Chapter 8
I stared at Kendra’s message until the screen dimmed.
He hit me too.
My first feeling was not pity.
I wish it had been.
It was anger.
A bitter, ugly part of me thought, So now you know.
Then shame followed.
Because no woman deserves the lesson of a man’s hand.
Not even the woman who laughed when it happened to me.
I took the phone to my father’s office.
He was still awake.
Of course he was.
Arthur Hartwell slept like war could begin without permission, which meant barely.
I handed him the phone.
He read the messages.
His expression did not change.
“What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then start with what is right.”
I hated that answer.
Because it gave me no hiding place.
Russell called Kendra through a secure line.
She answered crying.
I listened, silent.
Victor had gone to her hotel after leaving Hartwell Tower.
Drunk.
Furious.
Blaming her.
Blaming me.
Blaming the unborn child for “complicating strategy.”
When she threatened to leave, he slapped her.
Then he took her phone.
She used the hotel tablet to message me.
“Where is he now?” Russell asked.
“Gone. He said he had one more person to see.”
My father and Russell looked at each other.
Eleanor.
Victor’s mother.
By midnight, we knew Victor had gone to Oak Brook.
By one, Eleanor had called three board members, two journalists, and a judge she once dated.
By two, the first smear story appeared online.
Hartwell Heiress Deceived Husband for Seven Years in Cruel Social Experiment.
There I was.
Not Olivia Hayes.
Not Olivia Lane.
Olivia Hartwell.
Cold.
Manipulative.
Secretly wealthy.
Victor was painted as ambitious but deceived.
I was painted as a rich woman playing poverty.
Kendra was not mentioned.
The assault was not mentioned.
The fraud was called “internal accounting confusion.”
I read the article twice.
My father told me not to.
I did anyway.
At breakfast, Russell entered with more news.
“Victor filed for emergency spousal protection.”
I looked up.
“What?”
“He claims you and your father are using corporate power to destroy him after he asked for divorce.”
My father’s eyes went cold.
“And the assault?”
“Denied.”
I touched my cheek.
The bruise had darkened overnight.
Russell continued.
“There is a hearing at three.”
My father turned to me.
“You do not have to attend.”
May you like
I stood.
“Yes, I do.”
