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Since my revisions on the After Midnight script had gone over so well, Marcus had insisted I do the bulk of the re-writes from now on, in exchange for a screenwriter credit when the movie was actually released and a decent salary. It felt nice to know I’d have such a hand in bringing my own work to the big screen, and made me confident enough in my own abilities again.

Of course, confidence wasn’t usually a problem, but the way Georgie had gone off on me over the pages I’d submitted, I was beginning to doubt my talent and my ability to do my job.

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My conversation with Georgie was fresh in my mind over the next week as I re-wrote the pages she’d asked for. I did everything I could to get into the mindset of my thriller again, from re-reading some of my favourite thrillers by other authors, to watching suspense-filled movies, to avoiding answering Orlando’s calls. I knew if I talked to him again, I’d turn to mush and my work would suffer some more, so it was best to just not pick up the phone when I saw it was him.

Amidst all of the stress of trying to get my work back up to my own standards, not to mention Georgie’s, and the temptation of picking up the phone every time I knew it was Orlando, I also had to deal with my mother. The term ‘bridezilla’ would be tame compared to the raving lunatic she’d turned into, freaking out over every little detail, being even more unpleasant than usual, if that were possible, and just generally making me want to shove her out into traffic every time she called.

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I’m not sure how long I sat there like that, but the sun had set when the phone finally snapped me out of my fog. I groped in the couch cushions for it, pressing the ‘talk’ button absently and holding the receiver to my ear.

“Dominique?”

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I spent the next few weeks fully immersed in my new book. Georgie had loved the pages I’d re-written, and that had sparked a desire to finally finish the damned thing. I wrote like mad for hours at a time, sometimes not even stopping to eat, and by the end of three weeks, I found myself at the end of the book, two weeks earlier than my deadline.

But that left me at loose ends, which I really hated. While I was writing, I could distract myself from thinking about Orlando and the stupid position I’d gotten myself into with him, but without my manuscript open in front of me, all I was left with was empty time and a mind all too eager to fill it with thoughts I really didn’t need.

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The relief at being back in my own home was instant as soon as I unlocked the door to my flat. Sherman ran to greet me, meowing loudly as he waited to be picked up. He wasn’t used to me not being there, so my week-long absence had probably shaken him up. I immediately went into the kitchen to check his food and water situation, surprised to find they were both full.

“I’ve been checking on him,” Olivia explained as she set my bag on the kitchen table. “The poor little guy was starving when I checked on him the first day.”

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The next few days were very similar to the first after my hospital stay. No matter what I did, the anger I felt still simmered just beneath the surface, and I couldn’t help but let it out in any way possible. I snapped at a telemarketer, I screamed at Sherman over stupid things, I even refused to tip the grocery delivery boy because he was five minutes later than expected. The rage just ate at me, and I felt like there was nothing I could do to stop it.

When Olivia showed up on my doorstep, I didn’t know what to think. I’d had a few rather nasty conversations with her that really shouldn’t have happened, so she knew something was up, but I refused to tell her anything. Seeing her, especially when she so rarely made house calls to her clients, was shocking to say the least. And it wasn’t at all welcome.

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Olivia’s comments stuck with me over the next few weeks as I dove into editing my new book. Georgie and I had many conversations about my manuscript, and the changes she wanted me to make, and by the end of two weeks of editing, we had the next draft ready to submit to her superiors. I was also swamped with revisions on the After Midnight script, so I had very little time to dwell on anything personal. I went to bed every night almost cross-eyed with exhaustion, and had no trouble going to sleep.

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I wasn’t surprised to see Olivia on my doorstep at quarter to twelve the next morning. She was chronically early, and of course, since I’d been dreading this little outing, she wouldn’t disappoint me by being late. I sighed as I let her inside.

“I have a game plan for us,” she announced, striding into my living room as I dumped the remainder of my coffee down the drain. I didn’t figure she’d give me enough time to finish it.

“I bet you do,” I said, grabbing my purse off the kitchen counter. “You’re probably planning to drag me all over Hell’s creation today, aren’t you?”

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Olivia and I managed to compromise on my hair, allowing me to keep part of it down, while the rest was up on my head. She showed me how to section off the top, twist it once to create a small bubble on top of my head, and pin it, with the rest hanging down. It was elegant and simple, yet it suited a wedding, and it went with my dress. I even allowed her to trim the ends so it didn’t look so dead.

I practiced putting on the make-up every day leading up to the wedding. My first few tries were disastrous, and I ended up resembling the circus clown I was afraid of, but after that, with some tips from Olivia, I seemed to get the hang of it. When I finally got it to the point where I wouldn’t be embarrassed to wear it in public, I just stared at myself in my new bathroom mirror (Olivia’s gift to me), unable to believe that I actually wanted to see what I looked like. I couldn’t keep my gaze from the twisted flesh on the left side of my neck, but even that didn’t seem to bother me as much as it used to.

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Though I hadn’t slept much through the night, I awoke the next morning with a surprising amount of energy. The adrenaline that pumped through my system as I showered and did my make-up kept me from feeling tired, as I knew I should be. I was almost thankful for the train wreck that my mother’s wedding was sure to be, just because it was a distraction from the aching pain that ripped through me every time I recalled my conversation with Orlando. Who knew such a disaster could be a good thing?

I was just dumping the last of my coffee down the drain and making sure I had everything I needed in my new purse, when Olivia strode into my flat as though she owned it.

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