Chapter 144: Chapter 144
Olivia’s POV
The moment I slammed the bathroom door behind me, I moved with the energy of someone who genuinely believed Maxwell might kick down the door at any second.
My fingers fumbled with the buttons of my shirt, peeling the stained clothes off as quickly as possible. The binding beneath was slightly damp too, making my skin feel clammy and uncomfortable. But there was no time to adjust it properly - not when Maxwell was on the other side of that door, probably contemplating ways to make my life even more miserable.
I pulled on the clean shirt he’d given me, marveling at how soft it felt against my skin - probably Italian cotton.
The pants fit surprisingly well, though I had to tighten the belt to keep them from sliding down my hips. Maxwell’s clothes were bigger than me, which made it even better. The bigger the better. But my mind had to betray me by trailing off to that hot...
Nope. Not thinking about those abs. Or that chest. Or those shoulders. Or...
"Focus, Olivia," I muttered to myself, buttoning the pants and tucking in the shirt.
I adjusted my wig in the mirror, making sure nothing had shifted during my hurried dressing. My binding was secure, my facial prosthetics still in place. Oliver Hopton stared back at me from the reflection, looking slightly rattled but intact.
Okay. You can do this. Just walk out there, act normal, and pretend you weren’t just staring at your boss’s naked chest like a starving woman at a buffet.
I took a deep breath, steeling myself for whatever humiliation awaited me on the other side of the door.
But when I finally worked up the courage to emerge from the bathroom, holding my discarded clothes against my chest, I found... nothing.
The office was empty.
Maxwell had disappeared.
His wet clothes were draped over the edge of his desk - the expensive shirt and tie I’d ruined, leaving a small puddle on the floor. But the man himself was nowhere to be seen.
I looked around, confused. "Sir?"
No response. Just silence.
Okay... maybe he’s not that crazy after all. Maybe he actually has some boundaries, and decided to give me my privacy. Maybe he’s even a bit sane.
The thought was almost comforting.
I glanced at my reflection in the glass of one of Maxwell’s framed degrees, checking my appearance one more time. The suit was slightly big on me, but not enough to look ridiculous. I looked okay. Respectable. Like an assistant who hadn’t just experienced three separate disasters before noon.
Satisfied with myself, I gathered up Maxwell’s wet clothes along with my own. The office had a dry-cleaning service for executives - I’d seen the pickup schedule on the company intranet. All I had to do was bag these up, tag them with Maxwell’s name and office number, and leave them in the designated area.
I found the special garment bags in Maxwell’s closet - of course he had a supply of them, probably went through them regularly given how impeccably dressed he always was - and carefully folded both sets of wet clothes inside.
As I worked, I tried not to think about the fact that I was handling Maxwell intimate clothing. Tried not to notice how his shirt still smelled like his cologne mixed with tea. Tried not to imagine him wearing these clothes this morning, buttoning up this shirt, adjusting this tie...
Stop it. You’re being ridiculous.
I sealed the bag, filled out the tag with instructions for express service - Maxwell would probably want these back by tomorrow - and made my way down the hallway to the dry-cleaning drop-off closet.
After depositing the bag in the appropriate bin, I made my way back to Maxwell’s office, already mentally preparing for whatever work had piled up during my extended absence this morning.
But when I pushed open the door, I stopped short.
Maxwell had returned. And he wasn’t alone.
Standing in front of his desk was a woman I’d never seen before - tall, elegant, probably in her mid-thirties, with honey-blonde flowing hair. She was wearing a cream-colored suit and looked like someone with good breeding.
She was beautiful. Extremely beautiful.
Maxwell looked up as I entered, his expression neutral. "Oliver. Come here."
I approached slowly, very aware of how I probably looked in these borrowed clothes that didn’t quite fit right.
"This is Clarissa Banks," Maxwell said, gesturing to the woman. "David’s soon-to-be ex wife."
My eyes widened slightly, though I tried to keep my expression neutral. This was David’s wife? This calm, beautiful, refined woman had actually married that scumbag?
She was way too good for him. Way, way too good.
"Mrs. Banks," I said, nodding politely. "It’s a pleasure to meet you."
"Please, call me Clarissa." Her voice was soft and cultured, with just a hint of sadness. "I’m sorry to drop by unannounced, but I’m afraid I have some unfortunate news regarding the divorce case."
Maxwell gestured to one of the chairs in front of his desk. "Please, sit. What’s happened?"
I moved to stand beside Maxwell’s desk, pulling out my notebook to take notes - though I was absolutely dying of curiosity about what could have happened to David.
Clarissa settled into the chair gracefully, folding her hands in her lap. "David was involved in a car accident on Friday evening. He’s currently in critical condition at Saint Gilbert’s Hospital. The doctors say he’s stable, but he hasn’t regained consciousness yet."
Maxwell’s faced was immediately filled wifh concern - his brow furrowing, his posture leaning forward slightly. "I’m so sorry to hear that. That’s terrible news."
I watched him carefully, studying the way sympathy seemed to soften his harsh features, the way his voice sounded gentler. For a moment, I was almost tempted to believe he actually had a heart beating in that chest I definitely wasn’t thinking about.
Almost.
"When did this happen?" I heard myself ask, unable to contain my curiosity.
Clarissa turned to me. "Friday evening, around 7 PM. He was driving back from..." She paused, "he was coming back from an appointment when his car collided with a truck."
Friday evening. That was just hours after he’d left Maxwell’s mansion.
"Was he alone?" Maxwell asked.
"No." Clarissa’s voice was tight now, controlled but clearly emotional. "There was a woman with him in the car. She’s fine - just minor injuries. They released her from the hospital the same night."
A woman. Of course there was a woman. David was probably cheating on his beautiful, calm wife during his own dirvorce procedure.
He deserved exactly what he got. I didn’t feel even a little bit guilty about it. David was a manipulative, threatening scumbag who’d tried to blackmail me, who’d probably cheated on Clarissa multiple times, who was currently in the process of trying to screw her over in their divorce.
Karma was a bitch, and apparently, she drove a truck.
"I wanted to inform you in person," Clarissa continued, "obviously, with David unconscious, we’ll need to put the case on hold until he recovers."
Maxwell nodded, his expression grave. "Of course. I completely understand. Actually, I was scheduled to meet with him tomorrow to discuss some aspects of the case, but obviously that will need to be postponed."
"I appreciate your understanding." Clarissa stood, "The doctors are cautiously optimistic about his recovery, but there’s no timeline yet for when he might wake up."
"Please don’t hesitate to reach out if you need anything," Maxwell said, standing as well and extending his hand. "And I’ll be praying for David’s speedy recovery."
The sincerity in his voice was almost convincing. If I didn’t know better, I might have actually believed he cared.
But I did know better. I knew Maxwell Wellington was perfectly capable of sounding sympathetic while feeling absolutely nothing. It was probably a skill he’d honed in courtrooms, making juries believe he genuinely cared about his clients when really he was just calculating his next move.