CHAPTER 175: CHAPTER 175

Olivia’s POV

"What do you mean it’s a connecting door to the master’s bedroom?"

The words came out louder than I intended, but I couldn’t help it - the sheer absurdity, the absolute audacity of this situation had stripped away every ounce of my ability to maintain my composure.

"Are you kidding me right now!" I asked, searching Rita’s face for any sign that this was some kind of joke, some kind of prank that Maxwell’s staff liked to play on unsuspecting guests.

But Rita’s expression remained serious.

"No, sir. It’s connected to the master’s bedroom," she confirmed, her tone annoyingly calm, like this was a normal thing.

"This room was built for emergencies, you see. In case the master runs into some kind of problem - a fire, an intruder, a medical emergency - this room can be used as an escape route."

An escape route.

Right.

Because that’s definitely the vibe I was getting from this setup. Emergency preparedness. Safety protocols. Totally not at all like being placed in the spider’s web while the spider waited on the other side of a flimsy door.

"But why would you give me this room then?" I demanded, already moving toward the connecting door. "If it’s meant for emergencies, wouldn’t it make more sense to keep it empty? Or give it to someone who’s actually supposed to be close to Maxwell? Like his girlfriend or..."

I grabbed the handle of the connecting door and pulled it open before Rita could stop me.

It was indeed Maxwell’s bedroom.

I recognized it immediately, even though I was seeing it from a different angle than last time. The massive bed. The floor-to-ceiling windows. The expensive furniture. The stairs that led to Mitchell’s little house...

This was definitely the same room I’d snuck into weeks ago during my ill-fated attempt to kidnap Mitchell.

What the hell is happening?

I took a step forward, drawn by my curiosity and the need to confirm that this was real, that I wasn’t hallucinating from exhaustion and stress.

"Sir!" Rita’s voice was filled with alarm as she rushed forward and grabbed my arm, pulling me back from the threshold. "You can’t go in there! The master’s bedroom is strictly off-limits to all staff and guests!"

"But I’m not trying to..."

"Mr. Oliver, please!" She tugged harder, her expression filled with panic. "If Mr. Wellington finds you trying to enter his private quarters, I’ll be the one who..."

The other door - the main entrance to Maxwell’s bedroom from the hallway - suddenly swung open.

And there he was.

He stood in the doorway, his suit jacket gone, his tie loosened, the top buttons of his shirt undone to reveal a triangle of tanned skin. His hair was slightly mussed, like he’d been running his hands through it.

"What’s going on here?" His voice was low, his dark eyes moving from Rita’s panicked face to mine, then down to where Rita was still gripping my arm. "Rita, how many times do I have to tell you that my bedroom is prohibited?"

"I’m so sorry, sir!" Rita immediately released me and took a step back, her face flushed with embarrassment. "I was just showing Mr. Oliver his room, and he discovered the connecting door, and I was explaining that he couldn’t..."

"It’s fine, Rita." Maxwell’s gaze hadn’t left my face. "You both can leave now."

"But sir, I should..."

"I said LEAVE." His tone left no room for argument.

Rita practically fled, grabbing me by the shoulders and pulling me back into my room before quickly closing the connecting door.

I stood frozen, staring at that closed door, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears.

On the other side, I could still sense Maxwell’s presence. Could imagine him standing there, staring at the door from his side.

"Mr. Oliver," Rita’s voice was filled with anxiety as she moved toward the hallway door. "Please, I must ask that you respect Mr. Wellington privacy. That door should remain locked at all times unless there’s a genuine emergency. Do you understand?"

"Yeah," I managed, my voice rough. "Yeah, I understand."

"Good. Dinner is at seven. Please don’t be late."

She left quickly, probably eager to escape before I could cause any more chaos.

And I was alone.

Alone in this ridiculous room that connected directly to Maxwell’s bedroom.

I walked over to the connecting door and pressed my ear against it, listening. I could hear faint sounds - footsteps, the rustle of clothes, a drawer opening and closing. Maxwell was still in there, moving around, probably changing clothes or... whatever billionaires did in their private quarters.

The thought made my face heat up, and I quickly stepped back from the door.

"This is insane," I muttered to myself, finally pulling off the wig and running my hands through my sweat-dampened real hair. The relief was intense.

I needed to get this binding off. Needed to breathe. Needed to be myself for at least a few minutes before I completely lost my mind.

I rushed to the bathroom, locked the door, and started the process of unwrapping the binding that had been constricting my chest for hours.

"Never again," I promised myself, even though I knew I’d have to put it back on in the morning. "I’m never agreeing to stay anywhere as Oliver for more than a few hours. This is torture."

I took a long, hot shower, letting the water wash away the grime and sweat and exhaustion of the day.

I had to be Oliver again by dinner. Had to wrap myself back up, put on the wig, lower my voice, and sit across from Maxwell at some formal dining table pretending everything was normal.

The thought made me want to cry.

Instead, I wrapped myself in one of the soft bathrobes hanging on the door and walked back into the bedroom. I’d deal with Oliver later. Right now, I just needed a moment to breathe as myself.

I grabbed my phone and collapsed onto the massive bed, immediately sinking into it.

Multiple missed calls from Kira. Several texts.

Kira: Are you okay??

Kira: OLIVIA. ANSWER ME.

Kira: Okay I’m actually getting worried now. Please just text me back and let me know you’re alive.

I quickly typed out a response: I’m fine. Sorry, just got settled in. This place is insane. I’ll call you later.

She responded immediately: CALL ME NOW.

But before I could dial, there was a soft knock on my hallway door.

"Mr. Oliver?" Rita’s voice filtered through. "Dinner will be served in thirty minutes."

Thirty minutes.

I looked down at myself - hair loose and damp, face free of Oliver’s disguise, wearing nothing but a bathrobe.

"I’m not feeling well!" I called out, deepening my voice as much as I could. "I think I’ll skip dinner tonight!"

"But Mr. Wellington specifically requested..."

"Tell Mr. Wellington I need rest!" I interrupted. "Doctor’s orders after the electrocution. I’m sure he’ll understand."

There was a pause, then a reluctant, "As you wish, sir."

Immediately I heard her living, I flopped back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

No way am I going down there for dinner.

I refused to let Maxwell think I was okay with this whole arrangement. Refused to sit across from him at the table and make polite conversation while pretending the connecting door situation wasn’t completely insane.

Besides, if I didn’t show up, maybe he’d realize this whole keeping-me-hostage plan was a terrible idea and let me go home.

Yeah. That was definitely going to happen.

By eleven PM, I was starting to regret my dramatic stand.

My stomach was growling so loudly I was surprised it hadn’t woken up the entire mansion. The small granola bar I’d found in my bag earlier had been consumed hours ago, and now I was lying in bed, still in that bathrobe, staring at the ceiling and thinking about food.

I’d thought about calling Rita to bring something up, but that felt like admitting defeat. Like acknowledging that I needed Maxwell’s charity, his permission, his resources.

No. I’d made my stand. I’d stick with it.

Even if it killed me.

Which, judging by the way my stomach was staging a full-scale rebellion, it just might.

By midnight, I’d given up on sleep entirely. How could I sleep when my body was convinced I was dying of starvation? When every thought was consumed by visions of food - sandwiches, pasta, pizza, literally anything edible?

I sat up in bed, my resolve crumbling.

"Okay, new plan," I muttered to the empty room. "Get to the kitchen, grab some food, get back here before anyone notices. Easy."

I pulled on Oliver’s clothes from earlier - the baggy jeans and oversized hoodie - and secured the wig back in place. The binding was staying off though. It was late, the house was quiet, and I was making a quick food run, not attending a formal dinner. If anyone saw me, I’d just hunch my shoulders, hide my face, and keep my voice low.

I tiptoed to my door and eased it open, wincing at every small creak. The hallway was dark, lit only by small emergency lights along the baseboards. Everyone was clearly asleep.

Perfect.

I made my way down the staircase, my footsteps silent. The mansion felt different at night - more like a museum than a home. Every shadow seemed deeper, every sound amplified in the silence.

The kitchen was at the back of the house, and by the time I found it, I felt like I’d walked a mile through a maze. But it was worth it.

When I got to the kitchen, I opened the massive refrigerator and nearly wept with joy. Containers of leftovers, fresh fruits, cheeses, cold cuts, bottles of juice and sparkling water.

It was a buffet of possibilities.

Working quickly and quietly, I assembled myself a feast: a turkey and cheese sandwich with all the fixings, some grapes, a yogurt, a bottle of fancy lemonade, and - because I deserved it after this hellish day - a slice of homemade chocolate cake.

I loaded everything onto a tray, feeling like I’d just pulled off the heist of the century.

Mission accomplished.

The trip back to my room was even more nerve-wracking because now I was carrying evidence of my midnight raid. Every creak of the floorboards made me freeze. Every shadow looked like it might be a staff member about to catch me.

But I made it. All the way back to my room without encountering a single person.

I closed the door behind me with a triumphant grin, already imagining how good that sandwich was going to taste.

I set the tray down on the desk, pulled out the chair, and was about to take my first glorious bite when I heard it.

A sound from the connecting door.

I froze, sandwich halfway to my mouth, and listened.

There it was again. A low sound, muffled by the door but definitely coming from Maxwell’s room.

Maybe he’s watching TV, I thought. Or on a phone call.

But then the sound came again, and this time I recognized it for what it was.

A moan.

A woman’s moan.