Chapter 2 Beneath the Surface

By 8:47 a.m., Olivia Dalton sat at her sleek glass desk just outside Clinton Reign's office, reviewing spreadsheets and pending messages, but her mind was elsewhere. Despite the polished exterior she wore like armor, something about this morning wouldn't settle.

She sipped lukewarm coffee and clicked open her inbox again. Seventeen unread emails. Four from Clinton marked urgent. She scanned them, fingers dancing with mechanical precision. Her reply to each was swift, flawless, emotionless.

The office buzzed around her. Phones rang. Heels clicked. Assistants whispered. Executives rushed. Reign Capital wasn't a workplace-it was a battlefield.

The mirrored doors opened. A woman stepped out with a confident gait, dark hair pulled into a sleek bun, phone in one hand, a manila folder in the other. Layla Dalton-Olivia's younger sister.

Not the Layla in ripped jeans and loud opinions. Today, she wore a fitted blazer and pencil skirt, likely dressed for one of her mock interviews she hadn't told Olivia about. She had probably snuck in using Olivia's name again.

"Liv," Layla said with a smirk. "I see corporate life hasn't murdered your soul just yet."

"I'm not dead, just deeply numb," Olivia muttered, eyes not leaving her screen.

"Charming," Layla said, sliding onto the edge of her sister's desk. "How's the king of emotional constipation this morning?"

Olivia frowned. "He's fine."

"Still working likey a machine?"

"I don't have time for this, Layla."

Layla rolled her eyes. "Right, God forbid we disturb the holy workflow."

"Did you need something?"

Layla folded her arms. "Actually, yeah. I wanted to say-thanks. For pulling strings for that portfolio review at Thomsen & Reeves. Even if you act like you're too busy to care."

Olivia blinked. A rare thank-you from Layla? "You're welcome."

Layla stood, straightened her jacket. "Still doesn't mean I want your life, Liv. You gave up everything just to be some corporate lackey."

Before Olivia could respond, Clinton's door opened.

"Olivia."

His voice was crisp, surgical. Layla arched a brow, then gave a mocking two-finger salute. "Have fun with your ice king."

Olivia stood, composed as ever, and stepped inside the office.

Clinton Reign stood behind his desk, Manhattan's skyline blazing behind him. He didn't look up. Just held out his hand.

She handed him the tablet. "Updates from Mertz and Cormac. Your flight to Geneva has been moved to Tuesday. I rearranged your briefing with the legal team."

Clinton scanned the screen. "You removed the branding team's proposals."

"They weren't good enough."

He glanced at her. "You're right."

A beat passed. A rare alignment. Olivia didn't show her surprise.

"I'll handle it," she said.

"Also," Clinton added, "cancel dinner with Killian. I don't want to play politics tonight."

That was odd. He never bailed on potential leverage.

"Understood."

She turned to leave, but his voice followed her.

"Olivia."

She paused. "Yes?"

He studied her, unreadable. "Nothing. That's all."

Back at her desk, Olivia exhaled slowly. Her reflection stared back at her in the black screen of her monitor. When had she become someone else's tool? When had she stopped asking what *she* wanted?

The elevator dinged. A courier stepped out, looking lost.

"Delivery for Ms. Dalton?"

She frowned and stood to receive it. "I'm Olivia Dalton."

He handed her a plain envelope, no markings. Just her name. She signed, closed the elevator doors, then returned to her desk.

She opened it carefully.

Inside was a single sheet of paper:

**"You deserve better than someone who would throw you away. Ask Clinton what he planned before you handed in your resignation. - A Friend."**

Her hands went cold. The breath caught in her throat.

No sender. No context. Just enough venom to paralyze.

She folded it quickly and tucked it into her drawer, heart pounding. Her resignation wasn't even official yet. She hadn't even said the words out loud.

Was it a warning?

A lie?

Or the beginning of a truth she wasn't ready to face?

She shoved it from her mind-or tried to.

At 5:00 p.m., Olivia left the building, the evening air clinging to her skin like a second breath. She walked home in silence, past glowing signs and bustling cafés, everything too loud, too fast.

At her apartment, Ethan looked up from his editing software. "You okay?"

She kissed the top of his head. "Long day. Let's order something terrible for dinner."

He grinned. "Fries and documentaries?"

She smiled back, but it didn't reach her eyes. The note still burned in her mind.

As Ethan rambled about camera angles and short film contests, Olivia nodded-but her thoughts were far from the warmth of home.

Tomorrow, she will confront the truth.

Even if it broke everything.