[Lottie’s POV]
Saturday morning arrives with aggressive sunshine and a phone that won't stop vibrating on my nightstand like it's auditioning for a role in a horror film.
Oliver's name glows on the screen. My stomach performs an Olympic-level gymnastics routine before I've even answered.
"Can I come over?"
Four words. No preamble. No charming deflection. Just direct communication from a man who's apparently been body-snatched by someone capable of emotional clarity.
"Yes."
I hang up before either of us can complicate it with additional syllables.
The thirty minutes between his call and his arrival feel approximately seven thousand years long. I change outfits twice. Consider a third change. Abandon vanity entirely when I realize I'm spiraling.
Settle on jeans and a jumper that suggests casual confidence I absolutely do not feel. My reflection looks like someone preparing for a job interview at an execution facility. Cheerful thought.
The knock comes at exactly the time I calculated based on tube schedules and walking distance. Punctual. Another sign of the personality transplant he's apparently undergone.
He looks different when I open the door. Tired in a bone-deep way that suggests sleep has been as elusive for him as it has for me. Dark circles beneath those green eyes. Stubble that's crossed from fashionable into concerning territory.
But there's something else too. Determination. Resolution. The expression of someone who's made a decision they can't unmake.
"You look terrible," I say, stepping aside to let him in.
"Charming as ever." But he's not deflecting. His green eyes hold mine with unusual intensity. "I've been thinking."
"Dangerous activity. Should probably consult a professional first."
He doesn't laugh. Doesn't even smile. Whatever's happening inside his head is too serious for our usual banter.
We settle on my couch. The same couch where his watch sat while Mum examined it with maternal curiosity. The same couch that's witnessed too many conversations neither of us was ready for.
"I want to tell Richard the truth." He says it simply. Directly. "About my past. Today. Before Victoria can weaponize it against us."
My heart stutters. I knew this was coming eventually. Hoped for it. Demanded it in my ultimatum speech three days ago. But today feels very sudden and very real.
"Okay." I nod slowly, processing the information. "I understand. I support that."
Something shifts in his expression. He takes a breath like he's preparing to jump off a cliff without checking for water below.
"I want to tell them about us too. Both things. At once."
My stomach doesn't just drop. It plummets through the floor, through the building's foundation, through several geological layers, probably arriving somewhere near the earth's molten core.
"You're serious."
"I'm tired of compartmentalizing." His voice carries exhaustion and resolve in equal measure. "One secret protects the other. They're tangled together completely. I want to be done with all of it."
The words hang between us like something fragile and explosive simultaneously.
"Oliver." I stand because sitting feels impossible suddenly. "This isn't just your secret to tell. This affects me too. My mother. My relationship with her. My entire family dynamic that we've been pretending isn't completely dysfunctional already."
He blinks. Something in his expression shifts as my words land with visible impact.
"You don't get to make this decision unilaterally." My voice rises despite my efforts at control. "You don't get to walk in here with your determined face and announce we're doing this today without even asking what I think about it."
Oliver's jaw tightens. For a moment, I expect the defensive charm. The practiced deflection he deploys when cornered.
Instead, he deflates entirely.
"You're right." The admission comes quietly. Genuinely. "I didn't think of it that way. I've been so focused on my own confession that I forgot you have stakes too."
The honesty disarms me more effectively than charm ever could.
"I need time to think." The words emerge steadier than I feel. "Can you give me that?"
"Of course."
He settles back into my couch while I pace. The same pattern I've worn into my floors during countless crises before. My brain catalogues considerations faster than I can properly process them.
Helen. My mother, who spent fifteen years recovering from my father's secrets. Who finally found happiness with Richard after catastrophic failures. Who looks at her new husband like he's the answer to prayers she stopped believing in.
What would this do to her? The revelation that her daughter has been sleeping with her stepson. That the careful family we've been building contains complications she never imagined possible.
I pace toward the window. Turn. Pace back toward the kitchen.
The hiding. God, the exhaustion of it. Closets and conference rooms and elaborate excuses for mysterious absences. The constant performance of appropriate step-sibling distance while my body remembers exactly how his hands feel against my skin.
I think about Oliver facing Richard alone. Confessing his past while I hide safely in my flat, removed from consequences I helped create. The cowardice of that scenario makes my stomach turn violently.
He's watching me from the couch. Patient. Waiting. Not pushing or charming or doing any of the things that made him professionally successful at reading women for money.
Just sitting there, terrified and vulnerable, while I decide both our fates.
Finally, I stop pacing.
"If we do this, we do it together."
His head lifts sharply. Hope flickers behind exhaustion.
"Both confessions. Both of us present." My voice sounds steadier than I feel. "You don't get to be the only one who's brave today."
Oliver stands slowly. Crosses the distance between us with careful steps. His hands find mine, warm and slightly trembling against my cold fingers.
"Are you sure?"
"No." The honest answer emerges without hesitation. "I'm not sure about anything except that I can't let you do this alone. And I can't keep hiding while pretending I'm not falling completely apart every time we're in the same room."
Something cracks behind his careful composure. Relief, maybe. Or gratitude. Or just the simple recognition of someone choosing him despite every logical reason not to.
"Lottie—"
"Don't." I squeeze his hands firmly. "Don't thank me. Don't apologize. Don't do anything except drive us to your father's house before I completely lose my nerve."
His car waits outside. Expensive. Silent. The kind of vehicle that suggests success without requiring explanation or justification.
We drive in charged silence. My hand finds his on the gearshift somewhere around Hammersmith. He doesn't let go. Neither do I.
The London streets blur past like witnesses to our impending catastrophe. Every red traffic light feels like the universe offering escape routes we're deliberately choosing to ignore.
Richard and Mum's house appears too quickly. Brick and ivy and the picture of domestic respectability we're about to detonate completely.
Oliver parks. Neither of us moves immediately.
"Ready?" he asks quietly.
"Absolutely not."
But I open my door anyway.
Because some terrifying things are worth doing. Some truths are worth the destruction they might cause.
And some people are worth fighting for, even when the fight means losing everything else.
We walk toward the front door together, my hand gripping his on the gearshift until the last possible moment.
Whatever happens next, at least we're not hiding anymore.