The Billionaire Uncle and His Virgin Bride

Olivia’s POV

It is one night of freedom. I watch my friends dance and laugh so loud in the middle of the room, their hands swaying in the skies and their smiles light. I want to be that way desperately, to act like my life is all put together.

But it is impossible.

My eyes glance at my phone again, waiting for a call. My mother doesn’t leave messages unless it is urgent and the one I got this morning screams exactly that.

It could be nothing, I try telling myself. But deep down, I know the Osvaldos don’t do nothing. For us, it is a hailstorm and then some light sprinkle of rain.

But something is fucking always happening.

Grabbing my half-filled glass, I slide out of the stool and move away from the crowd, my eyes on the art lining the wall. It is an arts party, organized by some really wealthy man who sends in impossible donations to the school.

His wealth blooms on the walls, covered with pieces made by popular artists, like Da Vinci. This has to be a bloody museum because a gasp escapes my lips each time I lean a little close, trying to catch the scribbled signature.

I take a little sip from the glass, the liquor burning instantly. It is better though, than thirty minutes ago when I had my first glass.

Covering every inch of the living area, I make my way up the stairs, my heels clacking on the marble floor. The walls here are devoid of anything, as if intentionally left so, telling a story of beautiful noise and of quiet.

When I reach the landing, the hallway opens up to me with art collections, mounted at strategic locations. Trying so hard to resist the urge to touch, I walk slowly down the path, feeding my eyes.

Although, I hate to admit it, this feels much better than being downstairs, partying the night away. It was my original plan, seeing as I never stepped a toe out of line since my freshman year.

But maybe I have gotten so used to the classroom lifestyle that it is the only thing that beckons to me.

In the middle of the hallway, my feet come to a halt when I take in the partially open doors. My heart does a little lurch when it knows I am about doing something I shouldn’t do.

“Let’s head back downstairs, Olivia,” I whisper to myself, but when I angle my head and take in the properly stacked shelf at one end of the room, I know that it will be hard to let go.

“Just one peek,” I murmur, pushing the door further open and sliding in. The room is dimly lit, the only light coming from the nightstand like someone forgot to turn it off. The warm glow is enough for me, as my feet shuffle towards the books.

All first collections.

My fingers reach for their spines as I go from row to row, my eyes getting even wider as I move. Jane Austen’s first collection. To Kill a Mockingbird. Pride and Prejudice. Crime and Punishment. Ulysses. The Great Gatsby.

These had to have cost a fortune.

I reach the end of the top row and grab a book. Jane Eyre.

A door cracks open in a corner, but it sounds so far away that I don’t move. Until a second later when I hear footsteps right behind me.

A gasp escapes my lips as the book tumbles from my hands. I press back against the shelf, scanning the features of the person who has just walked into the room, in nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist, damp hair sticking to his forehead.

“Jane Eyre,” he murmurs, his eyes falling to the book between us. When he looks up back at me, he has this expression nestled in his eyes. “I would have shelved you as a Pride and Prejudice girl.”

My tongue suddenly refuses to work, no matter how hard I bring it to. It stays glued to the top of my mouth. The only thing that works are my eyes and I use them. The man standing in front of me exudes an aura that tells me to run out through the doors right this instant.

But my feet stay rooted to the ground, just as his brown eyes seem to drink me in. My skin heats up where his gaze meets and the temperature in the room suddenly goes up a notch.

The air breaks when he steps forward slowly, picking the book off the floor. He doesn’t say a word as he crosses the space back to the shelf. But he doesn’t slide the book back in. Instead, he leaves it on a stool by the side.

“I am…” I stammer, my tongue finally coming back to life. “I am so sorry, Sir. I shouldn’t have come in here. I had no … I thought…”

“That I wasn’t in?”

I find it easier to breathe when he leaves my side, stepping through a set of doors at the other end of the room. A closet.

Still, I don’t move.

“I was told…”

“A bunch of new adults in my building isn’t exactly the sort of thing that gets me excited,” he murmurs, coming back out. His towel is gone, and in its place is a pair of slacks hanging low on his hips.

His chest is still bare and I swallow when I take in the well-sculpted abs. I should look away. Oh God. I should.

He comes close again.

Say something Olivia.

“Yeah,” I breathe. “I ….”

Wait a minute. Did he just say his building? That means, he has to be….

“Mr. Hill,” I whisper. “Oh my God! Shit! Uhm…I shouldn’t be in here. I just assumed…. The door was left open and I…”

Fuck.

“The door left open wasn’t an invitation to come in.” His rich baritone covers every inch of the room and I try to resist the urge to close my eyes. I wonder if he is always this way. If his presence has this attention of anyone.

There is a knock on the door. “Mr. Hill,” someone sings. “I need to go over some of my interests in your artwork downstairs. Are you in?”

I am about to say something when suddenly, he moves, covering my mouth with his hands. My eyes fly wide open as he shakes his head slowly.

“Don’t,” he whispers.

“I’m coming in,” the familiar voice murmurs.

Just as the handle to the door twists, Mr. Hill wraps a hand around my wrist and pulls me with him through a door.