Page 12 of Little Did You Know

We spent what seemed like an entire day in that dressing room. I tried on hundreds of clothes and left it up to Hannah which ones were keepers, requesting that she be conscious of what we spent. Nick was fronting the bill for this, and that bothered me, but I knew Emmett would pay him back once everything was settled.

When the sun finally dropped and I had officially tried everything in the store, we decided to call it a day. I had no idea what we spent or what was purchased; Hannah had everything sent to Nick's before I could go through it all.

Hannah tugged her purse strap over her shoulder with a flourish, as if punctuating the end of our shopping marathon. "We need food." Her eyes lit up, sparkling with mischief as she leaned in conspiratorially. "Let's get dinner, have a few drinks, and see if we can find hot guys to flirt with."

The familiar tightness gripped my chest, an invisible vise closing around my ribs. My lungs seized, each breath shorter than the last. The boutique's elegant lighting suddenly seemed too harsh, the spaces between racks too narrow.

Hannah's animated expression faltered. Her outstretched hand hovered between us before gently touching my arm. "Olivia?" Her voice dropped from its usual volume, brows drawing together. "Are you okay?"

I shook my head, fingers finding and gripping the edge of the counter, knuckles whitening as they anchored me to something solid in a room that had begun to tilt.

I had severe social anxiety, not to mention I was socially awkward. I'd always been a bit of a loner, but after the "incident," I had issues getting close to people at all, and Emmett had been overprotective, demanding I focus on school. My anxiety eventually got so bad I was pulled from school and homeschooled. So far, it had worked for me. After today, though, I realized what I was missing.

The thought of a crowded restaurant pressed against my chest like a weight. But something was different today. Maybe it was the way I'd survived the salon's chaos, or how Hannah's chatter had somehow become a comfort rather than a threat. Each "normal" thing I'd managed felt like a small victory, a tiny piece of myself reclaimed from the girl who'd learned to hide so well.

"Are you okay?" Hannah asked again, her usual exuberance dimming. She hovered closer, head tilting as she studied my face. Her hand fluttered uncertainly between us, as if unsure whether to offer comfort or give space. I didn't want to tell her what was wrong, though I was sure she knew I had issues, and I wasn't ready to talk about it.

"Yes, I'm fine," I replied, forcing my shoulders to relax as my breathing steadied. I patted my chest and offered a weak smile. "Asthma." The lie sat bitter on my tongue, but I swallowed it down. I hoped she wouldn't question it.

Hannah's eyes narrowed slightly, teeth catching her lower lip. "Are you sure you're okay?" she pressed, her voice gentler than I'd heard it all day.

"Yes, I'm fine." I straightened my spine, pulling strength from somewhere I didn't know I had. My hand made a dismissive wave in the air between us.

Hannah studied me for another beat before her sunshine demeanor returned, brightening her face like a switch had been flipped. She grabbed my hand, giving it an encouraging squeeze. "Okay, then let's go show off the new you."

Chapter Seven

Justin slumped against my office door. "Well, that went well." His tone was laced with sarcasm.

"What are you talking about? We nailed it." I shuffled the mess of hastily prepared slides into a folder, avoiding his knowing smirk.

"Yeah, it would have gone smoother had you been prepared." Justin tapped his Mont Blanc pen against the doorframe—tap-tap-pause, tap-tap-pause—that irritating rhythm he always used when he thought he had the upper hand. "Maybe next time you can spend less timeconsolingand more timepreparing." His lips twitched at the corners as he pushed off the doorframe, strolling into the office before lounging against my desk, one eyebrow arched in that infuriating way that made him look like a smug cartoon villain.

I rolled my eyes and busied myself organizing papers, avoiding his gaze. My jaw tightened as I recalled two hours of watching executives shift in their seats, of finance slides pulled from thin air. Somehow we'd stumbled through to unanimous approval—but I'd rather eat glass than give him the satisfaction of admitting he was right.

Justin checked his Rolex with an exaggerated flick of the wrist. "I'll be out of the office the rest of today and most of tomorrow." He already had his phone out, thumb scrolling through what was undoubtedly another packed calendar. "Have other business to attend to."

His head snapped up suddenly, eyes narrowing with interest. "Tomorrow night, right?"

"Ye—" The word died in my throat as Olivia's face flashed through my mind. I looked down, pretending to organize the papers on my desk. "Actually," I cleared my throat, "I may not make it this week."

He was referring to our once-a-month get-together, a tradition that had started back in college and dwindled from every Friday to every other Friday to one Friday a month and entailed too much alcohol, women, and friends.

He looked intrigued. "Does this have something to do with Miss.She's not my type?" I narrowed my eyes. "Bring her with you! We'd all like to meet the girl who's got your panties in a bunch."

No way in hell was I going to bring her. That would start all kinds of rumors, and the media would have a frenzy. "We'll see; now, get out of my office. I have work to do."

He laughed and disappeared out the door.

The door clicked shut behind Justin, leaving only the soft hum of the air conditioning and the tick of my watch.

I leaned back, rubbing my temples as I tried to figure out where to start. I needed to get Olivia situated before I could do anything else but the harder I tried to piece together Olivia's story, the more holes I found. Each answer spawned three new questions until my temples throbbed with the effort of keeping it all straight.

I pulled out a blank sheet of paper and wrote down a list of everything I'd have to take care of myself, then started making calls. My first call was, of course, to Emmett, which again ended in voicemail. I left him a brief message telling him to call me, then disconnected.

The afternoon sun crept across my desk as I dove into Olivia's paper trail. Each dead end only raised more questions. South Florida University's admission office put me on hold three times before finally delivering the news: no record of Olivia Ryan. Not even an application.

My next call was to America’s bank. My index finger tapped an irregular morse code of impatience against the mahogany desk as I waited for Brian, the bank manager. The hold music grated on my nerves, a tiny reminder of how many calls I'd made. Finally, his voice came through.

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