Oliver's flat greets us with expensive silence. The kind that costs more per square foot than my entire existence.
He pours whiskey into two glasses. Neither of us touches them. The amber liquid just sits there, judging our life choices alongside the minimalist furniture.
I can't stop hearing my mother's voice. This is exactly what your father did. The comparison lands fresh each time, tearing open wounds I thought had scarred over years ago.
Oliver stands by the window, processing his own earthquake. His father accepted him. Embraced him. Chose him despite everything.
The strangeness of being seen and not rejected—I watch it move across his features like weather patterns I'm learning to read.
But my pain is visible too. Written across my face in languages neither of us needs translation for.
He crosses the room without speaking. His hands find my face with devastating gentleness. Thumbs tracing my cheekbones like he's memorizing me.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs against my forehead. "I'm so sorry she hurt you."
The words crack something open. Something I've been holding together with stubborn determination since the kitchen.
I kiss him first.
Not because I want celebration. Not because the world feels right. Because I need to feel something other than my mother's careful distance. Something real and present and mine.
He responds immediately. His mouth opening against mine with the particular desperation of two people who survived something catastrophic together.
We stumble toward the bedroom, shedding clothes like evidence at a crime scene we're both guilty of creating. His shirt lands near the doorway. My jumper disappears somewhere around the hallway.
The bed receives us in a tangle of limbs and unspoken need. This isn't the conference room urgency or the hotel desperation. This is consolation sex.
The kind that says we're still here, we survived, the world didn't end even if it feels like it might.
His mouth travels down my neck with devastating patience. Finding the spots that make me gasp. Cataloguing my responses with the attention of someone determined to replace pain with pleasure.
"Let me take care of you," he whispers against my collarbone. "Just feel. Nothing else."
I surrender to his hands. His mouth. The weight of him pressing me into expensive sheets that probably cost more than my monthly rent.
He kisses down my stomach with agonizing slowness. My fingers twist in his hair as he settles between my thighs. The anticipation alone makes my breath catch.
When his tongue finds me, I arch off the bed with a sound that might be relief or desperation or both tangled together.
He works me with devastating precision. Reading every response like I'm a language he's spent years studying. Adjusting pressure and rhythm until I'm trembling, incoherent, completely lost to sensation.
His hands grip my hips, holding me steady while his mouth drives me toward something enormous. The pleasure builds in waves, each one higher than the last.
The orgasm builds like a wave I can't outrun. His fingers join his mouth, stroking places that make stars explode behind my eyelids. Two fingers curling inside me while his tongue circles relentlessly.
"Oliver—" His name emerges broken. Pleading. A prayer to someone who actually answers.
"I've got you." He increases the pressure. "Let go."
I shatter with his name trapped in my throat. The pleasure radiates outward in pulses that seem endless, rolling through my body until I'm gasping.
Before I've recovered, before my breathing steadies, he's there. Between my thighs. Pushing inside with controlled urgency that makes my spine arch.
The fullness borders on overwhelming. Every nerve ending fires simultaneously as he seats himself completely. Our bodies pressed together like we're trying to occupy the same space.
We move together without rushing. Finding rhythm in the aftermath of destruction. His forehead presses against mine. Our breath mingles in the small space between us.
"You're not alone," he breathes between thrusts. "Whatever happens. You're not alone anymore."
The words undo me more completely than his body does.
I wrap myself around him—legs, arms, everything I have left to give. We build toward something together. His pace increases, deeper now, hitting places that make coherent thought impossible.
When we finally break apart, it's simultaneous. His groan against my neck. My cry against his shoulder. Bodies shuddering in unison while the world narrows to just this.
We collapse together afterward. Breathing ragged. Hearts pounding in tandem. Sweat cooling on skin that still trembles.
I don't know how long we lie there. Time becomes irrelevant when you're wrapped around someone who chose you despite every reason not to.
"I didn't expect it to hurt this much." The admission emerges quiet. Vulnerable. My mother's face haunting me even here.
Oliver says nothing. Just tightens his arms around me. His lips brush my hair.
Sometimes that's enough.
* * *
Morning light filters through curtains I don't remember closing. I'm alone in the bed. The sheets beside me are cold.
The smell of coffee drifts from somewhere beyond the bedroom door. Movement in the kitchen. Oliver, awake before me, probably processing everything alone.
I find my clothes scattered across the floor like breadcrumbs marking last night's path. Pull on his shirt instead because it smells like him and I need that right now.
He stands at the counter when I emerge. Coffee brewing. Shoulders tense despite the domestic scene.
He didn't sleep well either. The circles under his eyes confirm it.
My phone buzzes on the counter where I apparently abandoned it last night. Gemma's name glows on the screen.
Call me. Urgent.
My stomach drops through the floor. Gemma doesn't do urgent. Gemma does dramatic and excessive and enthusiastically inappropriate, but never urgent.
I dial before my brain can compose adequate catastrophe scenarios.
"Lottie." Her voice is tight. Wrong. Nothing like the woman who cheerfully suggested I sleep with a stranger to fix my orgasm problems.
"What's happening?"
"Victoria Ashworth." The name lands like a grenade in a cathedral. "She's been talking. Not to Richard—you beat her to that apparently. To a journalist."
The kitchen feels smaller suddenly. Oliver's expression shifts as he reads the horror spreading across my face.
"What kind of journalist?" My voice sounds distant. Disconnected from my body entirely.
"Someone writing about London's elite and their secrets. Oliver's name came up. His past. Everything." Gemma's breath catches audibly. "The story runs in two weeks."
I end the call without saying goodbye. The phone nearly slips from my trembling fingers.
Oliver stands frozen by the coffee machine. The peace from last night—fragile, hard-won—drains from his face completely.
"Victoria," I manage. "She went to the press. About your past. All of it."
He looks practically terrified. The confident man who charmed his way through every situation reduced to something raw and exposed and human.
Helen's distance remains unresolved. And now this: public exposure. Permanent. Impossible to outrun with charm or careful performance.
We stand in his kitchen, coffee growing cold between us. The morning light feels cruel now. Illuminating a threat we can't hide from.
"What do we do?" I ask quietly.
Oliver reaches for my hand. His fingers intertwine with mine—steady despite the fear in his eyes.
"I don't know." The honest answer. "But we figure it out together."
Together. Bracing for the next storm.
It's not an ending. It's barely even a pause.
But his hand in mine feels like enough to start from.
To be continued…
This is just the beginning… Thank you for being here and diving into this story with me. I hope it left you wanting more—because trust me, the best parts are still ahead.