006

Oliver

Matthew sure wasn’t lying when he said Lucas would be waiting at the front.

The moment he pulled the car to a stop, he unfastened his seat belt and stepped out. I followed, gathering my phone and adjusting my jacket before closing the passenger door.

Matthew was already walking towards the entrance, so I hurried after him.

We hadn’t gone far when a familiar voice called out.

“Mr. Fletcher!”

I turned just as Lucas approached us.

He was dressed in a well-fitted suit, looking every bit like the wealthy heir I had once known. His steps slowed when he got close enough, and his eyes moved from Matthew to me.

“Hey,” he greeted.

I swallowed. “Hi, Lucas.”

Matthew glanced between us before looking down at me. “Your shirt.”

I looked at him. “What?”

“The waist.”

Before I could respond, he reached for the front of my shirt, straightening the fabric where it had folded beneath my jacket. His fingers moved to my waist as he adjusted it, making sure everything sat properly.

I stood still, my face growing warm. “Matthew…”

“Hold still.”

I lowered my gaze, suddenly very aware of the people walking through the entrance. A few employees had slowed down to greet Matthew, but their attention kept drifting towards us.

“Good morning, Mr. Fletcher.”

Matthew barely looked up. He gave a brief hum in response, his attention still on my shirt.

When he was satisfied, he brushed his hand over the front of my jacket and finally stepped back. “Better.”

I nodded, unable to meet his eyes.

Lucas hadn’t said anything.

I could feel his gaze on us, and when I eventually looked up, I caught him staring at Matthew’s hand before shifting his attention to my face.

“Shall we?” Matthew asked.

I nodded again.

He placed a hand against my lower back and guided me towards the entrance. I followed beside him, conscious of the curious glances from the employees we passed.

From the outside, it probably looked like he was embracing me as we walked into the building.

Once we entered the lobby, Matthew stopped beside the reception desk. “I have a meeting to attend,” he said, looking at me. “Go on to your department.”

“Okay.”

He gave my shoulder a brief squeeze before turning towards the private elevator reserved for the executive offices.

Lucas remained behind for a moment, his gaze following Matthew before returning to me. “I’ll see you around,” he said.

I gave him a small nod and walked away without waiting for him to say anything else.

By the time I reached my department, most of the staff had already settled into their morning routines. I greeted a few colleagues before making my way to my desk.

There were several files waiting for me.

I placed my phone beside the computer, pulled out my chair, and began going through the work that had been assigned to me.

I had barely finished reviewing the first document when one of my colleagues approached with a folder.

“Oliver, could you look over these sketches? The client wants a few corrections before we send them back.”

I accepted the folder and opened it.

The designs were familiar. I had worked on similar concepts during my university days, but I was insecure.

“Sure. I’ll take a look.”

The colleague placed a few additional sheets on my desk before walking away.

I studied the first sketch, tracing the lines with my eyes. There were several areas that needed adjustment, particularly around the proportions and finishing details.

I reached for my pencil, my fingers tightening around it. Then they began to tremble. I paused, trying to steady my grip, but the pencil slipped slightly between my fingers.

I tried again.

The shaking only became more noticeable.

My jaw tightened as I lowered the pencil to the paper and attempted to make a small correction. The line came out uneven, and my hand jerked before I could finish it.

I dropped it.

“Oliver?”

I looked up.

The same colleague had returned and was standing beside my desk, staring at the unfinished sketch. “What’s taking you so long? The client is waiting for these corrections.”

“I can’t do this,” I muttered.

His eyebrows lifted. “What do you mean you can’t do it?”

I looked down at my hand. “I really can’t do it…”

He let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “What can you even do, then? I thought your résumé said you graduated as an artist.”

I said nothing.

He glanced at the sketches scattered across my desk before looking back at me. “I wonder what Mr. Fletcher sees in you. No wonder he lets you work here. What a useless Fletcher husband you are.”

My fingers curled against my palm.

He placed the folder on my desk with a dismissive shake of his head. “Just make sure you find something useful to do.”

Then he walked away.

I remained seated, staring at the sketches.

His words weren’t new to me. I had heard similar comments before, sometimes directly and other times whispered behind my back. Working at Fletcher Group had only made them worse.

I looked at my right hand.

The fingers that had once moved effortlessly across paper now struggled to hold a pencil. I could still remember the hours I had spent drawing, the excitement of completing a design, and the satisfaction of seeing an idea take shape beneath my hands.

Now, even a simple correction was beyond me.

Would my hand ever recover?

I swallowed and reached for the pencil again. My fingers started shaking almost immediately. I slammed my palm against the desk, making the scattered papers jump.

Several conversations around me stopped.

I looked up and realized people were staring. “Sorry,” I mumbled, quickly lowering my hand. “I’m sorry.”

A few of them returned to their work, while others continued watching for another moment before looking away.

I took a slow breath and pushed the pencil aside.

There was no point making things worse.

I gathered the files and began organising them instead. If I couldn’t handle the sketches, I could at least sort the documents, arrange the completed designs, and make sure everything was properly filed.

It wasn’t what I had been hired to do, but it was better than sitting around doing nothing.

I had just finished arranging a stack of documents when someone tapped my shoulder.

I turned.

“Oliver?”

“Yes?”

“The boss’s client asked to see you.”

I frowned. “Me?”

“Yes. He specifically asked for you.”

I stared at the person for a moment.

I had never met any of Matthew’s clients, and I couldn’t think of a reason one of them would want to see me. I was hardly involved in his business dealings.

“Did he say why?”

“No. He just said you should meet him on the rooftop.”

The rooftop?

I looked towards the elevator.

Something told me this had nothing to do with a business client.

I let out a quiet sigh.

Lucas.

Who else would ask to see me privately on the rooftop after showing up at the front desk?