I WILL MARRY (II)

“No…” Dad tried to protest, but the look in his eyes told me he was reluctantly accepting my reasoning.

I grabbed the phone from his pocket. “Call Jorel. I’m getting married.”

Rose hugged me. It was the first hug she’d ever given me since I met her at ten years old. Was it sincere? Of course not. But a grateful hug was better than living under a bridge with nowhere to store her designer handbags.

Was this crazy? Absolutely. Out of all the women in the world, why would someone choose me? I wasn’t unattractive, but I had nothing particularly striking about me except my type 1 diabetes, the memoir I was writing, and the relentless optimism that defined me. I was the kind of person who always saw the glass half full. I had a good heart because I believed it was the only way to touch others.

Submissive? No, I wasn’t. The scars on my body were proof of how hard I’d fought to keep others from doing whatever they wanted with me in the past. By all logic, I should’ve grown up traumatized, hating the world. But I believed my existence had a purpose, which was why I scribbled my thoughts in a notebook, knowing that when I died, someone would find it and publish my story: Olivia Abertton, the Woman Who Survived Chaos and Pain. Maybe I’d swap “pain” for “diabetes” someday, since I didn’t know how long the disease would let me live. I took fifteen insulin shots a day, even following every medical guideline.

Jorel Clifford would be the cherry on top. My reward. The man who’d take my virginity, as I’d dreamed of a few times. I always imagined he’d be good in bed, given his experience.

“You’re… smiling?” Dad’s voice pulled me from my thoughts.

“Yes,” I said firmly. “I’m happy.”

Dad stepped away to make a call. Rose and I locked eyes. After a moment, she spoke. “I don’t know what your plans are, Olivia, but… thank you.”

A flicker of humanity in Rose Abertton? That’s why I always saw the glass half full. Was she awful? Sure. But she could’ve been worse—like poisoning my food.

“I spoke to Gabe Clifford’s secretary and arranged a meeting for you and Jorel to meet tonight,” Dad said, returning from the corner where he’d made the call.

“And he didn’t agree!” I huffed.

“He did,” Dad said. “It’s tonight, at a dinner at the Cliffords’ residence here in the capital.”

“What?” Rose shrieked, a mix of panic and excitement in her voice. “We’re visiting a Clifford mansion? I don’t even have anything to wear! I need a hairdresser, makeup, a new dress, Ernest!”

Didn’t we live in a mansion? I’d always thought so—a big house in a gated community, with more bedrooms than people, all en-suite, spacious rooms, expensive, high-quality furniture. Rose had no idea what real poverty looked like. If she ever faced it, she’d collapse.

It was obvious that adapting to the good life was far easier than the alternative. That’s why I’d been so dedicated and grateful when I arrived at the Abertton household, determined never to disappoint Dad or be more of an embarrassment than I already was in his life.

Unlike my stepmother and younger sister, I didn’t wear a recognizable designer brand to meet my future husband. I chose something true to my style.

“Orange?” Rose said, appalled, as we stepped out of the car in front of the Clifford residence. “Who wears orange to meet the brother of the richest man in the country?”

“Orange is the new nude,” I said, stifling a laugh.

“The good thing is Olivia looks great in any color,” Isabelle said, always coming to my defense.

“You look stunning, sweetheart,” Dad said, wrapping his arm around my shoulder, making sure I walked in practically shielded by his body.

“In fashion magazines, that color will draw all the attention to you,” Rose said, still irritated by my outfit.

“Wanted to be the star of the show, Mom?” Isabelle teased with a mocking laugh. “Olivia’s the one getting married.”

“It’s a horrible shade,” Rose said. “This time, I swear it’s not about stealing the spotlight.”

Before we reached the massive front door—probably six meters tall and wide—a traditionally dressed butler was waiting for us.

The Clifford mansion in the capital was elegant, bordering on breathtaking. Beautiful, perfect, almost unreal. But I was certain no one but staff lived there—it felt lifeless, except for the pulse racing in my chest, eager to meet the most gorgeous man in the world: Jorel Clifford.

We were led to a massive room with a ceiling so high it felt like a castle tower. And there he was—my dream: Jorel Clifford. I prayed my heart wouldn’t betray the overwhelming excitement of this moment, but it was impossible. It pounded wildly.

Maybe it was the nerves of this meeting or the fact that our home was being stripped bare, with me essentially being used as a bargaining chip to keep Dad from ending up on the streets. But my blood felt like it was screaming for sugar, even though I’d already taken my daily insulin dose.

The Cliffords approached, and my eyes locked onto Jorel’s. God, it was real—I’d touch my dreamy, chiseled idol. Was that radiant, charming smile on his face meant for me?

His dark brown hair was short, styled in a modern cut, neatly combed but with a smoothness that hinted at the slight curls I’d seen in some photos. His eyes were grayish, though they looked light brown in pictures. I liked them better in person—no, I loved them. His gaze was expressive, almost gentle. He was probably close to six feet tall, though next to Dad, everyone seemed short. His Stuart Hughes suit was clearly tailored, and a wave of heat washed over me as I imagined what lay beneath all that fabric.

The men exchanged stiff, formal greetings, except for my suitor, who kept his eyes on me, a faint smile playing on his lips. I’d never imagined he wouldn’t be sweet and charming—it was written all over him, despite the media spotlight.

“I’m Jorel Clifford,” he said, introducing himself and offering his hand.

“Olivia… at your… pleasure. I mean, a pleasure to meet you,” I stammered, trying to fix my words and not sound like the president of a fan club he didn’t know existed.

I shook his hand, and Jorel laced his fingers with mine, guiding me to a private corner of the room near a massive glass window overlooking a garden that looked even more perfect in the light of the setting sun.

“Is that… a maze in your garden?” I asked, barely believing my own voice.

“Yeah,” he said with a laugh. “A maze of small hedges. But we don’t come here often, so don’t worry.”

“We could come all the time,” I said, unable to stop admiring the place. “Oh, God,” I cleared my throat, embarrassed. “Sorry about the ‘we’… but from what I hear, we’re getting married.”

“Oh, right,” he said, his smile widening as he grabbed two champagne flutes from a tray carried by a staff member dressed impeccably for the occasion—or maybe always. “A marriage for the good of our families: your dad stays off the streets, and I keep my allowance.” He laughed genuinely, raising his glass to me.

I clinked my glass against his, holding his gaze. “I thought I was being too forward, but I see you think like me.” I took a sip of the champagne, the bubbles fizzing down my throat, teasing it with a playful burn.

“I think you’re gorgeous,” he said. “Honestly, if I’d met you today without knowing about this damn deal, I’d propose to you right now. You’re the woman of my dreams.”

I couldn’t hold back a laugh—it came out louder than I meant. I glanced back, and everyone was staring, their faces anything but pleased. But I couldn’t help it. Jorel was exactly as I’d imagined: a charmer. Sure, a charming liar who wanted to get me into bed, but I wasn’t escaping that anyway since we’d be husband and wife. And who wouldn’t want to lose their virginity to a man like him? Only the craziest woman alive.

Then my eyes met his—the one man in the room I didn’t know but could identify by process of elimination: Gabe Clifford.

It was like crashing into an iceberg in the middle of the ocean. I was the Titanic, and he was the reason for my sinking. Never in my life had I felt something could break or weaken me—not after my past had tried so hard to destroy me and failed. But there he was: my ruin, my torment, my crucifixion. In an instant, I knew he was my personal hell, no detours. And I’d be capable of every evil in the world to follow him into the abyss.