43. Olivier

Igo into my building from the front, Drew enters from the back. We pass each other at the elevator, and I offer him a hand to shake. He gives it a firm press and rubs his thumb over mine before pushing the up button and letting me go.

I sigh as I ride the elevator to my floor, growing more anxious the further away from him I get, and equally nervous about whether Elodie is still here. She told me she'd stay until I got home, but I was gone longer than I thought I'd be.

When I come in, the sound of the TV relaxes me a fraction, but it's not until I see her curled up on the sofa in a fluffy blanket that I let my shoulders drop. I hate the way she startles when she hears me say hello, though. Her face looks worse today, if that's possible, which means we'll be staying in again.

"I assume you kissed and made up?" she asks after putting her show on mute.

"We did," I tell her. I get some water, ask her if she wants some—she doesn't, she's already drinking wine—and I join her on the sofa. "I told him I want him to quit his job and move in with me."

She laughs a little too loudly for my taste. "And how did that go over?"

"I feel like it's a maybe," I say defensively.

"You've been hooking up for how long again?" she asks.

"Long enough. Does it really matter when you know it's right?"

"You sound delusional."

"Oh, wow. Well, thanks for that."

She slams her head back into the pillow. "Don't listen to me. I'm just jealous."

Elodie and I did more drinking than strategizing last night, and she passed out around two. So, no, we haven't figured out what our options are—or even if we have any viable ones. All I do know is I was damn lucky to have met a person like Drew when I did. Elodie's future sex life feels like a riddle neither one of us can figure out, and if I were her, I'd be bitter as hell.

"What if I talked to my parents?" It's something I've been thinking about since Drew was in the shower. It's what I'd meant when I asked him if he needed more from me, or I should say, it was the only thing I knew for sure I could do right now. Try to let them know I've cleaned up my act, that I'd found someone I'm interested in pursuing a relationship with—skip the part that he's a man—and convince them to allow me to end the engagement.

It's a long shot, but at least I'll know where I stand. I'll get to see if what Drew was saying last night is true—if they've truly got me by the balls for the rest of my life.

It's not like I have a trust fund that I know of. My father's company becomes mine when I turn thirty—last I heard anyway. That's my "trust." It's the way my parents set things up so I don't go rogue, I guess.

"It's too late, Ollie. The engagement's been announced."

"Do you have a trust fund?" I ask while my brain's on the subject.

"I mean—it's basically my dowry now, but yeah."

"When do you come into it?"

"When I get married."

"Ah."

So, one more reason her father offered her up like a prize cow, ensuring Elodie will never have full control over her own money. "Can we fake a wedding?" I ask.

She giggles. "Like hire actors to perform all the roles? That would be funny."

"But can it be done?"

"You really think they're gonna put us in charge of planning?"

"If we say we want to do it…"

"I don't think you've ever been properly introduced to my stepmother. We've been to six dress designers already. My dad put her in charge of everything."

"Are they gonna follow us to the marriage license office, too?"

"They don't trust us, Ollie. You need to wrap your head around that."

"Drew really doesn't want us to get married."

Her eyes twitch, and her lips purse. "Yeah, I know."

"You want to go through with it, don't you?" I ask, but I think I already know the answer.

That fact is acknowledged when she turns her face into the pillow and nods. It's her way out. It might not be ideal, or the future she dreamed for herself, but I think she'd rather be committed to an asylum than live with her abusive father any longer than she has to.

"It doesn't have to be forever," she says, "I promise, I'll go to school—I'll find a way to make my own money—I'll do whatever I need to, but he's just getting worse."

I rub a hand down her back. I never thought I'd be the kind of guy to say something like this, but the words come out anyway, and I'm pretty sure I mean them. "I'll never let anything happen to you, El. I promise I'll take care of you."

She rises and launches herself into my arms, sobs bursting out of her like tidal waves hitting the shore. Maybe I can talk my parents into letting us fake the wedding?

Fuck. I'm so screwed. No one ever told me loyalty was hard. Or that it would require me to pick sides against someone I care about. I wasn't exactly raised to come to someone's rescue, and I have two people now who need saving. Goddamn Drew Riley for reminding me I have a heart. And fuck my parents for making said heart believe it's worthy of love. A love they may have been faking all along.

I may have nothing to gain in terms of my freedom from talking to my parents, but at least I might be able to put this miserable thought to rest—that they never gave a shit about me.

Once Elodie stops crying and lets go of me, I remember to order Drew's dinner. With that done, Elodie's show back on, and a full glass of wine in front of her, I go upstairs to call my mom.

Buying time seems to be my MO lately, and even if I do wind up needing to marry Elodie to keep her safe, maybe we can slow the timeline down to give us all a chance to work out where our off-ramps are.

I put a headband on to get my hair out of my face—my mother's always pushing it out of my eyes—before sitting down on my bed and putting through a FaceTime call.

She answers on my second try.

"Ollie! What a surprise!"

I smile for her and examine the screen. She's in her own apartments, which means my father isn't likely nearby. Good. "How are you?" I ask.

"I'm wonderful. So many compliments on the party. You and Elodie were lovely together. Chelsea also sent over some possible dates for the wedding that would work."

Chelsea Lafayette is Elodie's current stepmother.

"Did you pick one?" I ask.

"Not just yet. We're waiting to hear back from your father's office about his availability this summer, but when we do, we'll let you know!"

She says this like it's just how things like this are done. And I guess if the marriage is arranged, why shouldn't the wedding be, too?

"I was wondering if we might be able to look at some dates in the new year, actually."

My mother frowns, or at least attempts to. There's a slight narrowing of the space between her eyes. "Why in the world?"

"I just figure things are going well—El and I are having fun… Maybe it'll look better—more like we're not rushing—if we slow it down a little. Neither of us are going anywhere, you know?"

"Oh, I'm not convinced of that. No, I really think the sooner this is settled, the sooner we can all move on from your scandal."

"No one's even talking about it anymore, Mom."

She snorts. "Oh, no? Would you like me to tell you how many questions about your legal troubles I had to answer Saturday night?"

My jaw tightens, but I try to make my face look regretful. "Dad wasn't very happy with me at the party…is that why?"

"I can't really speak for your father," she says, dismissing the question.

"I just wonder which is it? Were Elodie and I actually lovely, or were you doing damage control the whole time?"

Her mouth draws into a thin line. "A bit of both." Her voice sends chills down my spine. So cold.

I swallow and take a breath in an attempt to settle my suddenly hammering heart. "You know I'm almost completely clean now, right? No more drugs. No more binge drinking."

"I should hope not."

"That's not very supportive, Mom. It's kind of a big deal. You know I've been taking drugs since I was fifteen."

She rolls her eyes. "Boys… At least you grow up eventually."

If we survive."So you did know."

She scoffs. "Of course."

"That didn't bother you?"

"Like I said, most young people grow out of it. There's nothing wrong with having a wild youth. Unless you let it get out of hand…" She says this meaningfully.

"So, I'm basically being punished for a problem you could have nipped in the bud when I was in high school if you'd bothered," I say.

She manages to look affronted. "Oh, believe me, young man, I did plenty to make sure your behavior didn't become a problem. You have no idea the amount of information I had to dig up on people to keep them quiet—or to keep you in school. The headmaster still shudders when he passes me on the street."

Despite my instant curiosity about what she's got on Headmaster Howard—which, if this had been a conversation we'd had a few months ago, I would have eagerly asked, and she'd have just as eagerly spilled—I have another, more important question. "Was that to protect me or the family?"

"One and the same."

"Is it? Letting a teenager get blitzed every night with his friends is protecting him?"

She lets out an impatient sigh. "What are you getting at, Olivier?"

"What if I'd OD'd?"

"We would have kept that quiet, too."

I gape. "I meant would you have given a shit?"

"Ollie!"

"I'm serious, Mom. You're saying some seriously questionable crap right now, and it's making me wonder what I mean to you?"

"Questionable? You're my son."

"Am I your son, or am I an Arnaud?"

She looks directly into the camera. "I can't say I was ever sure you wanted to be either."

"What?"

"You've only ever tried to destroy yourself, you know?"

"What about when I was a little kid? Was I trying to destroy myself then?"

She stands and starts to walk. "Did I ever tell you about the time we found you in your crib, not breathing?"

I rear back. "What? No."

"You were six weeks old. The night nurse found you, brought you back to life. Fortunately, I didn't have to see it. I had to be hospitalized after that for two weeks to get my nerves back under control."

"Who took care of me?"

"The nanny and the nurse."

"Did it ever happen again?"

"Not that I'm aware of. Your father asked them not to tell me if it did. I was too fragile. Postpartum, you know?"

This conversation is going to require at least a year of twice-a-week therapy to unpack. My throat is completely dry when I try to swallow. "Did you stop loving me after that?" I ask, my voice raspy and weak.

She stops walking and flicks her eyes from my image on her screen to her own. "I love you the best I can, Olivier. But if you think that love extends to letting you ruin my reputation or this family's reputation, that would be a mistake. No Arnaud is any more important than another, and the family itself is paramount. I agree with your father. You'll marry Elodie, keep yourself out of trouble, and inherit at thirty. If you defy us, I won't be coming to your rescue. You're a grown man now. You can fend for yourself, provided you keep breathing through the night."

I stare at her as bile climbs my throat. "Got it," I whisper.

"Oh, don't make me sound like I'm evil. You're getting a beautiful wife and a fortune—two fortunes, in fact. Any man should be so lucky."

At least she sounds defensive. Like maybe some part of her knows how bad this sounds—how inherently cruel. "You're right," I say, thinking of Drew and his mouth and the way it feels to have my arms around him, his around me, his fervent pleas for his love to be returned. "I'm very lucky. I'll let you go now, Mom. Good night."

I close the call and breathe through my nose as I hunch over my lap. I refuse to let her make me sick.