ASYLUMS AND MADHOUSES (II)

“And the accounts?” 

“All frozen.” 

“But the house and furniture are still yours?” 

“We sold some furniture.” 

“What?” 

“For food… and to cover basic bills.” 

“And basic bills don’t include new dresses for Rose, right?” 

“Of course not! Poor Rose… she’s been crying for days!” 

“Is she missing me?” 

“No, she’s missing the furniture we sold,” he said, chuckling. “And the dresses she can’t buy.” 

We burst out laughing, but it hit me that I couldn’t get money from Dad to cover tuition. I’d have to turn to my husband. Gabe married me—he’d have to take care of me: college, food, staff, and… well, intimacy! 

We were new to this marriage thing. I’d have to spell out how it worked. 

GABE’S POV

“There’s really nothing in the media about my wedding,” I said, scanning the screen in front of me. “You were incredible, Ingrid, as always.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Clifford. Honestly, it wasn’t that hard. Easier than scrubbing some of your brother’s stories, actually.” 

Maybe Olívia Stick-Figure was right—the press cared way more about that bastard Jorel than me. And that had its perks. As much as I thought Jorel was a reckless idiot who deserved to crash and burn, I sometimes had to step in and bury certain stories to keep his name—and by extension, mine—from getting dragged through the mud. 

“And you found out where he is, exactly?” 

“New York, with some girl.” 

“That son of a bitch!” I felt such rage that if he were in front of me, I could’ve killed him with my bare hands. 

“He’s at the Four Seasons, sir… one of the best hotels in New York.” 

I rocked back in my chair, a brilliant idea forming. Jorel would pay for screwing with me. 

“I want to buy the Four Seasons, Ingrid.” 

“It’s… probably not for sale, Mr. Clifford.” 

“I’m prepared to make an offer they can’t refuse.” 

“I don’t think Bill Gates is looking to sell the Four Seasons, sir.” 

“Bill Gates? When did he buy the Four Seasons?” 

“He’s been a majority shareholder since 2007, along with Saudi Prince Alwaleed Bin Talal Alsaud.” 

“Damn, it’s been a while since I traveled! Or checked the hotel industry’s stocks. Get my lawyers to contact the owners. I’m willing to buy any shares available. I’m going to screw Jorel.” I couldn’t hold back a grin, picturing his face when he got kicked out of the Four Seasons. 

“Do you want Jorel to return to North Noriah, Mr. Clifford?” 

“I—” 

Before I could finish, the door swung open, and Olívia materialized in my office. 

“Hey, husband!” She flashed that smile that made me wonder what happiness even was—something her father had stolen from me long ago. 

She wore loose black pants, sturdy fabric, and a plain white shirt. A red-and-navy bow near the collar added a touch of understated color, matching her shoes. Her hair was down, as usual. 

Why the hell was she dressed *normally*? Were the garish colors just to mess with me? 

“What are you doing here?” I stood, barely containing my fury. 

The only person I hated more than Jorel right now was his biggest fan—the one I’d been forced to marry. 

Without hesitation, she walked up, stood on her tiptoes, and kissed my cheek. I wiped it off immediately, feeling my face flush as I noticed Ingrid watching, probably as stunned as I was. Olívia plopped into the chair across from me, legs crossed, pulling a small notebook from her black bag. 

“We need to talk business, love.” 

*Love*? Did she just say *love*? No, I misheard. I needed to get Ingrid to book me an ENT appointment ASAP. My hearing was shot. 

“Mr. Clifford, if you need me, just call,” Ingrid said. 

No, Ingrid, don’t go! Don’t leave me alone with this unhinged woman who calls herself my wife! She’s got a short circuit in her brain and can’t grasp that we’re not a couple… and never will be. 

I sat, still trying to process why Olívia was here, unannounced. She’d waltzed in without warning. How did she get into the building? Who let her up to the top floor? I’d fire everyone she spoke to on her way up. 

“You shouldn’t have left me alone last night, Gabe.” 

“I don’t owe you an explanation.” 

“Yes, you do. We’re married.” 

“It’s just on paper. What part don’t you get?” 

“I didn’t read the new agreement. The one I signed had Jorel Clifford’s name, not yours. Maybe that’s why I’m struggling to understand.” 

“Not a problem.” I grabbed the phone. “Ingrid, have one of the lawyers bring the prenup for Olívia to sign.” 

I set the phone down, and she stared at me. 

“You made vows to love and honor me… till death do us part.” 

“I didn’t make any damn vows!” I shouted. “You did.” 

She sighed. 

“You need to take care of me, Gabe.” 

“No, I don’t.” 

“My health’s fragile.” 

“You’ve just got diabetes.” 

“It’s not *just* diabetes. I’m okay because I take care of myself. And… you’re messing with my health. In one day. If this keeps up, I’ll be dead by the end of the year. I’m too young to leave this world… especially with so much to do with your money.” 

“Are you insane, Olívia? Should I call a psychiatrist to get a report so I can have you locked up in an asylum?” 

“Since 2001, asylums and madhouses have been gradually shut down in this country. Though, some places still operate underground, locking up people with mental illnesses. You need to brush up on your history, Gabe. I’m surprised you don’t know this, being the head of the world’s biggest pharmaceutical company. You must’ve lost some good clients when that law passed. Or maybe not—you probably weren’t CEO back then. Or were you born behind that desk, with all this bossy swagger?” 

Where did she pull these quick-witted responses from? 

“I’m not taking care of you because of your illness, Olívia. You’re not spending a single norian of my money. And don’t expect anything from me, because you’re not getting the husband you want.” 

A knock came at the door. Ingrid walked in with one of my lawyers. I told him to show and explain the contract to Olívia, who read every clause with keen interest. The deal was clear: she gained nothing financially. She just stayed married, and in return, I wouldn’t take her father’s house or its contents. 

“I want the contract to include a cash allowance for my family,” she said, looking at me with a serious expression, chin raised. 

I leaned back in my chair, unsure if this was the same woman I’d had thoroughly investigated before offering her to Jorel. 

If my brother had married Olívia Stick-Figure, he’d have risen from the ashes like a phoenix. She was insufferable, but one thing I couldn’t deny: she was fearless and knew exactly what she was doing. Her sole mission? Drive me insane—and probably land *me* in one of those clandestine asylums, since the official ones didn’t exist anymore, according to her.