CHAPTER 185: CHAPTER 185

Olivia’s POV

I stood in horrified shock as I watched Maxwell kneeling on the floor, picking up broken glass and tossing the pieces into a bowl.

But that wasn’t what made me freeze. It was the fact that the floor was stained with blood, and more blood was dripping from his hands as he violently grabbed more shards, his fingers closing around the jagged edges without any care for the damage he was causing.

It was like he wasn’t even aware that he was piercing his own skin, cutting deeper with each piece he picked up.

"Fuck you," he muttered, his words slurred and thick. "Fucking... piece of shit glass. Breaking... everything breaks..."

He still hadn’t looked up. Hadn’t noticed me standing there in the doorway.

I ran toward him immediately, tiptoeing around the glass with my still bare feet, careful to avoid being pierced.

"Stop!" I dropped to my knees beside him, grabbing his wrists before he could reach for another shard. "Stop, you’re hurting yourself!"

He stilled when my hands touched his, then slowly - so slowly - he looked up at me.

His green eyes were bloodshot and unfocused, his pupils dilated. His normally perfect hair was disheveled, falling across his forehead. His expression was completely blank, like he was looking at me but not really seeing me.

Then he opened his mouth to speak, and the overwhelming smell of liquor hit me. He was completely drunk.

"Olivia."

I froze. "What?" Suddenly transported back to the incident on the plane.

"Olivia," he said again, his voice rough and breaking on the syllables. He leaned toward me, swaying slightly. "You... you came back. Finally. Why’d you... why’d you take so long?"

My heart stopped.

He wasn’t talking to me. He was talking to her. His mysterious first love. The woman he’d been searching for. The one he claimed he’d destroy when he found her.

"I’m not..." I started, but he cut me off.

"So beautiful," he slurred, his bloody hand reaching up to touch my face. I caught his wrist before he could, trying to keep the blood away from my skin. "Always so... so beautiful. Even now. Even after..."

"Maxwell, I’m not Olivia," I said firmly, though my voice shook. "You need to leave the glass alone. You’re hurting yourself. Let me help you."

But he wasn’t listening. His unfocused eyes roamed over my face like he was memorizing it, like he was seeing someone else entirely.

"You came into my life..." His words were barely coherent, "like this... this beacon of hope. This light. And I thought... finally. Finally someone who..."

He swayed forward, and I had to brace myself to keep him from toppling over completely.

"But you destroyed it," he continued, his voice breaking. "Destroyed everything. That light. Just... gone. You disappeared. You fucking disappeared and left me in the dark again."

The pain in his voice was so raw, so visceral, that it made my chest ache.

"Maxwell, please," I tried again, more gently this time. "I’m not Olivia. I’m Oliver. Your assistant. And you need to stop telling me these personal things, okay? You’re going to regret this tomorrow."

"Why?" He grabbed my shoulders suddenly, his bloody hands leaving bloodstains on my hoodie. His face was inches from mine, his breath reeking of alcohol. "Why did you leave? No warning. No goodbye. Just... gone. Do you know how long it took me? How long I searched?"

My breath caught.

Wait. He found her already?

"You found her?" I whispered without thinking.

"Found you," he corrected, his grip tightening on my shoulders. "Finally found you. And you... you won’t leave again. Can’t let you leave again."

This was bad. This was very bad. Whatever had happened with this Olivia woman, whatever she’d done to him, it had damaged him deeply. And in his drunken state, he thought I was her.

I needed to get him cleaned up and into bed before he said anything else he’d regret.

"That’s enough talking," I said firmly, trying to inject authority into my voice even though my hands were shaking. "It’s time to get you to the bathroom. We need to wash your hands and dress those wounds."

I tried to pull him up, and to my relief, he stood - though he immediately leaned his full weight against me, nearly knocking us both over.

"Easy," I gasped, wrapping my arm around his waist to steady him. "I’ve got you."

Blood dripped from his hands as we walked, leaving a trail across the floor. His steps were unsteady, and I had to guide each one, my body almost giving up under his weight.

Somehow, we made it to his bathroom - a very huge space with expensive decor, and a shower that could fit many people at once.

The shower. Maybe cold water would help clear his head.

I helped him toward the glass-enclosed shower, reaching in to turn on the water. But as I was trying to position him under the spray, he stumbled, and I had to catch him, which meant stepping into the shower myself.

Cold water hit us both, soaking through my hoodie and Oliver’s baggy pants in seconds.

"Shit," I muttered, but I couldn’t worry about that now. I was too busy trying to keep Maxwell upright as he swayed dangerously.

He tilted his face up into the spray, water running through his hair and down his face. For a moment, I thought it might actually be working - that the cold shock might sober him up a little.

But then he looked at me with those unfocused eyes and smiled.

"Olivia," he said again, like it was the only word he knew. "Always so... so caring. Even when you’re angry at me."

"I’m not angry," I said naturally, then caught myself. "I mean, I’m not Olivia."

"Always lying," he continued, as if I hadn’t spoken. He reached out with one wet, bloody hand to touch my face again, and this time I let him because I was too busy keeping him from falling. "But your eyes... your eyes can’t lie. I see you. See everything."

My heart was racing now, because his hand was on my cheek, his thumb brushing my lips, and the way he was looking at me was so intense, that I started getting turned on.

The water kept running, soaking us both. My wig was getting wet, my hoodie was plastered to my body, and I realized that the longer we stood here, the more my disguise would start to slip.

I needed to get him out of here. Now.

"Okay, that’s enough," I said, turning off the water and guiding him back out of the shower. "You’re still not stable. Let’s get you to the sink."

He came willingly, though he was still leaning heavily on me, his arm draped across my shoulders like we were old friends stumbling home from a bar.

I positioned him in front of the sink and gently brought his injured hands under the running water, washing away all the blood.

As I washed his hands, I wondered what could possibly have caused him to drink this much and loose himself to alcohol completely. Was it because of his Olivia?

Damn. If I were her, I would watch my back, front, left, right, and center.

I found the first aid kit in his cabinet without much searching - it was well-stocked. Thank God.

As I began cleaning his wounds with antiseptic, he hissed but didn’t pull away.

"You’re good at this," he observed, watching my hands with that same intense focus. "Always good with your hands. Remember? Remember when you..."

"I don’t remember," I interrupted quickly, before he could say something too personal. "Because I’m not her. I’m Oliver."

"Oliver," he repeated, then laughed. "Oliver. Funny name for someone so... so soft."

My hands stilled on his. "What?"

"Your hands," he said, lifting one of mine with his uninjured fingers. "Too soft. Too small. Not Oliver’s hands. Olivia’s hands."

My pulse jumped. Even drunk, he was noticing things he shouldn’t.

"Lots of men have soft hands," I said, trying to keep my voice steady as I went back to bandaging. "Especially assistants who work in offices."

"Mmm." He didn’t sound convinced. "And your face. So pretty. Too pretty for a man."

"That’s... that’s offensive," I managed, wrapping the gauze around his palm with shaking fingers. "Men can be pretty."

"Not like this." His good hand came up to my face again, cupping my jaw. "Not like... like art. Like something precious that’ll break if you hold it too tight."

The way he was looking at me was making it hard to breathe. Making it hard to remember that he was drunk, that he thought I was someone else, that this wasn’t real. That I wasn’t completely soaked down there.

Which was now becoming a normal occurrence since I came into this house.

"There," I said, finishing the last bandage quickly. "All done. Now you should..."

"You’re wet."

I blinked. "What?"

"Wet," he repeated, his hand sliding from my jaw to my shoulder, then down my arm. "Your clothes. All wet. From the shower."

"It’s fine," I said quickly, stepping back from his electrifying touch. "It’s nothing. I’ll change."

But he was shaking his head, swaying slightly on his feet. "No, no, no. You’re wet. Can’t be wet."

"I’m not..."

"Here."

He pulled me close with one hand, his other hand sliding down my waist, then lower, until it settled in between my thighs and gripped my pussy softly.

"You’re wet here."