I take this information and slot it into place with everything else I’ve learned about Oliver Nichols since I met him back in February. He’s a paradox. A physical manifestation of a contradiction that somehow makes perfect sense.
A few minutes later, Brienne pulls up to the curb in front of Mindy’s apartment building, nestled in the trendy neighborhood of the West Village.
“Thanks for the ride, Brienne. It was nice to chat with you.”
She nods and waves.
I jog up the steps to the four-story walk-up while pulling my keys from my purse, glancing around at the front stoop. Ever since I got that package from Ben, I’ve been wary and nervous, waiting for him to appear around every corner. I climb the stairs to Mindy’s apartment on the third floor, walk inside, and collapse on the overstuffed white couch without taking off my shoes or my purse. Then I stare up at the exposed beams on the ceiling and recap the dire situation I find myself in.
I left my emotionally abusive boyfriend and went back to my childhood home at the tender age of twenty-seven.
I promised to create four major pieces as part of an exhibition for an exclusive gallery owned by billionaire Oliver Nichols.
I’m now living in New York with my sister and mooching off family, and I told Oliver Nichols that I want him and then lied through my teeth about needing space to work when the truth is… the truth is space doesn’t matter. I haven’t been able to create anything in months. I have no creativity, no impulses, nothing, nada, zilch.
This has never happened to me before. The first time my dad handed me a MIG weld, when I was eight, I knew what I wanted to do. Ideas were as abundant as stars in the universe, ever expanding. I never thought I’d have the time to create every idea that poured into my consciousness. Now I can’t even come up with a vague concept.
What if I can never create again? What will I do? Who will I be? Metal sculpting is all I’ve ever known. I’m an imposter.
Despair pushes me down farther into the couch. I can’t believe I told Oliver I want him. To his face.
A laugh bubbles out of me. I need to send him a list of all things I need. Oh, he’s going to get a list all right. I’m going to ask for every tool and part I can think of and then some.
My phone dings. I tug it out of my purse.
It’s a text from an unknown number: Did you try it on? I wish I could see how beautiful you look in it.
My stomach flips and churns with dread, blood roaring in my ears. I force myself to take deep breaths, calming my racing heart, a litany of reassurances scrolling through my mind. It’s okay. I’m okay. He’s not here. He’s in LA. He’s three thousand miles away. He can’t hurt me. I can’t let him win.
Once my panicked reaction mellows into mild anxiety, I screenshot the image and then block the number. Not that it will help.
The text refers to the outfit he sent me, a slinky dark-blue evening dress. He always bought me expensive clothes—to show me off, he said. Except when we fought, Ben would hold those same gifts over my head, saying I didn’t deserve them. He spent so much time and effort on me, and I could never do the same for him. No matter how hard I tried, it was never enough.
My phone rings, startling me from my thoughts.
“So, what happened? Did you accidently cuddle again?” Taylor asks before I can even offer a greeting.
I shake away thoughts of Ben as memories of my meeting with Oliver rush in, and I groan. Taylor is the only one of my siblings with all the information. She knows about my creative struggles and my preoccupation with moving on from Ben, and she knows I wanted to propose a rebound type of fling with Oliver today.
It’s not that I don’t trust any of my other siblings—it’s just that Finley is like a second mother and Mindy is all about work and responsibility and making good decisions. And Jake, well, he’s still in rehab, but he’s getting out any day now.
Taylor is the opposite of responsible. She’s a free spirit and the closest to me in age. Not to mention she’s the one who walked in on Oliver and the whole snuggling episode.
“No cuddling, but I did tell him I wanted him, then I said I needed him, then he stared at me like I was a freak, so I lied and made him think that I actually need some kind of creative space, only to finish our conversation with him promising to fix my fake problem, followed by me getting caught eavesdropping on a conversation with his assistant.”
Silence for a full three seconds. Then Taylor laughs so loud that my ear rings, her hilarity immediately followed by a massive clattering. She’s dropped her phone.
I sigh, shutting my eyes and waiting for her to come back on the line.
“Wow. That was a lot to take in. How did all this happen?”
I open my eyes, staring at the distressed brick wall behind the bookshelf on the other side of the living room. “I panicked.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Good question. I have no idea.” I kick off my shoes.
“I guess you’ll have to find someone else to bang.”