OLIVIA’S POV
Dinner that evening was nothing short of tense. The clinking of cutlery against plates barely masked the quiet rage simmering in the room. My fingers tightened around my fork as I tried to stay composed, honestly I was just thinking of different ways to calm my father down, everyone was, but each time we tried he remind us how we nearly lost our lives, Mexicans took family seriously, that’s one thing for sure because the man looked like he was about to explode
“You want me to just do nothing? He tried to kill you?” he said, voice low but sharp as steel. “Both of you?”
Julian and I exchanged a glance. I gave him a slight nod, silently telling him to let me handle this. He respected my choice and looked down at his plate, pushing a piece of steak around without taking a bite.
“Dad,” I began, “I know how this sounds…”
“It doesn’t just sound like anything. It is something,” he snapped, his hand slamming against the table. The plates rattled. “That boy put my daughter and grandson in danger. How am I supposed to sit here and do nothing?”
I stood, slowly and carefully, and walked around the table to him. I placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“Please,” I said softly, “Don’t do anything. Let me handle this.”
“Olivia, he nearly killed you. You want me to stand by while he walks free?”
“No,” I whispered, shaking my head. “I want you to watch. Watch the woman I become. Watch how I rise without him. That’s the real punishment, Dad. Not violence. Not revenge.”
He looked up at me, his stern expression faltering. For a moment, he said nothing. Then, after what felt like a century, he let out a deep sigh and nodded.
“You want to handle this your own way, does that mean you would go in contact with him again?” my dad asked.
“Never, this is the first time I am meeting you in person after years, so it might sound weird saying this, but I need you to trust me on this, I’ll handle him my way,” I said.
After a few seconds of him being silent, he finally let out a heavy sigh which looked like he was finally ready to calm down,
He took out his phone and made a quick call. “Clara, it’s time. Be at the house tomorrow morning. I have someone for you to mentor.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Clara?”
He put the phone down and smiled. “She was your mother’s assistant. One of the smartest women I know. She’ll teach you what it takes to stand tall in the business world.”
Just as he finished speaking, a woman walked into the room, dressed in a sharp, navy–blue suit and heels that clicked with precision. Her silver–streaked hair was pulled into a sleek bun, and she carried herself with the confidence of a seasoned executive.
Did Dad have her waiting in the house even before I arrived here?
“You must be Olivia,” she said, extending her hand/Her voice was firm, her gaze even firmer.
“I am,” I replied, shaking her hand.
“We begin tomorrow at 7 a.m. sharp. Don’t be late.”
She didn’t wait for a response before turning on her heel and walking out. I blinked, still processing what just happened.
“Well,” Julian said from his seat, finally breaking his silence, “Looks like you’ve got your hands full.”
1/3
09:04 Fri, 27 Jun •
Chapter 163
After dinner, I needed air.
The walls of the estate suddenly felt too close, like they were closing in around me. I slipped out through the side gate and walked toward the nearby town. The evening air was crisp, the sky a canvas of deep purple and navy, the stars peeking out,
I walked past quiet shops and cafes, my thoughts swirling. I wanted to believe I had made the right decision by stopping my father. Revenge wasn’t what I needed. Control, clarity, and growth were.
Warm lighting bathed the space in a golden glow, casting gentle shadows across the worn wooden floors. The air smelled of cinnamon, aged paper, and the faintest hint of vanilla candles burning somewhere nearby. It was the kind of place that made time slow down.
A faded hardcover on the top shelf caught my eye–its title almost obscured by dust, but something about it tugged at me. I reached up, stretching on my toes to grasp it.
I turned around, startled. A woman about my age stood there, looking both sheepish and amused. She had a head of curly brown hair that refused to be tamed, oversized tortoiseshell glasses that magnified her expressive eyes, and a canvas tote bag slung over one shoulder, bulging with sketchpads and what looked like paintbrush handles sticking out the top.
“Stella,” she said brightly, thrusting her hand out with an enthusiastic shake. “I make a habit of running into mysterious women in bookstores. It’s kind of my thing.”
“Oh, believe me, I’ve got a library full. Some of them even have happy endings,” she winked. “Others… well, they usually involve spilled coffee and awkward apologies.”
“Born and raised,” she said, then tilted her head, studying me. “You, however, don’t have that small–town rhythm. Too polished. Too… put together.”
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