Chapter 23: My Dark Prince: Chapter 22

I didn’t buy the hoarder excuse.

Oliver had exited the womb a minimalist. Well, as minimalist as a nepo-billionaire could be. For as long as I remembered (literally), he kept his cars pristine, his room neat and bare, and only a single black card in his wallet, unlike the one the hospital had returned to me, stuffed to the brim with coupon cards, and pennies, and wrinkled dollar bills.

Even now, without the help of dozens of staff, his house remained spotless. Twenty-thousand feet and not a single thread out of place. I filed this into memory to investigate the south wing as soon as Oliver stopped fussing around me.

He’d left me alone only for a pee break and to swap into a cute dress from the closet. (I, however, had apparently left a mess in the master bedroom. Shirts, and shoes, and jeans everywhere. I had the decency to apologize and promised to clean it up in the morning.)

At seven o’clock sharp, Oliver escorted me to dinner on the first-floor patio, overlooking the lake. Two uniformed servers materialized from nowhere and flanked us.

One of them bowed, her hands folded at the base of her stomach. “Miss Auor, it is so good to have you back.”

I frowned as Oliver pushed the chair out for me. “Thanks.”

She’d pronounced my last name with an O, not an E. Was she new? Did I scare off her predecessor? Roaming the world without memories was like navigating a ship without a compass and GPS. No accomplishments to take pride in. No mistakes to reflect on. A clean slate that somehow felt dirtier than a checkered past.

“You can just call me Briar,” I added. No way would my present self be stuck-up enough to ask my employees to address me by my last name. Or have them wear uniforms.

“The serving staff is new.” Oliver rounded the table after I slid into my seat, claiming the one across from mine. “We normally do takeout, but Doctor Cohen recommended a healthy diet.” He paused, clocked my expression, and added, “And the agency I hire my staff from requires uniforms.”

I relaxed against the canvas backrest.

The server bowed again, lower this time. “My apologies, Briar.”

It wasn’t lost on me the privileged life I led. That many in my situation would have more than gaping memory lapses and occasional headaches to worry about. Hospital bills, and work shifts, and childcare.

I tried not to beam at Oliver. “Have I ever told you what a dreamboat you are?”

Most men wouldn’t be able to deal with this situation. Oliver handled it with grace. I’d lucked out with him as my partner.

He kept his eyes trained on his wine glass. “You have.”

“Well, I mean it. I am so lucky to love you. Speaking of, when was the last time I told you I love you?”

“You said the words right before the accident.” He added something under his breath that I couldn’t make out. It sounded like, “More or less.”

The other server drew the silver dome from my plate, unearthing my dinner. A massive Porterhouse, asparagus, buttery mashed potatoes, and some kind of white sauce. The second the scent of meat crawled up my nostrils, I leaned over the marble railing and vomited right into the rose bushes.

“Compliments to the chef, who managed to make my fiancée sick before she even took a bite.” Oliver rushed over to me, gathering my hair between expert fingers and pulling it up. “Get this food away from her,” he barked at his staff. “Are you okay, Cuddlebug? Is that the migraines?”

“No.” I shook my head, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “It’s not that. I’m … this is wrong.”

“Wrong?” He reached for an asparagus on his plate, chopping it with his pearly white teeth. “Baby, this cow was grass-fed $500 organic bouquets. Let me assure you, this is the best steak you’ll ever eat.”

“It’s not that.” I shook my head, stumbling away from the table. “I’m … I think I’m a vegetarian.”

He stared at me wordlessly, his mouth open, his face blank.

I hugged myself, my entire brain rioting. “Or maybe even vegan?”

How could my fiancé not know I didn’t eat meat? And why was the south wing off-limits? Nothing made sense. And I really needed a healthy dose of sense right now.

At his silence, I pleaded for him to give me a reasonable explanation with my eyes. “How could you not know that?”

He winked, trying to lighten up the mood. “You never seemed to have a problem with my meat.”

“Ollie.”

“Shit.” He swallowed. Licked his lips. “It’s truth time, isn’t it?”

Finally.

I nodded, silent.

“The truth is, you suffer from low vitamin D.” He sighed, grabbing a chunk of bread from the table and popping it into his mouth. “I know. My future wife. Not enough D. The irony is grotesque. But God has a way of making the cruelest jokes.”

Vitamin D?

He took a swig of the wine, soaking in my unspoken question. “Yes, you’re a vegetarian, but your doctors noted your blood test results in the past. I thought now would be a good time to introduce you to some red meat. You need zinc, B12, fatty acids, calcium, iron. The works.” He held up a hand, even though I hadn’t tried to speak. “I know, it’s terrible of me, but I couldn’t run the chance of you fainting when you walk down the aisle. I want to lock this shit down ASAP.”

“It’s unethical and completely out of line.”

“Sweetheart, it is one of the least shocking things I’ve done in the last week,” he muttered. “But I agree. I apologize.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “When is the wedding, anyway?”

“We haven’t set a date yet.”

The more time I spent with my fiancé, the more I believed he’d undersold the magnitude of our fight. But at the end of the day, the Briar and Oliver I remembered could survive any fight. We were so in love as kids. So radically loyal toward one another. Still, I needed to kill the tiny seed of doubt that sprouted in my stomach.

“I’m going to ask you some questions now, okay?” I put a hand on his shoulder.

His breath caught in his throat, and I felt a jolt, too. Of something foreign and weird. Of an unfamiliarity that churned my stomach.

“Okay.”

“Do I have a criminal history?”

He choked on his wine. “Only for being criminally hot.”

“Be serious.”

“You don’t have a criminal history.” Pause. “Not that I am aware of.”

“Do I have any tattoos?” I knew the answer to that question purely because I’d noticed the ink on my hipbone when I’d changed earlier.

Our eyes met, and his ran wild with something I couldn’t read. Desire, and anger, and alarm, and something else. Something darker. Much darker than I knew he was capable of. This was Ollie. My happy-go-lucky soulmate. What happened to him? To us?

My nostrils flared. “You should know the answer to that one, Oliver. Do I have any tattoos, and if so, what are they of?”

The silence hung in the air like a guillotine.

He tipped his chin up, drawling slowly, “You have one tattoo. Hipbone. Fight like a girl. Lobster font. You like it when I trace the letters with my fingertips, one at a time, while I eat you out. You like when I kiss it when I wake you up in the morning and lick you head to toe. You inked it the day you turned eighteen and realized your relationship with your parents was officially over. It was a reminder you don’t need them. That you have yourself.”

The seed shriveled up in my belly, dying a quick death. This was Oliver von Bismarck. My Oliver. Right, and authentic, and true. The boy who gave me blue roses and went to sleep every night with his phone ringer on the loudest setting, just in case I called for help. I was being weird. Silly. Ungrateful. Guilt sent a load of heat up to my cheeks. How could I even doubt him?

“I’m sorry.” I rounded the table and threw my arms over his shoulders, drawing him close. “I’m sorry for ever doubting you.”

He clasped my waist, burying his nose in my hair. “I’m the one who should be sorry for not keeping you safe.” A tremble passed through his body. “I’ll go make you Aglio e Olio.”

“I’ll come watch you and try not to rip your clothes off as you do.”