Sparkle | Saltburn

09

Phoebe was in a haze, a fog that had settled over her mind and refused to lift. The morning after Felix's death had been a blur of police, questions, and the solemn, grim faces of everyone around her. She couldn't reconcile the image of Felix, vibrant and full of life, with the lifeless body they had found in the maze. It felt like a nightmare she couldn't wake up from.

Oliver was her anchor in the storm, his presence a constant and reassuring force. He seemed to know exactly what to say, how to comfort her. When Venetia died under mysterious circumstances just days after Felix, it was Oliver who held her as she wept, his arms strong and steady. Venetia's death compounded the surreal horror of it all, and Phoebe's fragile grip on reality slipped even further.

She clung to Oliver, unable to process the losses that had rocked her world. He was always there, a steady and reliable presence. He had a way of saying just the right things to soothe her, to make her feel safe. Phoebe found herself trusting him implicitly, leaning on him in a way she had never leaned on anyone before.

James Catton, Felix and Venetia's father, was a formidable man. The patriarch of the Saltburn estate, he exuded an air of authority and control. He watched Oliver with a wary eye, sensing something amiss but unable to put his finger on it. When he finally demanded that Oliver leave Saltburn, citing the upheaval and unrest that seemed to follow him, Phoebe was devastated.

Oliver played his cards perfectly. He spun a tale of being unjustly accused, of needing to protect Phoebe from the toxic environment at Saltburn. Phoebe, lost in her grief and confusion, believed him. She couldn't bear the thought of being separated from the one person who seemed to understand her, who had been her rock through the darkest days.

They left Saltburn together, Phoebe's bags hastily packed. She felt a pang of guilt leaving behind the place that had been her sanctuary, but Oliver's hand in hers gave her the courage to walk away. James watched them go, his face a mask of stern disapproval, but Phoebe didn't look back.

The weeks that followed were a blur of movement and change. Phoebe's family had a small apartment in the city, a stark contrast to the sprawling opulence of Saltburn. It was cozy, though, and Phoebe found comfort in the simplicity of their new life. Oliver was attentive, always ensuring she had what she needed, always knowing when she needed a shoulder to cry on.

Phoebe's denial about Felix's death persisted. She couldn't fully grasp that he was gone, that Venetia was gone. It was easier to push those thoughts away, to focus on the present. Oliver was a master at distracting her, filling her days with activities and her nights with whispered reassurances.

He was careful to never push too hard, to never let her see the depths of his manipulation. He played the role of the devoted boyfriend perfectly, his every action calculated to deepen her reliance on him. Phoebe, vulnerable and grief-stricken, fell deeper into his web.

Oliver's mask never slipped, not even when they were alone. He was always patient, always understanding. He never pressured her to move on from her grief, but he subtly guided her towards a future where he was her only constant. Phoebe didn't see the trap he had set, the way he was slowly isolating her from anyone who might pull her back to reality.

As the weeks turned into months, Oliver's control over Phoebe tightened. She rarely left the apartment without him, her world shrinking to the confines of their shared space. He made her feel safe, protected. He was the only person who seemed to understand her pain, who could make the nightmares go away.

Phoebe's trust in Oliver was absolute. She confided in him, shared her fears and insecurities. He listened with rapt attention, his eyes never leaving hers. He was her confidant, her protector. She couldn't imagine life without him, couldn't fathom the thought of facing the world on her own.