Chapter Two.

Chapter Two

Olivia’s POV

I walked into Stone International with the kind of tight smile you wear at a family reunion where everyone knows your secrets but pretends to ask how you’ve been. My heels clicked across the marble floors like an apology. The building was sleek, heartless, colder than yesterday. Or maybe that was just me, bleeding quiet panic behind red lipstick and the illusion of composure. This was just my third day of working here.

Everything felt louder today. The silence in the elevator. The stares from organized assistants who hadn’t fumbled their way into this world. The weight of my fake résumé, tucked neatly in the file cabinet beside my desk like a loaded gun.

I settled behind the screen, breathing through the storm inside my chest.

Then the door opened.

Fabian.

Hair perfect. Cufflinks gleaming. That usual precision about him—like he belonged in a world I could never afford to glimpse. 

Ugh. This man.

The world didn’t just bend around him. It paused.

His eyes found mine like they always did.

Not a glance. Not an accidental look.

It was deliberate. Watching. Knowing. Creeping into my soul.

"Morning," he said, in that voice that dripped command.

Hot and sexy.

Olivia control.

"Good morning, Mr. Stone."

Something flickered in his gaze.

He lingered. "Come into the conference room. Bring the portfolio I marked."

I nodded, scrambling to my feet. My hands shook. I told myself it was caffeine. Deep down, I knew It wasn’t.

The conference room was sun-drenched and hollow, Richly decorated, it looked way better than my apartment. placed the portfolio at the head of the table. He didn’t sit there. He chose the chair beside me.

Too close. Damn too close!

I adjusted the pages, fingers fumbling.

He leaned forward. “Relax. You’re not under a spotlight."

Easy for him to say. He didn’t walk through life feeling like an imposter with every step.

“This proposal for the Tokyo merge,” he said, flipping through the file. “Why did you arrange it chronologically instead of by priority?”

I blinked. “I thought it would help clarify the sequence of decision making."

He hummed. Not in disapproval. But not in praise either.

Then, softly, "You always did organize things backward."

I froze. 

What the heck.

He didn’t look at me. Just flipped another page.

"Like that time you taught me to tie my shoes. You did it reverse loop method. Remember?"

My mouth dried.

I remembered.

We were in the backyard. His shoelaces had come undone and he had sat down on the hot pavement, lower lip trembling. His parents were nowhere. I knelt, tied them for him, then untied them again and showed him how to do it himself.

He had gotten it wrong seven times. And on the eighth, he had grinned like he won a war.

"You remember that?" I whispered.

He turned to me. And for a second, I forgot how to breathe.

“You wiped your hands on your shorts when you were done. And gave me that look.”

“What look?”

“The one that said, 'I dare you not to be proud of yourself.'"

My heart skipped a beat, then another.

Control Olivia control.

Why did he remember that? Of all things.

His expression didn’t change, but his gaze stayed on me. Long enough to feel like a confession.

I stood abruptly. “I should get the updated report from legal.”

“Sit, Liv.”

He said it without looking away.

Liv.

What the heck?

The sound of it hit like a match striking bone.

I sat. Because what else could I do?

The rest of the meeting blurred. My notes were scribbled, half-intelligible, like someone who had no purpose in life. 

Trust me, I don't.

The rest of the team joined us, a dozen voices discussing market shares and distribution chains, but all I could feel was the heat of him beside me. His knee brushing mine once, maybe twice, not accidental.

Intentional. Never accidental.

Every time he leaned in to speak, I felt my body tighten.

Not from desire.

From knowing I didn’t belong here. That someone like him saw me too clearly.

He asked me for updates, assignments, clarification. But always with that voice. 

Hot and sexy.

 And that gaze.

I was seen.

Too seen.

And it terrified me.

At noon, I walked to the restroom and splashed cold water on my face like it could rinse away the weight pressing down on me.

He remembered me tying his shoes.

I couldn’t even remember my own passwords half the time.

Or even remember to eat.

And it wasn’t just the memory.

It was the way he looked at me when he said it.

Like he still saw me there. Kneeling. Teaching. Belonging in some moment I forgot I gave him.

Don’t romanticize this, Olivia, I told myself. He’s your boss. He’s rich. Powerful. And you’re... temporary, it's all in your head.

Still, when I returned to my desk, my stomach twisted when I saw his door open again.

He was walking toward me. Not brisk. Not hurried. Like the earth answered to him. Like he owned the whole damn world.

“You forgot to confirm the reservation with Langham’s team,” he said, holding up the portfolio.

“sorry,” I muttered, taking it. “I’ll call now.”

He didn’t hand it over immediately. His fingers brushed mine.

Accidental maybe.

Maybe Not accidental.

“You’re better than this,” he said.

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you.”

Then he walked away.

What the hell!

And I just sat there, phone in hand, heart punching ribs like it was trying to escape.

The day ended with me staring at the clock, praying that God would let me walk out of there without another encounter, Without another moment of eye contact or silence thick enough to drown me in.

But of course, he called me in at 6:47 p.m.

Great!

“The Zurich call ran late,” he said. “Sit." He commanded.

I sat, like I was programmed to follow all his instructions.

He leaned back, folding his arms. Watching me.

"You hate it here."

Of course.

"I don’t." I lied.

"Liar."

I clenched my jaw. "It's a lot." Feeling completely seen.

"And yet you’re still here."

"Because I need to be."

"Not the same as wanting."

"What do you want me to say, Fabian? That I’m out of my depth? That I don’t belong here? In this world where every one walks like they were born with perfection."

"I want you to stop punishing yourself for being here."

I blinked. “What?”

“You walk like you're apologizing. You speak like you're waiting to be dismissed. You shrink every time you succeed. Why?" He asked.

Because I’ve never been allowed to believe I deserve good things.

Because life taught me early that I had to lie, to run, to fake it to make it.

Because the real Olivia Wilde has never been enough.

I couldn’t say any of that, so I said nothing. It wasn't like he could understand anyway.

He stood.

The chair creaked as he walked around the desk. He didn’t touch me. Didn’t sit. Just stood close enough for me to go breathless. His musk wood cologne hitting my nostrils.

“You're doing fine, Liv,” he said, softer this time. “You just don’t believe it yet.”

His words felt like adding salt to injury.

I stood quickly, gathering my things. “Goodnight, Mr. Stone.”

“Liv.”

I turned.

His eyes met mine.

"Let me know when you’re ready to stop hiding."

Then he turned back to his desk, and I escaped into the hallway with my heart in my throat.

I walked out into the Manhattan night with my hands trembling and me trying to catch my breath.

And for the first time in a long, long time...

I felt exposed, completely seen.