53 - California

"The course of true love never did run smooth."

― William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream

. . .

OLIVIA WOODS

I looked down at the rings glittering on my fingers.

"We got them remade," Xerxes had said as they slid the rings on my fingers, his eyes lingering on my ring finger.

Now I was in a private jet, feeling sad. They had bought me to the airport, Xerxes had driven to the right in front of their jet black jet. And then they had kissed me goodbye.

"Mine?" They had murmured, pressing kisses on me.

"Yours," I had whispered back as if a reflex, yet I meant every word. Then, I had exited the car, feeling eyes on me and tears burn in my eyes.

I hadn't looked back. If I had, I would have cried on their lap like a little baby, begging them to take me back home.

Home.

It was overwhelming how much they meant to me. They bought danger with them, yes, but they bought...love, too.

Love.

I leaned back into my seat, watching as Kylie swirled her stylus on her tablet, her blue hair falling over her porcelain skin. Her eyes were the exact shade of her hair. She was thirteen, a newly turned teenager with a passion for art that mirrored mine.

I would have talked to her a little about art, but I was too sad so I curled on my seat and took my sketchbook out. Harry, who was her father as I had come to know, was sitting nearby. There were ten bodyguards in the jet.

I looked out of the tiny window beside my seat. The clouds looked beautiful. Before I knew it my hand was working the charcoal pencil on the sketchbook and about an hour had passed by.

And a face was peeking at my sketchbook from behind my seat with wide eyes.

"Wow," Kylie gasped. "Wow."

I smiled, feeling a little blush come on my cheeks. I was sort of used to getting compliments on my art, but I was used to criticism more. I appreciated art critics, they made artists better, but most of them made me cry. I wasn't as good at taking criticism as an artist should be.

"You can have it if you want," I said. She grinned at me. "Really?"

I nodded, ripping the sheet from the sketchbook. I gave it to her and she took it in her hands as if glass and ran to her dad, showing it to him. He nodded stiffly. "It looks good, Miss Woods."

I smiled. "Thank you, Harry." He had refused to call me Olivia.

The rest of the flight was actually pretty interesting. Kylie was really good at digital art yet she possessed knowledge of art history.

To understand something, Princess, you need to know its past, my dad had said, pulling out a large book from his bookshelf. You love art? Know where it came from first.

My father, always a man with great words and better works.

Yet the universe had been cruel to him. Now, he was a shadow of the man he used to be. The fingers which were always stained with colors appeared to be stained in blood.

Your fault, a whisper echoed in my head.

My fault, I agreed silently.

. . .

Dante Valentino was waiting beside a black sports car as I stepped down from the jet.

"Miss Woods," he murmured as he opened the passenger door. "Nice to meet you."

"N-Nice to meet you, too, Mr. Valentino," I whispered, hating my stutter, and entered the car.

He got into the driver's seat, his sunglasses on his nose as he drove out of the airport.

"You are shaking," he said to me. I was shaking. I was scared.

They are not going to hurt you, Creeds promised.

"I..." I didn't have an answer to that. I was scared of them, so scared I could barely breathe. I had a plan. They'd give me a room and I'd step out of it only when extremely necessary, in that way I'd be able to avoid them.

"I am not going to hurt you," he muttered. "I value my balls."

Now, this...this confused me. Why the heck did the Valentinos listen to the Creeds?

"Okay," I whispered, nodding.

He hummed and soon we were on a wide road.

We drive for a long time, I lost track soon, I was mesmerized by the artwork on my phone.

An abstract by Carrie Arnaud. That woman was brilliant.

Soon, we stopped in front of a stone house which was surrounded by trees with men in black all over it like bees on a beehive.

He drove the car into a garage and got out, opening my door before I could and helping me out. We walked inside the house and Kylie and her father walked to a smaller building beside the house.

The interior was luxurious, which reminded me of the Creeds' mansion. On the left was a large kitchen I predicted Zavier would like, and beside it was a staircase that led to the next floor. The living room was spacious with a large TV and grey couches arranged in a U in front of it. The walls had nothing. It's a safe house, Olivia, not a home.

"First door to the left upstairs is your room," Dante said as a man walked inside with my three large bags and one small bag in his hands. "My room is that." He nodded towards a door nearby. "Do come to me if you need anything. I know you probably won't, so Miss Summers is here."

A short lady walked out of the kitchen. I had not even noticed her there.

She was about an inch shorter than me and dressed in a cleaner uniform which covered her plum body fully. Her hair was braided and trailing down her arms and on her long nose sat dark-framed glasses. Her highlighter was on point on her dark skin, illuminating her features.

She was beautiful and appeared to be in her mid-fifties.

"Miss Summers is a dear friend to the Creeds' and Kylie's grandmother," Dante said. "She will keep you company and keep you safe if you wish to leave the safe house for any reason, which would be under disguise, always."

Wait, Creeds' and Kylie's grandmother?

. . .