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“I’m also serious as a heart attack, Liv. You want to be a runaway bride, I’m driving the getaway car.”
It’s confirmed when I see the screen finally, Bradley’s smiling face and his name at the very top, the last text I sent reading: Good morning! I can’t wait to marry you today! His most recent text reads: I’m sorry. I can’t do this. And the world comes crashing down around me.
That’s not how a parent is supposed to act, expecting her child to further their own social career, to cater to them indefinitely. That’s fucked up, Melanie. It’s manipulative.
He wasn’t sweet or boyish. He wasn’t anxious or overworked. He surely wasn’t stressed about the wedding he had no hand in planning. He was just an asshole. An asshole who, despite what I hoped, I don’t think ever loved me. Ever.
Sometimes, when I’m feeling really introspective, I’m sure the universe got it wrong and Cami was supposed to be my mother. That they should have met and Melanie Kincaid never should have been involved in my conception at all. Granted, Cami was only five when I was born, which would make that not only impossible but ridiculously inappropriate. Still, I think you know what I mean.
I am a behind-the-scenes kind of guy. Yet here I am, trying to stop my target from committing fucking manslaughter.
I just spent a full hour with Olivia Anderson and I know two things for certain. One, she is absolutely not guilty. And two, I am so totally fucked.
Edna loves love. Reading about it, watching it, talking about it—she’s just in love with love.
“I’m just saying. Life is both painfully short and dreadfully long, and you only get the one. Live it for you.”
You never apologize for things out of your control. And really, you never apologize for things within your control that aren’t done with malicious intent. You are human.
The woman is hiring a fucking assassin.
“You’re telling me you’re with that hot piece of ass and you haven’t tapped it yet? Good lord, you’re a waste of youth, Olivia Anderson.”
“He looks at you like he wants to eat you alive, Olivia. That’s not how a man looks at someone he views as a job.”
I’m telling you right now, if you try and convince yourself it was all some kind of publicity stunt, I’m going to haunt you when I finally die. That
“You fuck her? I’ve seen the reports from when she was with Reed. Hot piece. I’d hit that.” You cannot hit your boss at the FBI in a federal building. You cannot hit your boss at the FBI in a federal building.
“But . . . you hate pumpkin picking.” Confusion and a hint of guilt run through me. “You told me it’s a scam.” “And you said it was your favorite.” My mind goes back over that conversation. “And you said it was stupid. I think you said only an idiot would want to spend an afternoon at a smelly fucking farm.”