The meeting runs long. Charles is at the head of the table, surrounded by his partners and analysts. With my laptop open and pen poised, I fall easily into the rhythm of their discussion. I listen first, tracing the logic of the argument until I find the small gap between what’s being said and what’s being missed. When the moment comes, I speak.
“If we reframe the issue as a communication gap rather than a market limitation,” I say, “we might reach the people who already want what we’re offering—they just don’t know it yet.”
A few heads turn. Someone writes it down. Another adds, “That’s a fair point.”
I catch Charles’s glance—brief, considering. The acknowledgment is subtle, almost invisible to anyone else, but it lands deep.
When the meeting ends, chairs scrape and people drift toward the door. Charles gathers his notes, then looks up at me. “Olivia, a moment?”
I stay as the others file out. The door clicks shut and I straighten instinctively—posture trained from years of wanting to appear capable.
He folds his hands on the table. “You’ve done well this week,” he says. “Not just in the work itself, but in how you think.”
I wait—unsure if that’s the entirety of it—but he continues, measured and calm. “Most people look at problems and see obstacles. You look and see how things connect. The pattern behind it. That’s rarer than you know.”
He says it simply, without flattery.
“Thank you, Mr. Caldwell,” I manage. “That means a lot.”
He nods once. “It’s not a favor to my son when I say this, so don’t take it as one. But if you ever wanted a place here—after Halford, after Baxter—we’d be lucky to have you.”
The words hit something deep, almost tender. My throat tightens. For a second, I can’t speak. This is what I’ve always wanted—to be seen for my mind, not my utility.
My family only sees what I can do for them. Nathaniel loves me so completely that sometimes his devotion eclipses everything else. But Charles—he’s seeingme.
When I finally find my voice, it comes out softer than I intend. “Thank you. That’s very generous of you.”
He smiles genuinely. “No. It’s simply true.”
TWENTY-NINE
nathaniel
She hid it well.
I see that now, as I dissect every glance and shift in her expression the way others study surveillance footage. The hesitation before she answered, as if calibrating a response. The unmistakable exhale of relief when I provided a convenient explanation, and she took it. Her lie fit so neatly inside mine it almost felt rehearsed.
If it had been her mother, I would have known how to respond. Claudia is predictable, and I’d know exactly how to neutralize the chaos she stirs in Olivia. Butthis—this nameless variable she felt the need to hide—is far more unsettling.
At dinner she tried too hard to seem at ease. She smiled in all the right places, laughed when I teased her—but the timing was off, just enough to give her away. Her hand stayed in mine but her eyes, occasionally, did not.
Later, as we lay in bed, I was the one who reached for her first. She softened under my touch—as she always does when words fail between us—but there was something in the way she moved that made me hold her tighter, as if closeness could steady whatever had shifted.
I took my time with her, tracing the edges of her ribs, her throat, the soft part of her hips until her breath stuttered against my skin. When I finally pushed into her, the need in me was near feral—a plea for confirmation, for connection, forher. She met me perfectly, every movement pulling me closer until we came undone together.
For a while, it felt like peace—her body limp in my arms, her hands still tracing lazy shapes down my spine. She whispered something that sounded likelove, and I believed her.
Sleep came quickly. I must have drifted, because the next time I opened my eyes, the room was washed in the blue light of her phone. She’d slipped from my arms and was sitting half-turned away, wearing one of my shirts. I kept my breathing steady, watching through half-closed lids. The screen glowed against her skin, her thumb moving in small, intentional gestures. Whatever she was reading held her completely still.
A dozen questions pressed against the back of my throat, but I stayed silent. I told myself it was nothing. That she was scrolling to distract herself. That trust, if it meant anything, had to look like this—me lying still while every instinct in me wanted to reach for her, to see what she was seeing.
When she finally set the phone aside and lay back down, I closed my eyes before she turned. Her head settled against my shoulder, her breathing evening out. I waited until it matched mine before letting my hand find her waist again.
I could have looked. I almost did. But I’d promised her, and I keep my promises—even the ones that cost me sleep.
I decided then I’d give her a day. One day to come to me, to prove that the honesty she promised wasn’t conditional. And if she didn’t—well, she’d said I could always ask.
And I will.
