bChapter 176 /b

OLIVIA’S POV

My table knife slid effortlessly through the tender roasted chicken on my te. The meat was juicy, perfectly seasoned–an explosion of brich /bvors that danced on my tongue the moment I ced a piece in my mouth. I closed my eyes to savor it, letting the taste linger. No matter how many times I ate bthis /bparticr dish, it always managed to surprise me. I had hired the best chefs in the country for this exact reason–every meal was an experience. bA /breminder of how far I hade.

But after just a few bites, I slowly lowered my fork. A strange sensation crept into my stomach–fullness. Not the satisfied kind that came after ba /bhearty meal, but an abrupt, unexined fullness, like my appetite had been switched off entirely. I stared down at the te, half–full and still warm. A soft bsigh /bescaped my lips.

Funny.

I used to hate watching rich people leave their tes half–eaten on television. When I was younger–just a girl with big dreams and an empty stomach–bit /binfuriated me. Watching wealthy characters take two or three bites of gourmet food before walking away, wasting good meals like they were nothing, felt so unfair. Back then, I would have dly licked everyst bit of sauce off their tes if it meant having a taste of what they did.

And now here I was–living that life. Only now did I understand. Power came with its own kind of emptiness. Sometimes, food loses its taste. Sometimes, silence grew too loud. And sometimes, ino /imatter how much you filled your te, something inside you still felt hollow.

I lifted my ss and took a sip of juice, the chilled liquid briefly soothing the dry ache in my throat. Damien had already left a while ago. He said he needed to prepare for our uing trip. We were scheduled to leave in two days, and ra had handled most of the arrangements. All the clothes were packed, security had been briefed, and the private jet was already fueled and standing by.

I was ready.

At least, that’s what I kept telling myself.

Because I wasn’t the same girl I was five years

ago.

Back then, I had been trusting. Too trusting. I believed love could fix anything, that loyalty was rewarded, and that people only hurt you if they were hurt themselves. But I was wrong. People didn’t need a reason to betray you. Sometimes they just did.

Now, I was sharper. Stronger. No longer the na?ve girl who cried herself to sleep in a cold apartment. I was a woman whomanded boardrooms, who led empires, and whose name turned heads in every business bcircle /bacross Mexico–and soon, again, in New York.

But there was still one part of me that hadn’t healed. A wound that time hadn’t been able to close.

Adrian Westwood.

The moment his name echoed in my thoughts, I froze, the grip on my juice ss tightening. bIt /bhad been five years, and I still hadn’t let bmyself /bsay his name out loud in my home. I had built walls around that part of my past so high even I couldn’t see over them. But now, with the trip approaching, bthose /bwalls were trembling.

I was still going to let Damien iknow /isooner orter, there’s ba /breason why I haven’t gotten into a rtionship for the past four years bnow/b.

After what Adrian did to me, my heart just can’t seem to open up for another man again

I tried. I even went on dates, downloaded apps, and let friends set me up. But every timeb, /bsomething was missingb. /bbThat /bsparkb, /bbthat /bbtrust/bb, /bbthat /bdesire bto /bbbe /bvulnerable again. It just wasn’t there.

Would I ever be able to love someone again?

I bdidn’t /bbknow/b. But I bstill /bheld bon /bto hopeb. /bbOne /bday, I wanted bto /bwalk bdown /bbthe /bbaisle/bb–/bbnot /bbfor /bbthe /bbfairy /bbtale/b, bbut /bbto /bbbuild /bba /bbfamily/bb. /bbFor /bbCharlie /bto bhave /bsibling, someone to grow up bwith/b, bto /bugh bwith/bb, /bbto /blean on bwhen /bbI /bbwasn’t /bbthere/b. bBut /bbright /bbnow/bb, /bball /bof that felt far baway/b. bI /bbneeded /bbmore /bbtime/bb. /bbMore /bbspace /bto bkeep /bbhealing/bb. /b

i1/3 /i

My eyes drifted to therge bay window that overlooked the driveway. The gravel crunched softly under the weight of tires as Charlie’s bconvoy /bpulled bin/b. His school day was over.

A tender smile yed on my lips, followed by a pang of dread. He was back–and now I had to do the hardest thing I’d done ball /bweek.

Tell him I was leaving.

Just for seven days, I reminded myself. But Charlie had never spent a day without seeing me, hugging me, hearing my voice in person. bHow /bwould he

take the news?

It didn’t take long before the front door opened and I heard the familiar patter of tiny, excited feet rushing across to me. Secondster, Charlie came running in, his school bag swinging wildly in one hand, his smile brighter than ever.

He spotted me seated at the dining table. “Mom!” he shouted, rushing into my arms.

I scooped him up effortlessly and ced him on myp, wrapping my arms tightly around him as if I hadn’t seen him in weeks.

“Charlie, how was school today?” I asked with a warm smile, tucking ba /bstray curl behind his ear.

“Boring as usual,” he huffed, crossing his small arms dramatically, “but I did what you told me to. I listened really hard today–and guess what? I got an A on my test!”

He reached into his backpack with a sense of urgency and pulled out a slightly crumpled notebookb, /bflipping it open bto /bshow me the marked page. His small finger pointed at the bright red “A” circled at the top of the test paper, his face glowing with pride.

“Now you have to hold up to your end of the deal,” he added with a sly grin, giving me a look that was half yful, half serious.

I raised my eyebrows in surprise as I took the notebook from his hands. My eyes scanned the page and my head nodded slowly, clearly impressed.

“This is impressive, Charlie,” I said, still focused on the neat answers and the big, bold grade. “You did so well, I’m proud of you.”

He beamed at my praise, his little legs swinging back and forth as he sat on myp.

“And you’re right,” I continued, setting the notebook down gently on the table. “I will hold up to my end of the deal. But first…” I paused bfor /ba moment, trying to find the right words. “There’s something I need to talk to you about,”

He tilted his head, curiosity filling his wide, innocent eyes. “Okay,” he said softly.

“Alright, but let’s iget /iisome /ifood in your tummy first,” I said, stroking his hair.

emaids bright /bbehind I gave ra a subtle nod, and she understood immediately. She disappeared into the kitchen for a moment, then returned v her. They were carrying arge silver tray, carefully bnced, and from it came the mouthwatering aroma of freshly made pasta and grilled chicken- Charlie’s favorite.

As the tray was set on the table, Charlie’s eyes widened with delight. He quickly slid off myp and rushed to his special seatb, /bbthe /bone we had made bjust /bfor him so he could reach the table easily.

The moment he climbed onto bit/b, his eyes sparkled as he took in the bsight /bof the colorful meal. That excitement when food was involvedb–/bbhe /bdefinitely bgot /bthat from me.

“Wowi! /iiAunt /ira told the chefs to make the smiley potatoes too!b” /bbhe /beximedb, /bpping his hands.

I watched him dig in with the kind of enthusiasm only a child could haveb, /band despite the heaviness bthat /bstill lingered bin /bbmy /bbchest/bb, /bba /bbsmile /bbicrept /i/bbacross /bbmy /blips.

bThere /bwas bso /bmuch I had bto /bexin bto /bhimb–/babout bthe /btrip, about bwhy /bbI /bbhad /bbto /bleave bfor /bba /bbfew /bbdays/bb–/bbbut /bbseeing /bbhim /bbso /bbhappy /bband carefree/bb, /bbI /bdecided let him eat first.