Chapter 3 OLIVIA

OLIVIA

After Hannah and I got on the bus home, my mind was still echoing with the shock of running into Noah.

I had never imagined we would meet again. Noah and I had always lived in completely different worlds. He was born into privilege-the only son of a board member of the Morgan Group-while I was just an ordinary woman raising a child on a paycheck.

After graduation, he stayed on the East Coast and entered Columbia University's College of Physicians and Surgeons, pursuing a dual MD–PhD degree-one of the most prestigious medical institutions in New York. Later, he spent a year as a visiting researcher at the Cardiac Research Institute of the University of Basel in Switzerland, becoming one of the youngest rising experts in the field of cardiothoracic surgery.

And me?

I had spent all these years struggling on the edge of survival. Moving from New Hampshire to New York was nothing more than a desperate attempt to secure better medical care for my daughter.

So many years had passed. What were the odds that we would cross paths again?

Almost zero.

"Mom."

My daughter's voice pulled me out of my thoughts.

I wrapped my arms tightly around her, trying to ease the heavy pressure in my chest.

As I looked at her face, I noticed again how much she resembled Noah-especially her eyebrows and those gray eyes, the exact same shade as her father's.

"Mom, is Dr. Morgan my dad?"

Her sudden question stunned me. I fell silent for a moment, thinking about how to answer.

I gazed into her clear eyes and smiled, gently stroking her cheek. Then I noticed how thin she had become-smaller than most children her age.

"What makes you think he's your dad?" I asked softly.

Hannah pulled a photo out of her bag and showed me a picture of Noah and me from our college days.

"I wanted to ask Dr. Morgan earlier," she said, pointing at the photo. "Because he looks like my dad."

The hopeful look in her eyes made my heart miss a beat. I knew exactly what she wanted-to hear me confirm that the doctor we had just met was the father she had always longed for.

I didn't want to hurt her, but I couldn't tell her the truth either. Remembering how Noah had hurt me in the past, I couldn't bear the thought of my daughter being hurt by him as well.

"He's not your dad," I said carefully. "I've told you before-your father works overseas."

"But the nurse said Dr. Morgan just came back from abroad and started working at Manhattan Hospital," she countered.

I swallowed hard. My daughter was smart-too smart. I smiled and ruffled her hair. "Dr. Morgan isn't your dad. If he were, he would have recognized you. He just happens to look like your father."

"Oh," she said quietly.

The disappointment on her face was unmistakable.

I'm sorry, sweetheart. I can't tell you the truth. I don't want you to know that your father didn't want you.

He once despised me-out of shame and wounded pride, like a dull knife carving into flesh. And if he knew you existed, he would despise you too.

But I promise you this: I will love you with everything I have. I will do my best to fill the place he left empty, so you'll never feel the absence of a father's warmth.

We got off the bus and walked through the increasingly autumn-chilled streets of Brooklyn until we reached our building. We lived in Dyker Heights-a relatively quiet neighborhood not far from the subway, less expensive than Manhattan and safer than Bushwick.

I rang the doorbell of the apartment next door to check on Margaret.

Margaret Brown was our landlord. She was eccentric and well-known in the neighborhood for it. The duplex we rented belonged to her-a cozy one-bedroom unit. Margaret lived right next door.

After a moment, Margaret opened the door and let us in. I handed her the maintenance medication I'd picked up at the pharmacy near the hospital for Hannah's upcoming follow-up.

"How did the checkup go?" Margaret asked as she poured us drinks.

We sat in the dining area while Hannah played happily in the living room. After school, Hannah usually stayed at Margaret's place, so when I worked late, she kept some of her things there.

I smiled timidly. "Just like Dr. Smith said. Hannah needs surgery as soon as possible. We can't delay anymore, or it could affect her long-term health."

Margaret handed me her bank card. "I've got some savings. A decent amount. I believe it'll cover all of Hannah's medical expenses."

I shook my head and pushed the card back toward her. "I can't take it, Margaret. You've already helped us so much. Just taking care of Hannah while I'm at work is more than enough."

I needed money to support my daughter-but I couldn't accept hers. Margaret wasn't young anymore. That money should be her emergency fund, in case something happened to her. If I took it and something went wrong-and we couldn't help her because the money had gone to Hannah-I would never forgive myself.

"I'm not giving it to you. I'm lending it," she insisted, pressing the card into my hand. "You can pay me back monthly. Think about Hannah-she needs this money right now."

"You know I treat you like family," she added. "You're my daughter-in-law, and Hannah is my granddaughter."

I smiled.

After all, I had once been her daughter-in-law-briefly.

Liam Brown was Margaret's son. I met him when I first joined my company. He was one of my clients, and after working on a project together, we became friends. The apartment I lived in now was provided by him.

At the time, his father was critically ill. Liam turned down a position as marketing director at the company's UK branch because he wanted to stay by his father's side.

His father's only dying wish was to see his son married.

Back then, my finances were in dire straits. My salary wasn't enough to cover Hannah's medical bills and childcare, yet I had to work-and Hannah was only two years old.

Liam made me an offer: marry him to fulfill his father's wish, and in return, he would give me fifty thousand dollars. We agreed to divorce after his father passed away.

I accepted.

Like him, I was willing to do anything for family. And fifty thousand dollars was no small sum when it came to paying for Hannah's treatment.

We got married quietly-only family knew. We kept it as secret as possible, not wanting anyone else to find out.

Margaret was furious when she learned the truth, but there was nothing she could do. She knew her son was only trying to be filial, so she stayed silent.

A month later, Liam's father passed away. After the funeral, we divorced. A few months later, Liam flew to the UK. The position he had once turned down was offered to him again. With his father gone, there was no reason to refuse, and Margaret encouraged him to take it. It was a perfect opportunity for his career.

A year later, Margaret fell ill. Hannah and I took care of her. From then on, our bond grew even closer. She offered to look after Hannah while I worked, saving me the cost of hiring a nanny-money that could instead go toward Hannah's medical bills.

"No, Margaret," I said firmly. "Don't worry about us. I've got a big deal about to close. Once I land it, I'll earn a substantial commission. I can handle this."

On Monday morning, I went to work.

Walking through the bustling SOMA district, I felt more determined than ever to secure the major client by Friday. I worked as an account manager at Brightwave Media. I had originally wanted to become a copywriter-my strengths leaned more toward creativity-but I ultimately applied for sales because each signed client meant commission. And that money was critical for paying Hannah's medical expenses.

As I reached my desk, one of the copywriters, Jessica, approached me.

"Olivia, Isabelle's assistant said her boss wants to see you in her office," she said.

I nodded, grabbed my laptop, and assumed Isabelle wanted me to review the final proposal we were submitting to the major client on Friday.

As expected, our creative director, Isabelle, questioned me about the campaign proposal for Mere & Line's Everyday Luxury collection. I walked her through the concept and each phase of the campaign.

She reviewed the materials several times, then sighed.

"Olivia, is this really the best your team can do?" she asked.

I almost raised an eyebrow. I forced a polite smile. "Do you have any suggestions?"

"This launch has to scream luxury," Isabelle said. "We're talking high-end fashion. The campaign has to be eye-catching-because the word 'luxury' itself should stand out. Like me."

She smiled proudly, gesturing to the brand-logo outfit she was wearing.

I took a slow breath, reminding myself not to offend her. She was the boss's daughter.

"I understand your point, Isabelle," I said calmly. "But that's not the brand's philosophy."

"The 'everyday luxury' our client wants to promote is minimalism and understated elegance-quiet luxury," I explained, hoping she would understand.

Her smile never faltered. "I get what you're saying, Olivia. But luxury has to be aspirational. If it's too subtle, people get bored. It won't grab attention. We need bolder visuals, higher contrast."

I stared at her for a moment, thinking about how to explain that her definition of luxury differed from the client's. I needed her to understand the brand's core message. I needed to please the client-not her.

"What if we submit two proposals?" I suggested. "One as it is, and one revised according to your ideas."

It was the only way I could ensure the deal went through.

She paused, then nodded slowly. "Fine. We'll submit both. I'm confident the client will agree with me."

I forced another smile. "Of course."

After the tense meeting with Isabelle, I immediately gathered my team and relayed everything we'd discussed.

"What the hell?!" Jessica exclaimed once I finished.

Ella shook her head. "She thinks she's above everyone just because she's creative director. Everyone knows she got that position because of her dad."

"Thank God Matthew is actually competent," Sophia muttered. "Otherwise, this company would've gone under."

Matthew Caldwell was our CEO and the owner's son. As Sophia said, Matthew was a capable heir-good news for all of us.

Thanks to Isabelle, we suddenly had extra work, and I got home late that night. My daughter was already asleep in her room.

I had just finished showering when my phone chimed.

It was a message from Grace.

"I ran into William at a cocktail event in the Lower East Side a while back. He asked about you."

Grace's job took her to all kinds of social events. She worked in brand PR at a boutique event-planning firm, specializing in launches and private dinners for real estate developers and luxury brands. A muscle-brained trust-fund kid like William Anderson was naturally one of her regular fixtures.

I stared at her next message.

"He said he hasn't been able to reach you and wants to invite you to the class reunion this Saturday."

I frowned.

William caring about me? Impossible. We barely spoke during all four years of college. Even when the thing between Noah and me blew up, it barely caused a ripple in his social circle.

I replied: "What did you tell him?"

"I told him I didn't know where you were."

"Oh-and there's a ridiculous rumor that you're dead."

I typed back with a dry laugh:

"Then let them think I'm dead."

In their world, Emma Cooper had never mattered. Unless someone wanted to make a joke out of her, no one remembered she existed. From the moment I decided to change my name, I had buried Emma Cooper and drawn a clear line between my past life and this one.

Grace was the only exception.

She had never treated me like a joke. We met in the high school literature club. Even back then, she had a way with words-always knowing how to calm someone on the brink of emotional collapse. We were each other's unspoken secrets. Even now, she remained one of the very few people who made me feel safe.

"Are you sure?" she texted. "I heard Noah's going to be there. William even said he doubts Noah would recognize you."

I could practically hear her tone-light, faintly sarcastic.

Of course he wouldn't recognize me. I didn't want him to.

My fingers hovered over the screen for a moment before I replied:

"I'm not going."

I put the phone away and buried my face in the pillow, letting that one sentence-'I doubt he'd recognize you'-roll endlessly through my mind.

Not because I cared whether he recognized me.

But because I knew that even if he did, he would do exactly what he had done seven years ago-deny that I had ever been worth acknowledging at all.