The only way I knew what was going on in his life was through the tabloids.
One of Oliver's brothers once dropped a stack of those headlines right in front of me. Cold and blunt about it.
He and I were never going to end up anywhere.
Later I confronted Oliver with the articles.
He waved it off. "None of that means anything. Stop listening to people."
But I kept receiving photos of him in bed with different women.
At first I refused to believe it. Then a recording arrived.
"She's pure, sure. But once you've had her, the thrill wears off pretty fast."
"You know she was set to be the next great dance master, right? All that shine, all that talent—and now she just sits in the palm of my hand."
I fought with him over that recording. I told him we were done.
Oliver thought I was making a scene.
His brow knotted, and his tone went ice-cold.
"All this over a recording you don't even know is real?"
"Is our marriage a joke to you? Or do you just not understand rules—what you're meant to hear and what you're not?"
He sent me overseas and let strangers look down on me, nitpick me, discipline me however they pleased.