She placed the phone face down.
The apartment smelled faintly of coffee grounds and lavender detergent. It was small, almost painfully so after the penthouse Liam had kept, but it was hers. She had chosen the blue curtains from a discount store. She had assembled the bookshelf herself. The nursery corner was still unfinished, just two secondhand bassinets against the wall, a box of folded onesies, and a mobile of paper clouds she had made with trembling hands during a night she could not sleep.
She went to the kitchen, filled the kettle, and stood barefoot on the cold floor while the water heated.
Her body felt heavy now. Six months pregnant with twins had turned ordinary movements into negotiations. The simple act of bending to pick up a spoon required thought. Sleep came in fragments. Her ankles swelled by afternoon. The babies kicked hardest when she was anxious, and they had been kicking all night.
“I know,” she whispered, resting both hands on her belly. “I know it was a lot.”
The kettle clicked off.
Her phone rang again.
This time it was not Liam.
It was Mara Ellis.
Her old boss from the PR firm where Olivia had once been considered the best crisis strategist in Manhattan before Liam’s divorce turned her into the crisis.
Olivia answered.
“Good morning, Mara.”
A pause.
“You sound calm.”
“I’m making tea.”
“Olivia.”
There it was.
That tone. Half sympathy, half opportunity.
“I can’t talk long,” Olivia said.
“I saw what happened last night.”
“So did everyone.”
“Listen to me carefully. Hayes Vision is bleeding publicly. Liam’s board is furious. There are already questions about mismanagement, brand instability, leadership judgment. If you have anything — documents, communications, evidence of misconduct — now is the time to use it.”
Olivia looked toward the leather folder on her table.
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