Page 34 of When Hearts Unravel (The Orchid #6)

Rex disappeared after the masquerade a week ago. Lana told me there was a brand ambassador emergency in their London office, which he had to personally handle. Something about a high maintenance model who was threatening to pull out of an upcoming hotel launch.

But naturally, her people told Fleur she’d reconsider if she got a meeting with Rex.

Apparently, they dated before—one of the leggy models who’d jet set with him around the globe last year, who clearly had her eyes set on something else…an Anderson last name.

It was a gut punch when Lana told me the news over breakfast, and I feigned a smile and excused myself.

It was a good reminder. The universe’s final warning, letting me know who I’m dealing with.

A playboy. Womanizer. Someone who never settles down.

I never answered his text message from that night, and he didn’t contact me again either.

What did you expect? The man is half-asshole, half-charmer, and a whole heartbreaker.

Before Rex, I didn’t know how much I was missing in my life. How I was marching through my days, eating saltine crackers, drinking water with no ice, not knowing there were other flavors out there, not knowing my taste buds were severely deprived.

But now I know.

And the man who’s introduced me to the spices and flavors of life is now in another country, courting another woman, who, no doubt, wants a ride on the party prince, to get another hit of the Rex-a-Million experience.

Dammit, Olivia, why didn’t you start off with chicken noodle soup or something? Why did you have to jump headfirst into buffalo hot wings doused in Carolina Reapers pepper sauce?

And to top it off, I’ve violated my Hippocratic Oath and the American Medical Association’s code of ethics by being involved with Rex. There’s no use denying it any longer.

“Oh Olive, I didn’t know you had it in you. Can’t believe you let him finger fuck you in public.” Mia’s voice snickers in my mind.

I know it’s not her. It’s grief along with this elusive twin-sense creating a figment of her in my mind. And perhaps, her voice is stronger because we’re finally in Valencia at the tail end of the Las Fallas Festival.

The whole purpose of my trip.

“If you’re going to talk to me, tell me why. Why did you leave me? What regrets did you have?” I murmur to my reflection in the bathroom mirror before heading offshore.

It’s the last day of the annual festival, when ninots, sculptures made of wood and paper maché, are burned to the ground at night.

For the past two days, I wandered aimlessly around Valencia, watching local falleros and falleras dressed in colorful traditional costumes, dancing and parading on the streets.

I watched the Mascletà being set off in the town hall square at two p.m., the exciting display of colorful fireworks and firecrackers exhilarating and memorable.

The energy was thrilling, the air vibrating with drumbeats and laughter, with chaos bleeding into joy the closer we approached the last day of the festival.

During this time, Mia’s presence lingered by my side—when I tasted the freshness of the seafood paella, or chugged down a citrusy champagne cocktail, the Agua de Valencia.

She’d be with me when I took photos of the celebrations, awestruck at the towering ninots depicting everything from fairytale characters to caricatures of famous people.

Everything was bold, indulgent, exciting—all words I’d use to describe Mia.

For the first time since her funeral, I allowed myself to feel everything without guilt—the loss of the other half of me, gratitude for being alive, for being here to enjoy this journey for both of us, anger at myself and my family for never prioritizing me.

When we turned eighteen and my life just began, Mia’s life ended. Ever since then, I’ve been one person trying to fill two people’s shoes.

It isn’t fair, chasing after a ghost.

It isn’t fair, being forgotten by the living for a ghost.

It isn’t fair, becoming a ghost myself because I’ve forgotten to live for me.

And now, strolling around the city by myself, experiencing the joy and melancholy in the air, I let myself grieve.

I let myself celebrate me.

Who am I?

I’m Olivia Lin, a woman who’s spent her life coloring within the lines, afraid of disappointing others. I’m scared of small spaces and heights, but when push comes to shove, will jump off a cliff to save someone.

I’m a woman who apparently likes Carolina Reapers even though they burn the roof of my mouth off. And I hate the taste of almond cookies, no matter how many times I try to get used to it. I’m someone whose blood thrums to life in the presence of a maddening, impulsive man.

I’m the person who looks like she has her life in order when it’s taking every ounce of her energy to appear that way.

But it’s okay. That’s life. It’s messy. Chaotic. Beautiful. And I’m learning now.

I’ve learned some rules are meant to be broken because I’ll experience the adrenaline pumping in my veins, the thrill of clandestine kisses, and the icy chill of a storm soaking through my clothes into my skin.

I’ve learned that being true to myself is more important than pleasing others around me.

I’m learning I don’t have the answers. The future is uncertain and I’ll fuck things up, but it’ll be okay.

As I clutch the envelope full of photos I’ve printed from my phone, photos I was supposed to take from my Leica, I’m someone who’s going to bid farewell to my best friend, my sister, and my past tonight.

Burn away our regrets.