch this delightful family drama unfold, we are on a schedule . So, if you could make a decision—preferably one that doesn’t involve sirens or tears—that would be fantastic .”

I exhale sharply, running a hand through my hair. “Fine,” I say, my voice low. “You can stay. For the wedding. And the reception. But that’s it. No speeches, no mother-daughter dances, no... whatever. You’re here as a guest. That’s all.”

My mother’s face crumples, but she nods, clutching her purse tighter. “Thank you, Olivia. That’s all I’m asking for. Just... thank you.”

I turn away before she can say anything else, my stomach churning. Mel gives me a quick squeeze on the shoulder, and Maurice herds us toward the cathedral doors, muttering about flower arrangements and timetables.

I don’t look back at my mother, but I can feel her standing there, her presence like a shadow I can’t shake. Today’s supposed to be perfect, but now it’s... complicated. And I hate that she’s the one who made it that way.

"I need to see Dar," I tell Mel, my hands shaking. "Right now."

"But it's bad luck?—"

"Screw luck. Where is he?"

Mel sighs and leads me down a side corridor. She grabs a folding screen from somewhere and positions it between two marble columns. "Stay here. I'll get him."

Moments later, I hear his footsteps. My heart races just knowing he's on the other side of that screen.

"Livvy?" His deep voice sends shivers down my spine.

"You invited my mother?" The words come out sharp, accusatory. "Without telling me?"

"It's tradition among my people. The mother of the bride must attend to ensure the bloodline continues strong."

I press my palm against the screen. "Bull. That's not why you did it."

A low chuckle. "No, it's not. You need this, Livvy. You need to face her, even if just to say goodbye properly."

"I already said goodbye. Six years ago when she walked out."

"Did you? Or did you just let anger fill the void she left?"

I close my eyes, letting his words sink in. Damn him for knowing me so well. "I hate when you're right."

"I know." The screen shifts as he leans against it. "But that's why you're marrying me, isn't it? My stunning insight and wisdom?"

"Among other things," I say, smiling despite myself. "Your modesty, for instance."

"Livvy." His voice turns serious. "Whatever you decide to do about your mother, I'll support you. But don't let old wounds keep bleeding. Not today."

He's right. Of course he's right. "I'll see you at the altar," I whisper, touching the screen one last time before turning away.

Maurice’s voice cuts through the air like a fire alarm. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is time ! Everyone in position. Olivia, you’re up in five. Five! Do not make me come over there.”

I’m pacing in the small vestibule, the cathedral’s stained glass casting a kaleidoscope of colors on my dress. My hands won’t stop trembling. Mel adjusts the train of my gown for the hundredth time, her own nervous energy buzzing like a live wire.

“You look stunning,” she says, squeezing my shoulders. “Like, if Cinderella decided to run a Fortune 500 company. Dar’s gonna combust at the altar.”

“Thanks, Mel,” I mutter, half-listening. My eyes keep darting to the other side of the room, where my mother stands, smoothing her dress and avoiding my gaze. She looks so out of place, like she doesn’t belong here. But here she is.

I take a deep breath, the weight of the moment pressing down on me. Before I can second-guess myself, I stride over to her. Her head snaps up, surprise flickering across her face.

“Olivia, I—” she starts, but I cut her off, wrapping my arms around her in a tight hug.

“I love you, Mom,” I say, my voice thick. “It just might take me a while to forgive you.”

She freezes for a moment, then her arms come around me, holding me like she’s afraid I’ll disappear. “Oh, sweetheart,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “You look beautiful . I’m so proud of you.”

I step back, blinking away the tears threatening to ruin my mascara. “Thanks, Mom. Let’s not make this awkward, okay? Just... walk me down the aisle.”

She nods, her eyes glistening, and takes my arm. The double doors swing open, and the organ begins to play. The crowd stands, their faces a blur as I lock eyes with Dar.

He’s at the end of the aisle, his red eyes blazing. His smirk is pure mischief, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. God, I love him. I love him so much it hurts.

The walk feels like an eternity and a split second all at once. My mother squeezes my arm as we reach the altar, then steps back, her place in my life both acknowledged and uncertain. Dar takes my hands, his grip firm, his touch sending a jolt of electricity through me.

“You’re late,” he murmurs, his voice teasing.

“Only because Maurice wouldn’t let me run,” I whisper back, a smile tugging at my lips.

The officiant clears their throat, and we turn to face each other. The vows are a blur, the words pouring out of me like water. My hands are steady now, my heart full. When Dar slides the ring onto my finger, it feels like a promise—a promise of forever.

And then he kisses me, his lips claiming mine with a fierceness that leaves no room for doubt. The world fades away, and for a moment, it’s just us. No past, no future. Just now. Just this.

When we pull apart, the applause is deafening. Dar’s grin is wild, his eyes shining with something that feels like pride. “Mrs. Rook,” he says, his voice low and dripping with satisfaction.

“Mr. Rook,” I reply, matching his tone. For the first time, I feel like there’s no limit to our happiness.