CHAPTER 40: CHAPTER 40

Olivia’s POV

The next morning, I reported to work looking like I’d been hit by a truck, dragged through a swamp, and then left to dry in the sun. Dark circles under my eyes told the story of a sleepless night spent tossing and turning, replaying that terrifying encounter in the alley over and over again.

*What the hell did I do?*

I kept asking myself that question all night. I’d spent hours staring at the ceiling, wondering if I’d just sent a serial killer after my boss. What if he kills Maxwell? What if he tosses him in the Hudson River? What if I wake up tomorrow to find Wellington & Sons splashed across the morning news as a crime scene?

*Oh God, Olivia, how could you think of such a thing? You’re pure evil.*

I’d grabbed my phone at least fifteen times during the night, desperately trying to send a message to that mysterious number from Saturday, trying to take back my reckless request. But every time I tried to compose a text, nothing would send. When I tried to call, the line was dead. It was like the number had never existed at all.

*Frustrating doesn’t even begin to cover it.*

As I trudged through the hallway toward Maxwell’s office, I tried to brace myself for another day of his impossible demands and sadistic mind games. At least if he was being his usual tyrannical self, it would mean he was alive and well, and I hadn’t accidentally ordered a hit on my own boss.

I was halfway to his office when it hit me like a lightning bolt.

*SHIT!*

His coffee. I was supposed to grab his precious Taylor’s Cafe coffee on my way to work. The one non-negotiable rule he’d made crystal clear yesterday.

I smacked my forehead so hard it probably left a mark. "Fuck, fuck, FUCK!"

I did a complete U-turn and practically sprinted back toward the elevator, my shoes hurrying frantically against the floor. Several colleagues turned to stare at me as I rushed past them like a madman.

*Please don’t let him be there yet. Please don’t let him be sitting at his desk, checking his watch, plotting new and creative ways to torture me for failing on day two.*

I jabbed the elevator button repeatedly, as if that would make it arrive faster. When the doors finally opened, I dove inside and hit the ground floor button like I was defusing a bomb.

The barista at Taylor’s Cafe looked alarmed when I burst through their doors like the building was on fire.

"I need a Maxwell Wellington!" I gasped, still out of breath from my sprint across the street.

"One large black coffee, no sugar, extra hot," the barista recited like someone who’d been making this order for years. "Coming right up."

While I waited, bouncing on my toes with nervous energy, I found myself checking my phone again. Still no way to contact my mysterious stalker. The number that had texted me Saturday night might as well have been a ghost.

*What have I done? What if he really does something terrible to Maxwell? What if I’m an accessory to whatever twisted plan he’s cooking up?*

"Here you go!" The barista handed me the coffee, and I practically snatched it from his hands.

"Thank you!" I called over my shoulder, already rushing toward the door.

I ran back to the building with the desperation of someone being chased by wild animals. The security guard gave me a concerned look as I flew through the lobby, thankfully, Patricia was not on seat.

Back in the elevator, I checked my appearance in the metal doors, making sure my Oliver disguise was still intact. The image that stared back at me looked harried and slightly unhinged. My fake facial hair was still secure, but my hair was disheveled from all the running, and there was a thin sheen of sweat on my forehead.

*Get it together, Olivia. You can’t let him see you falling apart on day two.*

The elevator dinged, and I emerged onto the executive floor, trying to compose myself. Maxwell’s office door was still closed, no light coming from underneath.

*Thank God. He’s not here yet.*

I entered his office and placed the coffee on his desk exactly where I’d seen it yesterday, then hurried to my tiny corner prison by the door. I pulled out my compact mirror and quickly fixed my appearance - smoothing down my hair, dabbing away the sweat, making sure Oliver looked professional and composed rather than like he’d just completed an Olympic sprint.

Then I settled into my chair and tried to look like I’d been there all morning, casually working on the mountain of filing that still awaited me.

*Hour one: No Maxwell.*

I organized files and tried not to think about mysterious strangers with hacking abilities and violent tendencies.

*Hour two: Still no Maxwell.*

I answered a few phone calls, took messages, and wondered if this was normal. Did CEO’s often show up late without notice?

*Hour three: Where the hell is Maxwell?*

By 11 AM, I was genuinely starting to worry. Not because I cared about Maxwell Wellington’s wellbeing - absolutely not - but because his absence was so completely unlike everything I’d observed about him. The man seemed like the type who would show up to work during a natural disaster, probably while criticizing the hurricane’s technique.

*Or maybe he was dead already? Oh God!*

I kept glancing toward the door, half-expecting him to burst through at any moment with some new impossible demand. But the office remained eerily quiet.

*Maybe I should ask Alex? Maybe Alex could call him and check if he’s okay?*

But the thought of facing Alex made my stomach twist into knots. I’d have to deal with that awkwardness eventually, but not today. Not when I was already barely holding it together.

I was just starting to consider whether I should call HR to report that my boss had vanished when I heard the elevator ding in the hallway.

*Finally.*

I quickly sat up straighter in my chair, arranged my facial expression, and prepared myself for whatever fresh hell Maxwell had planned for day two.

The office door opened slowly - much more slowly than Maxwell’s usual dramatic entrances.

And then Maxwell Wellington limped into the office like he was auditioning for a Victorian melodrama.

His left arm was secured in a white sling, positioned against his chest carefully. In his right hand, he held an elegant black cane with a silver handle, which he used to support himself as he moved slowly across the office.

Every step was a performance. He placed the cane in front carefully, then took another measured step. His posture was slightly hunched, as if he were carrying the weight of tremendous suffering.

His dark suit was perfect as always, but there was something different about his appearance. His hair was slightly more tousled than usual, and there was a small bandage visible just above his collar, adding to the overall effect of a man who had bravely survived some terrible ordeal.

I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.

*Is he serious right now? This looks like something out of a bad soap opera.*

Maxwell made his way across the office with the dignity of a wounded war hero returning from battle. Each step he took was accompanied by a wince, as if every movement caused him tremendous pain that he was nobly enduring for the sake of his responsibilities.

He paused dramatically in front of his desk, looking down at his coffee with the expression of a man who had forgotten that such simple pleasures existed.

"Mr. Hopton," he said finally with a slight wince. "Thank you for ensuring my coffee was waiting. In times of adversity, it’s the small comforts that make the difference."

I had to physically press my lips together to keep from bursting out laughing. "Of course, Mr. Wellington. I trust you’re... feeling better this morning?"

Maxwell lowered himself carefully into his chair. Then he set his cane aside before adjusting his sling with a slight grimace.

"Do I look like someone who’s feeling better?" He asked, looking a bit furious. "I’m not in the mood for talks right now, Mr. Hopton. Just let me be."

"Okay, sir." I replied quietly, then buried my face under my desk and burst out laughing.