Chapter 5
Victor arrived at Hartwell Tower at noon.
He wore the same suit from the night before.
The collar was wrinkled now.
His hair was wet from rain.
His face had lost its easy arrogance, but not enough.
Men like Victor do not become humble quickly.
They become offended first.
The lobby cameras showed him pushing past reception until security stopped him.
“I need to see Olivia Hayes.”
The receptionist said, “There is no Olivia Hayes available.”
“She’s my wife.”
My father watched beside me from the executive floor.
“Not for long,” he said.
Victor slammed his palm on the desk.
“Tell Olivia to come down.”
Russell spoke into his phone.
“Send him up.”
I turned.
“Why?”
My father looked at me.
“You decide if you want to see him.”
“I don’t.”
“Then watch him see us.”
That was different.
Victor was brought into the upper conference room with two guards behind him.
I sat at the far end of the table.
My father stood by the window.
Russell remained near the door.
Victor entered angry.
Then he saw Arthur Hartwell.
His anger faltered.
Every ambitious man in Chicago had imagined meeting my father.
They imagined cigar smoke, secret deals, access.
They did not imagine standing in front of him after slapping his daughter.
Victor swallowed.
“Mr. Hartwell.”
My father turned.
“Mr. Hayes.”
Victor tried to smile.
“I think there’s been a misunderstanding at Meridian.”
My father said nothing.
Victor continued, faster.
“I don’t know what Olivia told you, but she can be emotional. We had a domestic disagreement.”
My father looked at me.
“Domestic.”
My cheek still carried the mark.
Victor’s eyes flicked to it.
Only then did he seem to remember.
“Liv,” he said softly.
I hated that voice most.
The voice he used after cruelty.
The one that tried to turn a wound into a misunderstanding.
“Don’t,” I said.
He stepped closer.
The guards moved.
Victor stopped.
My father finally walked to the table.
“You struck my daughter.”
Victor blinked.
His mouth parted.
Daughter.
The word landed.
He looked at me.
Then my father.
Then Russell.
“No.”
“Yes,” I said.
He laughed once.
Pure panic.
“No. Olivia Lane—”
“My mother’s name.”
“You lied to me.”
I stared at him.
“Yes.”
His face twisted with sudden relief.
As if my lie could cancel all of his.
“You lied for seven years.”
“So did you.”
“That’s different.”
My father leaned forward.
“How?”
May you like
Victor looked at him.
No answer came.
