Chapter 4

Liam' s penthouse was a minimalist expanse of glass, steel, and concrete, with stunning views of the city. It was clean, impersonal, and the exact opposite of the cluttered, oppressive world I had just left. He showed me to a guest room that was larger than my entire first apartment.

"Make yourself at home," he said. "Kitchen is stocked. Wi-Fi password is on the desk. My lab is off-limits unless you have a warrant or a really good idea."

He gave me a small, lopsided smile and then disappeared into his part of the apartment.

I spent the next day in a cocoon of silence, working on the transition plans for NexusAI, fielding calls from excited investors, and systematically cutting ties with Richard' s network. It was like performing surgery on my own life, painful but necessary.

Two days later, Liam knocked on my door.

"Got a problem," he said, holding up his tablet.

On the screen was a news article from a high-society magazine. The headline read: "Sterling Heir, Julian Sterling, and Philanthropist Isabella Vance Announce Engagement and Pregnancy."

There was a photo of Julian and a woman I vaguely recognized from Richard's parties. Isabella. She had her hand on her stomach, and Julian was beaming at her side.

"So?" I asked, not seeing the problem. "He's getting married. Good for him."

"Read the article," Liam said, his expression grim.

I scrolled down. The article was full of fawning praise for the young couple, but then I saw my name.

"...a source close to the family mentioned that the engagement comes after a difficult period for Julian, who was dealing with the fallout from a complicated relationship with his father's former protégée, Olivia Reed. 'Julian is a sensitive soul,' the source said. 'The stress of the relationship and the recent business turmoil took a toll on him. Isabella has been his rock.'"

I felt sick. They were using this, twisting it to paint me as the unstable ex who drove him into the arms of another woman.

"There's more," Liam said, scrolling further down.

It was a statement, seemingly from an anonymous "family friend," but the language was pure Richard. It hinted that the "stress" I caused had led to health complications for the "happy couple."

Before I could process the insinuation, my phone rang. It was Richard. I ignored it. He immediately called again. And again. On the fourth call, I answered, putting it on speaker.

"What do you want, Richard?" I asked, my voice flat.

"Olivia, I need you to do something for me," he said, his voice strained, urgent. "Isabella is... she's not well. The doctor says she's anemic, and the stress of everything... it's not good for the baby."

"And this is my problem how?"

"She needs a blood transfusion," he said, his voice dropping. "She has a rare blood type. The same as yours."

I was silent, the audacity of the request sucking the air out of the room.

"It's a simple procedure, Olivia. You come to the hospital, you donate, and we can put all this behind us. A gesture of goodwill."

"A gesture of goodwill?" I repeated, my voice dangerously low. "You're trying to publicly blame me for your son's mess, and you want me to come and give his fiancée my blood?"

"It's for the baby!" he insisted, his voice rising. "An innocent child!"

"The answer is no, Richard. A thousand times, no. Lose my number."

I hung up.

Liam was staring at me, his eyes wide. "He did not just ask you to do that."

"He did," I said, my hands shaking with a rage so pure it felt like a fire in my veins.

The peace I had felt for the past two days was shattered. He was still trying to control me, to use me, to drain me of everything I had, right down to my blood.

My mind went to a memory from a year ago. A small, intricately carved wooden bird. I had seen it in an antique shop and knew Richard, an avid collector, would love it. It cost a fortune, more than I could afford, but I bought it for his birthday. I spent weeks tracking down its history, preparing a detailed report on its origin. I was so proud to give it to him.

He had thanked me, then put it on a shelf in his office.

Last week, I saw that same bird on the desk of one of his junior executives, being used as a paperweight. When I asked about it, the executive told me Richard had given it to him, saying it was "just some trinket."

It wasn't about the money. It was about the complete and utter disregard for my effort, my thoughtfulness. It was a symbol of my value in his eyes. A trinket.

I stood up. "I have to go out," I said to Liam. "I need to get my things from the apartment."

"You're not going alone," he said immediately.

"I'll be fine."

"Olivia," he said, his voice firm but gentle. "I'm your partner. That means I help you carry the heavy stuff. Literally and figuratively. We go together."

When we arrived at my old apartment, the one Richard' s company paid the lease on, the doorman looked at me with pity. "Mr. Sterling was here earlier," he said. "And Mr. Julian's fiancée."

My blood ran cold.

We went up. The key still worked. I pushed the door open, and my heart stopped.

The apartment was a wreck. Not ransacked, but... redecorated. My books were gone from the shelves, replaced by glossy art magazines. My clothes had been cleared out of the closet, shoved into trash bags in the corner. On the wall where my university degrees once hung, there was now a giant, abstract painting-one of Julian' s.

And in the middle of the living room, on my favorite armchair, sat Isabella Vance. She was holding a cup of tea, looking completely at home.

"Olivia," she said, with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I'm so glad you're here. We need to talk."

Julian stepped out from the kitchen, a protective arm going around Isabella' s shoulders.

"My father called," Julian said, his voice hard. "He told me you refused to help. After everything you've put us through, you can't do this one simple thing?"

"Get out of my apartment," I said, my voice shaking.

"Actually," Isabella said, taking a sip of her tea, "it's our apartment now. Richard transferred the lease this morning. It was a lovely engagement gift."

She looked at me, a smug, triumphant look on her face. "You see, Olivia, you don't matter anymore."

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