CHAPTER 4 - SIGNS

OLIVIA

Olivia woke up to the smell of lavender and dust.

For a terrifying second, she didn't know where she was. The ceiling sat too high, and her whole surroundings looked foreign.

Did she sleepwalk again?

Then, the memory hit her.

Five million dollars. The contract. 

She sat up on the bed clutching the duvet to her chest, her head still throbbing from the migraine that had assaulted her last night.

She swung her legs out of bed and met the cold marble floor that shone like a mirror. It felt alien under her feet yet oddly comfortable, like something her body was used to.

She grabbed her purse from the nightstand and dug through it, searching for the orange plastic bottle that held her medications.

“No way,” She muttered as she pulled it out and shook the bottle upside down. She took the last two the previous night and hadn't even realized it.

She needed those pills. 

She pulled out her phone and sat back on the edge of her bed. Then scrolled through her contact list and dialed, listening to it ring four times before it connected.

"Olivia?" A gravelly voice came through the line. "It's really early."

"I know," she whispered, cupping the phone so her voice wouldn't carry into the hallway. "But I’m out and I need a refill. Could you transfer it for me?"

“You're not in Chicago?" he said in a way that didn't really sound like he was asking.

“No,” Olivia replied, already bracing for his reaction. “I’m in California.”

"You're in California?" His voice rose over the phone and Olivia winced. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't have a choice. It’s for a job."

"And you couldn't think to get a refill before you left,” he replied, and there was a small silence on the line before he continued. “Does anyone else know where you are?"

Olivia hesitated and thought about lying for a second. 

She hadn't told anyone, not even Jade, her best friend; even though Jade lent her the money she used to pay for her flight. She hadn't even texted her goodbye; everything just happened so fast.

"No," she said. " I didn't want to jinx it. Could you maybe transfer my stuff here?"

“Transfer it?” the voice on the other line rose slightly. 

“I know, I know, I just,” Olivia let out a shallow breath. “I just thought maybe you could do something.”

A deep sigh came over the phone. "Very well. Can you drive?"

She looked into her purse with only thirty bucks in it. "I'll figure it out.”

"Good,” his voice dropped, "And for your—"

"I know," Olivia cut in sharply. "I'll call her– thank you."

She hung up before he could press further, her thumb hovering over another name before she sighed and slid the phone back into her pocket.

She sat for a moment, turning the empty bottle over in her hands. Then she got up and dressed in clothes that had arrived at her doorstep somewhere during the night—a cream blouse and tailored, brown trousers—before stepping out of her room.

The whole mansion felt asleep. She walked down the corridor, trailing her hand along the silk wallpaper on the wall. Everything around her felt expensive and screamed of old money and history.

She reached the top of the grand staircase. To her right, the stairs spiraled down to the foyer, and to her left sat the West Wing.

She looked down the dark hallway of the West Wing and felt a magnetic tug pulling her toward the door at the end of the hall. The shadows seemed to stretch out, beckoning her to step into it.

“I wonder what color the walls are,” she thought. “I bet they’re yellow.”

She descended the stairs, gripping the banister tightly, and wandered past the closed dining room doors into a smaller parlor. It looked like a music room, with a dust sheet covering what looked like a grand piano in the corner.

She walked over to the fireplace, and lying face-down on the mantle sat a silver picture frame. It was the only thing out of place in the room.

Maybe she shouldn't have touched it considering she was just an employee here. But she touched it anyway. Her hand moved before her brain could stop it, and she picked up the frame and turned it over.

Her breath caught in her throat.

It was a wedding photo of Abel. He looked younger and less haunted, smiling a smile she hadn't seen yet. But that wasn't what made her heart stop. Because hanging on his arm and laughing at the camera... was her.

She gasped and dropped the frame like it had suddenly caught flames, stumbling back a step.  Her hands flew to her face, pinching her cheeks hard until pain lanced deep into her skin.

She remembered Abel said she looked like his wife; but this?

"This has to be some kind of sick joke," she said under her breath. 

She picked the frame up again and brought it closer.

"How?" she whispered to herself.

Even to her the resemblance stood too glaring to be a coincidence.The eyes. The nose. The curve of the chin. It was no wonder everyone looked at her the way they did.

Olivia shook her head hard; she didn't know where the thought was driving her.

Besides, there was a life in this woman's eyes that didn't match hers, an air of confidence that almost intimidated her; like she looked so happy and alive.

Olivia looked at her own reflection in the glass of the frame and the same face stared back, but pale, tired, and stripped of any joy.

"What if…" she started, then cut herself off with a chuckle.

“This is insanity,” she thought.

"I am Olivia Delaney," she said aloud again, pinching her arm. "I grew up in Chicago. My favorite color is blue. And I'm allergic to strawberries. Olivia Delaney. Olivia Delaney."

She set the picture back down, face up this time, and backed away. She needed coffee. She needed to get out of this room before she lost her mind.

Then she heard voices coming through the dining room. "...found a wife in a catalogue," a woman’s voice said, sounding cold and cruel.

Then a man’s voice sneered. "Sounds desperate if you ask me."

And then Abel spoke. "She's not a prop. She’s my fiancée."

Olivia felt her heart flutter for a second. For someone who was crystal clear on 'no emotional entanglement,' he sounded very defensive about her. Protective even.

She straightened her blouse and smoothed her hair.

“Showtime, Olivia,” she said to herself. 

She walked toward the dining room doors and took a deep breath, pushing the fear and the confusion into a little box in the back of her mind.

She was Olivia Delaney. And for five million dollars she could handle a few ghosts and a grumpy billionaire.

She put her hand on the handle and pushed the door open.

"I'm sorry," she said, stepping into the room. "I didn't know you had company…”