3: Cold Welcome

Victor shot her a worried glance, but Olivia couldn't speak. For one terrible, heart-stopping moment, she was certain he must know. That this was cruel punishment, not coincidence. That he was toying with her.

But his grey eyes held only cold curiosity. No recognition or spark of memory. He didn't remember the night they'd spent tangled in sheets. He didn't remember the way she'd whispered her name against his chest, or the way he'd held her like she mattered.

No, he doesn’t know it’s me. He doesn’t know about Poppy or Hazel. Breathe.

Cyprus spoke again, turning to Victor. "I reviewed the preliminary documents you submitted last night, the ones you assured me were ready for client presentation. Page fourteen, Victor. The core financial projections are off by nearly two million. Do you have any idea what that would have done to our credibility if I hadn't caught it?"

"S-Sir, I assure you—"

"Your assurances mean nothing to me." Cyprus's voice was ice. "Your work means something. Your results mean something. And right now, you're delivering neither."

"Mr. Blackwell," Olivia heard herself say, the indignation in her tone surprising even her, "that's a serious error, but there's no need to humiliate him in front of me like this. It was a mistake, not malice."

Cyprus's head swiveled toward her. Those grey eyes, cold and piercing behind his glasses, swept over her face with unsettling thoroughness. Then his lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.

"Livienne" he said slowly, tasting her name like he was deciding whether to spit it out. "How admirable. Defending the man who nearly cost this company its reputation." He adjusted his glasses. "Tell me, is your compassion reserved only for incompetence? Or do you extend it to everyone who fails to meet basic professional standards?"

She clenched her jaw, bristling as a flame of fury burned in her chest. She opened her mouth to argue, but Cyprus wasn’t done. He leaned forward slightly, letting his voice drop lower. “And let me remind you, in this room, you are not the celebrated Livienne, or whatever they call you out there. You are an employee of this company. My company. And I expect you to start behaving accordingly.”

For a fleeting instant, Olivia felt the old panic rise again, this time tempered with a new, bristling defiance. Her pulse hammered in her ears, but she held her ground, her head high and her chest tight with irritation.

Cyprus turned back to Victor. “You are off this project,” he said casually. “Consider yourself lucky I am not firing you outright.”

Victor stammered, stuttering an apology as he took a step backwards, his face pale and tight with embarrassment. He nodded to Olivia as he passed her and hurried out of the room, leaving her alone with Cyprus.

Olivia’s anger welled up till adrenaline fuelled her forward. She rose to her feet, her heels bringing her roughly to Cyprus’s chest.

“Who exactly are you?” she demanded. “What gives you the right to speak to Mr. Brand like that?”

Cyprus tilted his head, smirking down at her as though she were amusing rather than threatening. The dangerous curve of that smile, the lazy arrogance in his posture sent a shiver of irritation and something else down her spine.

“I am the CEO and owner of Saint Liman,” he said icily. His grey eyes sparkled with that unsettling mixture of amusement and authority. “Your boss’ boss, so to speak.”

Olivia blinked. The words she was about to say lodged in her throat. “You’re… lying,” she breathed, disbelief threading through her words.

Cyprus ignored her entirely. He simply leaned back slightly and added, “Since I apparently cannot trust my staff to handle this project with the care it deserves, I will be personally in charge. We will be working together. Welcome to Saint Liman, Livienne.”

Her mouth fell open. She had expected a brief introduction with friendly executives, not this.

The man who had haunted her memory for five years, was now her superior? More like her tormentor.

Olivia’s brain flailed, words tangling in the sudden shock, the adrenaline, and the fury that coiled tightly in her chest. She clenched her fists slightly at her sides, trying to steady herself. For the second time that morning, she was caught entirely off guard. Cyprus Blackwell had returned to her life not quietly, not politely, and not professionally. He had returned to claim it entirely.

Cyprus reached into his inner jacket pocket and produced a folded document. "Here."

"Your contract," he said simply. "Standard Saint Liman talent agreement. I had legal expedite it this morning." He held it out. "Read it carefully. Page seven is particularly relevant to our conversation."

Olivia took it, her fingers brushing his despite her best efforts. The contact sent an unwelcome jolt through her. She skimmed the document, going straight to page seven.

"Talent agrees to make themselves available for all promotional activities, appearances, and shoots as required by the company, with no fewer than 24 hours' notice. Talent acknowledges that their personal schedule is secondary to project requirements and agrees to prioritize company commitments above all personal obligations."

Her blood ran cold.

"'Above all personal obligations'?" She looked up, incredulous. "You expect me to drop everything at a moment's notice? What about emergencies? What about—"

"What about what, Livienne?" Cyprus's voice was perfectly neutral.

What about my daughters? The words sat on her tongue, hot and desperate. But she couldn't say them. She couldn't give him that ammunition.

"I have a life," she said instead, her voice tight. "I have responsibilities outside of this project."

"Then you should have considered that before accepting a position at Saint Liman." He adjusted his glasses, grey eyes cold. "This is a business, Livienne, not a charity. If you cannot commit fully, perhaps you should walk away now."

The threat hung between them. Walk away, and lose the project that could secure her daughters’ future. Or sign, and surrender control over her own life.

She thought of the fashion house she dreamed of building. Of being her own boss and finally having the time to shower her daughters with the attention they deserved from her.

He reached out and tilted her chin up with one finger, a gesture that was almost tender, if not for the ice in his eyes. “I don't care about your 'responsibilities.' I care about this project and the millions of dollars I've invested in it. If that makes me a monster, then so be it."

"Find your child’s father," he murmured. "Tell him to handle the school runs. Tell him to be a parent. Because I am not your child's keeper, and I refuse to let your personal choices become my professional problem."

The words hit her like a physical blow. Find the boy's father. Tell him to be a parent.

You're standing right in front of me.