Chapter 149

Chapter 149
Olive's POV
I stood there staring at the closed door, shaking from head to toe.
Gordon used to care about me. He used to be careful with me — never raised his voice, never said anything cruel. That version of him felt like a different lifetime now.
All because of Nydia.
But Nydia was dead. And with time, I was certain the grief would fade. It always did. I just needed to stay close — stay present — and eventually he'd remember that I was the one who'd been here all along. The one who actually loved him. He'd come back to me, the way he always had.
I kept telling myself that until the tightness in my chest started to loosen.
If Gordon didn't want to deal with the wedding, fine. I'd handle every last detail myself. He hadn't said no, and he'd thrown down enough credit cards to fund something truly spectacular. As far as I was concerned, that was all the permission I needed.
And I knew exactly what people were saying. That I'd trapped him. That I'd manipulated my way into a proposal using every dirty trick available to me.
Please.
They were jealous. That's all it ever was — jealousy dressed up as judgment. Gordon was successful, brilliant, and they couldn't stand that I was the one standing next to him. Sour grapes, every last word of it.
So I'd give them a wedding they couldn't look away from. Something so flawless, so jaw-dropping, that no one in that room would be able to pretend they weren't impressed. I'd walk down that aisle and every single eye would be on me, and they would all know — without question — who had won.
Because this was a competition. Between me and Nydia, from the very beginning. It had been long, and brutal, and I had fought harder than anyone knew.
She was gone. I was still here.
I wasn't going to let this end quietly. I was going to make it unforgettable.
I threw myself into the planning with a focus I hadn't felt in years. Venue calls, florist consultations, catering walkthroughs — I filled every hour with something productive, something that was mine. It was almost easy to lose myself in it.
---
A few days in, Gordon's grandmother showed up unannounced.
Gordon was upstairs, same as always — curtains drawn, surrounded by empty bottles, barely functional. I'd looked in on him that morning and decided it wasn't worth the effort. At least when he was drunk, he stayed put. As long as he was physically present when the time came, the wedding would be everything I needed it to be.
I closed his door and headed back downstairs — and stopped.
His grandmother, Margaret, was still in the entryway. Watching me.
"I need to have a word with you," she said. Her expression hadn't moved a muscle.
I didn't bother performing warmth for her. She'd never liked me, and we both knew it.
"Go ahead," I said, dropping onto the couch and propping my chin in my hand.
"I don't approve of this marriage."
"Gordon does." I smiled. "That's what matters."
"I know exactly what you're after." Her voice was flat and precise. "You don't love him. You love what comes with him — the money, the name, the lifestyle. Nydia was nothing like you. She actually cared about him."
I didn't deny it. I just nodded.
"You're right," I said pleasantly. "Nydia loved him. But Gordon made his own choices — he strayed, he got involved with me, he hurt her all on his own. She stopped loving him because of him. And now she's dead." I tilted my head. "So here we are. He doesn't get the love story he wanted. He gets me. That's just how it played out."
I'd expected her to lose her composure. To go pale, or raise her voice, or at least let something crack.
Instead, she smiled. Slow and deliberate.
"Then there's something I need to inform you of," she said.
"If it's that you won't be coming to the wedding, save it. I genuinely couldn't care less."
She inclined her head slightly. "I've had Gordon removed from the family."
The words didn't land for a moment.
I stood up slowly. "What?"
"Effective immediately, he is no longer a recognized member of this family. He's been removed from all positions within the company. No distributions. No dividends. No benefits of any kind." She said it the way someone reads from a legal document — calm, final, absolute. "He is entirely on his own."
"You can't do that." My voice came out strange — too high. "He's family — you can't just cut him out —"
"I already have," she said. "He was given a choice. He made it. Choices have consequences."
"That's not fair —"
"You fought so hard to become his fiancée." She looked at me the way you look at something unpleasant you've stepped in. "How do you like what you've won?"
I lunged at her.
I don't remember deciding to move. One moment I was standing there, the next I was crossing the room with my hands outstretched, rage burning through every rational thought I had left.
Her bodyguards stepped in before I reached her. Two of them, calm and completely unmoved. They caught me and put me on the floor without any particular effort.
Margaret looked down at me from where she stood. No anger. No satisfaction, even. Just contempt — the quiet, settled kind that doesn't need to announce itself.
"Know your place," she said softly.
Then she left. Her security flanked her on either side, and she walked out with her head high, and the front door closed behind her without so much as a slam.
I lay on the floor and screamed at the ceiling.
I had done everything. Every calculated move, every line I'd crossed, every sacrifice I'd made — all of it had been for the money, the name, the life I was supposed to have. And now some vindictive old woman had decided to strip it all away out of pure spite.
The rage had nowhere to go.
I thought of Gordon upstairs — drunk, hollow, completely useless — and something inside me snapped.
I took the stairs at a run. The bedroom door didn't survive my kick.
Gordon looked up at me from wherever he'd been, those empty eyes finding my face with no particular interest. The blankness of his expression made everything worse.
I screamed and threw myself at him, and the fight erupted.
---
## Nydia's POV
A knock at the bedroom door.
"Ms. Nydia?" The voice was carefully neutral. "Mr. Carter would like you to join him for dinner."
"No."
Silence. The footsteps retreated.
I went back to what I'd been doing — working at the electronic ankle monitor with slow, methodical patience. It wasn't designed to be removed. I was working on it anyway.
A few minutes passed. Then I heard footsteps again — and I recognized the rhythm before I could see him. Unhurried, deliberate, carrying that particular weight of someone who has never once worried about being where he wasn't supposed to be.
Tanner.
I shoved the monitor back into position, threw myself flat on the mattress, and pulled the blanket over me just before the lock clicked.
The door opened. Footsteps crossed the room and stopped at the side of the bed.
He didn't say anything. He just grabbed the blanket and ripped it away.
I glared up at him.
He raised an eyebrow. "Dinner."
"I'm not hungry."
"I didn't ask if you were hungry."
"I said no." I held his gaze without flinching. "Every time I have to look at your face, I lose my appetite. It's become a real problem."
Something shifted behind his eyes. "You can eat on your own," he said, "or I can make it much more interesting. Your call."
"You're revolting."
He glanced toward the door. "Bring her plate in here. Ms. Nydia seems to prefer the personal touch."
I grabbed the pillow and threw it at him.
He tilted his head maybe two inches. It hit the wall behind him.
Then his hand cracked across my face — sharp, fast, no warning at all. Blood flooded my mouth immediately, metallic and hot.
Before I could react, he grabbed me by the hair and dragged me off the bed.
I fought him. I grabbed at the furniture, twisted, dug my heels into the floor. It made no difference. He was stronger than he looked, and completely indifferent to every bit of resistance I could manage. I ended up in the dining room the same way I always did — manhandled and seething.
He shoved me into a chair and leaned down, patting my cheek in a way that made my stomach turn. "Don't push me, Ms. Nydia. You're the only one who suffers for it."
I pressed my lips together and said nothing.
He straightened, smoothed his jacket, and moved to his own seat like nothing had happened. He picked up the remote and turned on the television.
"I have something to show you," he said, almost conversationally. "Some news I think you'll find very interesting."
I looked at the screen despite myself.
It had been five, maybe six days since the night on the yacht — since he'd dragged me off the deck while gunfire was still tearing through the air around us. I didn't know exactly where I was. Somewhere on his property, behind walls I'd never been allowed past. The bedroom had become my entire world.
And every single day, the same thought sat in the center of my chest like something I couldn't breathe around.
Vincent. Did Lima find him? Is he still alive?
I stared at the television. And I waited.