Chapter 69

Olivia's blood boiled at the woman's veiled insult, but Isabella discreetly pulled at her sleeve, silently urging restraint. With practiced fingers, Olivia signed, "Plans may falter, but effort never betrays."

These very words had been Henry's gift to her years ago.

Taking a steadying breath, Olivia retreated, clearing the stage for the audition.

"Action!" The director's monotone call lacked conviction as cameras rolled. Their rival struck a practiced pose, her angles calculated for maximum flattery. Every movement screamed professional training, her symmetrical features glowing under studio lights.

When the director called cut, the woman turned with theatrical confidence. "Well? How was that?"

"Passable," the director muttered, rubbing his temple in clear dissatisfaction.

Smirking victoriously, the woman dismissed Olivia with a wave. "I suppose we're done here? Do thank Olivia for wasting everyone's time."

Isabella's hands clenched into fists, but Olivia calmly signed her response.

Bypassing the woman entirely, Isabella addressed the director after interpreting Olivia's signs. "The methodology demonstrated fundamentally misrepresents artifact preservation."

The director leaned forward. "Elaborate."

"Excessive pressure from the tweezers risks permanent damage," Olivia observed through Isabella's voice. "The inspection angle violated basic protocols. And the magnifying glass?" A pointed pause. "It was inverted. No trained professional would make such elementary errors."

With each critique, the woman's smugness crumbled like ancient parchment.

"Let me retake!" she begged the director.

But his patience had evaporated. "This isn't some modeling gig," he snapped. "We're showcasing academic rigor, not your Instagram portfolio. Your technique undermines our department's credibility."

His glare could have etched glass. "Why are you still here?"

The woman fled without another word.

"My apologies," the director sighed, turning to Olivia. "Trustee's daughter. Political favors."

Isabella frowned. "Won't she complain to her father?"

The director smirked. "My father chairs the board. She wouldn't dare."

Adjusting his glasses, he guided Olivia into position. "No theatrics needed. Just show us the precision that earned you the Whitmore Fellowship."

Olivia nodded, fingers already moving with practiced grace.

The session flowed seamlessly afterward, concluding with plans for tomorrow's final shoot.

At their luxurious hotel suite courtesy of Marcus Whitmore, Isabella twirled in delight. "This beats Whitmore Holdings' budget accommodations by miles!"

After ensuring Olivia needed nothing, Isabella grinned. "Room service is ordered. I'm off to soak in that jacuzzi until I prune!"

Alone, Olivia changed into silk pajamas when sharp knocks interrupted her solitude.

Expecting dinner, she opened the door—only to be shoved against the wall by a hurricane of expensive cologne and fury.

Liam Blackwood loomed over her, his breathing ragged as if he'd sprinted across the city. "Since when do you ignore my calls?" he demanded, fingers digging into her chin.

But the trembling doe eyes he expected to find had hardened into glacial steel.

Her single signed "Yes" struck like a slap—affirmation of her newfound defiance.

Liam barked a disbelieving laugh before lunging for a kiss.

Olivia's knee met his abdomen with surgical precision. As he doubled over, she wrenched free and flung the door open—a silent ejection notice.

"I'm your husband—" Liam rasped, then straightened with fresh determination. "I'm staying."

Olivia's refusal needed no interpreter.

His smirk turned predatory as he snatched her handbag. "How was the shoot?" he taunted, unzipping it with deliberate slowness.

Olivia froze—then lunged. Inside lay the ultrasound image she couldn't let him discover.