Chapter 3 - The Morning Arrogance
By seven o'clock the following morning, the sun rose over the Manhattan skyline, casting long golden knives across the marble floors of the Bennett Capital executive offices.
I sat in my private dressing suite on the sixty-second floor, clad in an ivory tailored suit by Alexander McQueen. Vance Sterling, our chief corporate counsel and a close friend of my late father, sat across from me sipping black espresso while an elite medical photographer finished documenting the faint bruise tracing my jawline.
"The police report is filed under a confidential seal, Olivia," Vance said, his gray eyes burning with cold rage. "Simple assault, battery, and domestic violence. The moment you give the word, the NYPD will pick Evan Miller up at his office or on the street."
"Not yet, Vance," I replied smoothly, fastening a discreet platinum Cartier watch around my wrist. "A jail cell is too quick. When a man believes he can slap you down into servitude, taking his freedom isn't enough. You have to take away his delusion."
My personal phone buzzed on the glass coffee table.
It was a text from Evan.
*Olivia, I don't know who you hired last night to scare me or whose fancy rental that was, but you made a massive fool of yourself. Mom was up all night with heart palpitations because of your childish tantrum. If you want this marriage to work, you will be back at the house by noon with an apology bouquet for Mom, and you will finish cleaning the den before our flight. Atlas is closing a $4.5 million deal today. I’m about to be in a league you can’t even comprehend. Know your place.*
I didn't reply. I simply forwarded the screenshot to Vance.
Vance scoffed, shaking his head. "The sheer stupidity of this boy is breathtaking. Does he truly believe you are an unemployed freelance illustrator?"
"When I met Evan two years ago at a charity marathon, I was wearing worn running shoes and drinking bodega coffee," I said, gazing out the floor-to-ceiling windows toward Wall Street. "He bragged about his scrappy logistics startup. When he asked what I did, I told him I managed brand assets for family holdings. He assumed that meant I drew logos for five hundred dollars on freelance websites."
"And you never corrected him?"
"I wanted a real marriage, Vance," I whispered, the bitterness coating my tongue. "My father spent his life surrounded by people who loved his money, not him. I wanted a man who loved Olivia. But Evan didn't want a partner. He wanted a trophy he could control, and when he thought he had me trapped behind a wedding ring, his true face came out."
"Well," Vance said, standing up and buttoning his jacket, "he is downstairs in the lobby right now. Security clocked him in five minutes ago. He brought his operations director and his portfolio deck."
I turned toward the mirror, smoothing my lapels. The woman staring back at me wasn't the trembling bride who had stood in a mop-splattered wedding gown twelve hours ago.
This was Olivia Bennett. Managing Partner and sole inheritor of the Bennett Conglomerate.
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"Let him sweat in the holding room for twenty minutes," I instructed. "Then show him to Boardroom Alpha."
***
