Olivia

Friday, October 14th

Annaliese waves from her yard, where she’s watering her plants. I return the enthusiastic gesture.

Despite conspiring with a woman who is quite possibly the worst person in the world to trust, she’s instilled hope in me.

I hum as I walk to the porch, my gaze down as I dig for my keys in my old Kate Spade purse—switched this morning for practicality.

“Olivia.”

I’m jarred to a stop; the hairs on my arms stand up. I didn’t see him before, sitting in the corner of my porch, hidden in shadow.

My heart thrums despite my internal reassurance that everything’s okay.

“Hi, Jared,” I say, trying to sound calm instead of scared.

“I brought some things for you,” he says. “Thought I’d drop in since you’re shirking your responsibilities and not at work.”

“Things?” I ask, shifting to settle an unease in my bones. How does he know I’m not at work? And what responsibilities?

He stands and lifts a filing box from beside the chair.

“I need the books updated by tomorrow. Quarterly taxes are coming up.” His gaze travels over me, causing me to shiver. “Your first payment’s due.”

“I—"

“A thousand would be appropriate since you no longer have other debts,” he says, letting the last word trail.

He doesn’t know? He can’t know.

My hand quivers as I reach into my purse. It’s like my muscles aren’t following commands from my brain. Or rather, my brain has no commands for my muscles.

Money. I’m getting money.

“I only have four hundred right now,” I say, fumbling to extract only four of the seven one-hundred-dollar bills from my purse. “I have utilities coming up.”

He pulls the cash from my hand.

“Sunday,” he says sharply. He sets the box in front of the door with a thud and steps off the porch.

“I won’t have more—”

He holds up his hand. “And the books.”

I nod.

“If Camden asks, tell him you’re helping out by organizing the shit piling up in my office,” he says, patting me on the shoulder. “Remember, not a word about the loan.”

I watch him as he descends the steps and climbs into his black Mercedes on the street. I can’t believe I missed it before. When he whips around the cul-de-sac too quickly, Annaleise looks up from her gardening with a glare. Her daggers don’t shoot toward Jared’s car. Instead, they’re pointed at me.

Defeated, I push the door open and then hoist the file box into my arms. I resist the urge to look back over my shoulder by kicking the door closed. My boot leaves a scuff on it.

I drop the box in front of the couch, sit down, and remove the lid. The accounting book is on top, so I set it on the coffee table and retrieve a stack of papers.

The ledger fills in as I log expense receipts and incoming payments. The money funneling into his business is extensive. I had no idea that buying the contents of unpaid storage lockers could be so lucrative, nor did I realize how much outbound money was required. One of the most recent invoices Jared’s paid, to Sad Rabbit, LLC, is for just over one hundred thousand dollars.

When I go cross-eyed, I stand and stretch my sore back. On autopilot, I go into my closet, change into shorts and running shoes, then cross the house to the room with only a treadmill and free weights inside. It’s a poor excuse for a gym, but Camden doesn’t work out at home much, and I don’t run often these days.

I walk for less than a minute before increasing the speed. Walking won’t cut it. I need to run off this jittery anxiety.

My lungs burn as my body adjusts. Take it easy. Don’t overdo it. That’s been my motto. For what? The fertility treatments were as useless as attempts at natural conception.

I click up the speed more to avoid tears because crying doesn’t offer solutions. Action does. I’m going to pay off my debts. I’m going to get IVF. I’m going to prove to Camden that I can give him a child—and I’m not a failure.

“Fight Song” by Rachel Platten blares through my AirPods. My body floods with endorphins.

I need to keep moving.

My muscles scream in protest, oxygen wicked from them as my lungs fight to keep every breath to themselves. Staring through the window to the street out front, I focus on the tree next to my car.

A Maserati pulls into our drive, and the garage door opens, allowing it access.

My Lexus isn’t allowed in the garage. Camden parks his cars there. His babies, filling the stalls and taking up residence where I cannot.

Camden said we couldn’t afford IVF, but that thing must have cost three times what IVF does, if not more.

I seethe with anger. However much he paid didn’t even pass through our account first. He’s been hiding it from me so he could have another car. So that he wouldn’t have to waste it on an endeavor that he thinks is futile—like my infertile womb.

My feet thud in time with the rhythm as the Rachel Platten repeats the chorus, ready to conclude the song. I’m going to take my life back. I’m going to prove Camden wrong. I’m going to prove them all wrong.

I climb out of the shower and slip into sweats and a tank. My body feels calm and ready to get things done. My steps are confident, my brain relaxed, or it’s possible I’m just worn out, my anger burned out because I don’t need help. I’m perfectly capable of providing my own success.

The blood in my veins runs cold as I step around the corner from the main suite. Camden’s sitting on the couch, holding a stack of receipts in his hands.

He turns toward me, a flash of fury in his eyes.

“What is this?” he demands.

I scurry over. Please don’t let the receipts be out of order.

“I’m doing your Uncle Jared a favor,” I say, grabbing at the stack in his hand and tugging until he gives in to my request.

Flipping through the stack, I let out a sigh. They’re in order.

A half smile crosses my face as relief floods me. I return my gaze to Camden, still frozen in his spot on the couch. His eyes … they aren’t angry anymore.

My heart sinks and my smile dissipates. Is that fear? He’s never afraid of anything.

“I thought you were working,” I say, trying to find a hint of what’s the matter, and aware that he went straight from his newest sportscar to gaming. It’s what I expected, but it was confirmed when Bella, who hadn’t been bothered to get up since I got home, frolicked with excitement as he came in, following him into his office before he shut the door.

“I was taking a break. I heard the shower; I thought I’d come say hey. Then I saw all of this ...” He sounds defeated. Distant.

“Did I do something wrong?” I sink onto the couch next to him.

“No, you didn’t, Babe,” he says, fixing his gaze on me.

The darkness is gone from his eyes, but my intuition—my fear of stumbling into something that I shouldn’t have—now looms.

He reaches up and runs his hand over my hair, then settles his palm on my cheek. His blue eyes envelope my heart, and despite everything, I’m drenched in my love for him.

His fingers travel to my jaw. He tilts my chin up, drawing me closer to him. His thumb slides across my bottom lip, and a warmth erupts through my body and into my groin.

By the time our mouths meet, I’m defenseless, melting into his arms. Accounting be damned. As he stands and pulls me toward our room, I glance back at the papers he was holding. The invoice on top is the paid invoice to Sad Rabbit, LLC, which triggers a revelation. There’s a pattern. It’s not a perfect system, but between debits and credits, the accounts periodically equal zero—perfectly.