Chapter 516

Liam's gaze lingered on the document clutched in Olivia's trembling fingers. "I won't push you to reveal anything before you're ready."

Despite his reassurance, Olivia's thoughts churned like stormy seas. She hurled the report into the nearest bin with a frustrated sigh. "I'll hold you to that promise." Brushing past Liam, she strode toward the exit, her heels clicking sharply against the tile.

Liam shadowed her steps, his voice uncharacteristically tender. "Did I upset you by coming? If my presence bothers you, I won't intrude again." The humility in his tone was jarring—this wasn’t the ruthless "Blackwood Enigma" the world feared.

Olivia wasn’t angry. Just... adrift. The weight of recent events pressed down until her ribs ached. Pausing mid-step, she turned to face him, regret twisting her features. "That’s not what I meant. It’s been... a lot. I’m tired."

A gust of wind rattled the windows. Without hesitation, Liam shrugged off his tailored coat and draped it over her shoulders, his fingers lingering a heartbeat too long. "I get it. I just wanted to see you’re okay. If you are, I’ll go."

She caught his wrist as he turned, cursing her traitorous heart. "Stay for dinner," she muttered. "Isabelle keeps asking for you."

The change in Liam was instantaneous—his eyes, usually so guarded, lit up like dawn breaking over the city. He fell into step beside her, his masked face doing little to hide the smile in his voice. By the time they reached her penthouse, he’d negotiated his way into cooking, rolling up his sleeves with the focus of a surgeon prepping for operation.

In Olivia’s kitchen, Liam shed his public persona along with the mask. The apron strings strained against his broad shoulders as he moved with precision, each slice of the knife deliberate. Golden stove light caught the sharp angles of his face, softening the man who’d once frozen boardrooms with a glance.

The spread he prepared—Isabelle’s favorite lemon-glazed salmon, Olivia’s truffle risotto—was obscenely perfect. Their daughter beamed, swinging their joined hands between them like this was any normal family dinner.

Alistair joined them, more present than he’d been in weeks. The haunted look in his eyes had dulled, though his gaze kept darting to the door. Olivia knew who he was searching for. Reluctantly, she called Margaret.

The woman who arrived was a ghost of herself—pale, brittle, drowning in a sweater that hung off her frame. Olivia hadn’t laid a finger on her since that night in the vault, when Margaret tried to trade Alistair’s freedom for Liam’s demise. Karma, it seemed, had collected its debt in sleepless nights and hollow cheeks.

Margaret didn’t sit. Didn’t speak. Just hovered near Alistair like a shadow, her fingers twitching toward him before curling into fists.

Olivia watched Liam—his knife never faltering as he diced herbs, his gaze flicking to Margaret with icy calculation. The air thickened with unspoken threats.

Isabelle, oblivious, giggled as she stole a cherry tomato from Liam’s cutting board. He pretended to scowl, tapping her nose with flour-dusted fingers.

Two worlds colliding in a penthouse kitchen.

And Olivia, stranded between them.