Olivia’s POV
I woke up the next morning, feeling too groggy and too weak to even stand up from the bed. My head was pounding, and every muscle in my body ached. If it weren’t for the whiskey Alex and I had consud last night, I would’ve thought I was actually sick.
*Note to self: Oliver apparently can’t handle even one glass of liquor.*
I’d been so exhausted when I got ho that I’d collapsed into bed without even checking if Kira was in. Now, as I squinted at my phone through bleary eyes, the numbers seed to mock : Wednesday, 19th June, 6:00 AM.
"My goodness," I groaned, covering my face with my pillow. "It’s only been three days working for Maxwell and it already feels like three years."
The weight of everything hit all at once. The constant stress of maintaining my Oliver disguise, the humiliating tasks Maxwell kept assigning , the bathroom incident, the disastrous driving experience, and now the confusing dinner with Sabrina’s pointed comnts about Maxwell’s behavior.
*How am I supposed to survive a month of this without breaking down completely? I haven’t even started my investigation about Maxwell yet. I need him to send to his house so I can snoop around properly.*
At least my birthday is in a few weeks. That should be the perfect consolation to my already ssed up life. And another reason for my mum to rant about my love life.
With a frustrated groan, I dragged myself out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom. Twenty minutes later, after a scalding hot shower and enough concealer to hide my hungover eye bags, I was dressed in my Oliver outfit and heading to the kitchen.
Kira was already up, making breakfast at the stove. She turned when she heard my footsteps, her face lighting up with excitent.
"Liv! Perfect timing. I made a nice breakfast - scrambled eggs with chives. And oh my God, do I have news for you!"
I grabbed a fork and shoveled a few spoonfuls of eggs into my mouth, barely tasting them. "Can’t talk now, Kira. Running late. We’ll catch up when I get back tonight, okay?"
"But Olivia, this is important! It’s about..." Kira called after as I grabbed my bag and headed for the door.
"Later!" I called back, already rushing down the hallway. "I promise!"
*******
Thirty minutes later, I was standing in line at Taylor’s Coffee, praying that caffeine would sohow make feel human again. The morning rush was in full swing, and I found myself checking my watch anxiously.
*Maxwell better not be early today. I can barely function as a normal person, let alone maintain my Oliver act.*
I ordered Maxwell’s usual - large black coffee, no sugar, extra shot - and my own desperately needed latte. As I waited for the drinks, my phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.
*"Hello, Livy. I hope you slept well last night."*
My blood ran cold. My mysterious stranger.
*Did he watch last night? Was he close by when I was having a scattered and hellish day? How was he even texting with a number I couldn’t reply to!*
"Oliver!"
The barista’s voice snapped back to reality. I grabbed the coffee cups with shaking hands and hurried out of the shop, my mind racing.
*Focus, Olivia. You have to focus. Whatever happens with your stranger, you need to survive today first.*
******
I made it to the office with exactly ten minutes to spare. Maxwell’s office was still dark, which ant I’d beaten him there. Again. Small miracles.
I arranged his coffee on his desk, checking that everything was positioned exactly as he preferred. His files were organized, I’d printed his schedule, and I’d also managed to pick up a few toiletries from the company’s store.
*Maybe if I’m the perfect assistant today, he’ll forget about yesterday’s disasters.*
The elevator dinged, and I heard his footsteps approaching. It was strange how I’ve morized it in just two days. My stomach clenched with nerves as Maxwell appeared in the doorway.
He looked... different. Still awesoly dressed despite the sling, still intimidatingly handso, but there was sothing in his expression that I couldn’t quite read. His green eyes swept the office, taking in the prepared coffee and organized desk, before settling on .
"Good morning, Mr. Hopton," he said coolly, moving to his chair with careful movents.
"Good morning, sir," I replied, keeping my voice neutral. "Your coffee is ready, and I’ve prepared your schedule for the day."
Maxwell sat down and reached for his coffee cup with his good hand. He took a sip, his eyes never leaving my face.
An uncomfortable silence fell between us like a taut wire. It felt like the whole disaster from yesterday hung in the air, and I had no idea how to break the tension.
"Sir?" I ventured finally. "Is there anything specific you’d like to prioritize today?"
Maxwell set down his coffee cup. "As a matter of fact, yes. We have a new case."
He gestured to a thick folder on the corner of his desk. "Tracy Windhill. Twenty-eight years old, accused of murdering her wealthy husband, Paul Windhill, in their penthouse apartnt."
I felt my eyebrows rise. "Murder?"
"First-degree murder," Maxwell corrected, leaning back in his chair. "The prosecution claims she poisoned him with digitalis - a heart dication that can be lethal in large doses. They’re seeking the death penalty."
*Holy shit. Maxwell handles murder cases? I thought he only represented top shot companies in legal matters.*
"What does she claim happened?" I asked curiously.
"She maintains her innocence, of course. Claims she ca ho from a charity gala to find Paul collapsed in their bedroom. By the ti the paradics arrived, he was dead. The problem is, Tracy stands to inherit fifty million dollars from Paul’s estate. And they’d been having marital problems."
I moved closer to his desk, "What kind of marital problems?"
"Paul was having an affair. Multiple affairs, actually. Tracy found out three weeks before his death and confronted him about it. Several witnesses heard them fighting at a restaurant the night before he died."
Maxwell opened the folder and spread several cri scene photos across his desk. Even upside down, I could see a man’s body lying on a bedroom floor, his face twisted in agony.
"The prosecution’s case is circumstantial but strong," Maxwell continued. "ans - she had access to his heart dication. Motive - fifty million dollars and a cheating husband. Opportunity - she was alone with him in the apartnt for at least an hour before calling for help."
"But you don’t think she did it," I said. It wasn’t a question.
Maxwell’s eyes snapped up to et mine.
"What makes you say that, Mr. Hopton?"
*Think, Olivia. What would make an innocent person look guilty in a case like this?*
"Because if she wanted to kill him, why would she do it in a way that pointed directly back to her? If she’s smart enough to know about digitalis poisoning, she’s smart enough to know she’d be the pri suspect. It’s too obvious."
Maxwell leaned forward slightly, his attention fully focused on now. "Go on."
"And the timing doesn’t make sense," I continued, "If she just found out about the affairs three weeks ago, why wait? If it was a cri of passion, she would have acted imdiately. If it was preditated, she would have planned sothing less traceable."
"Exactly." Maxwell agreed. "Tracy Windhill is a forr prosecutor herself. She knows how murder investigations work. She would never be this sloppy."
*A forr prosecutor accused of murdering her cheating husband. This case was going to be a dia circus.*
"So what really happened?" I asked.
Maxwell gathered the photos back into the folder. "That’s what we’re going to find out, Mr. Hopton. Tracy’s previous attorney was more interested in negotiating a plea deal than actually investigating the case. She fired him last week and hired us."
"What do you need to do?"
"For starters, I need you to organize all the case files. Police reports, witness statents, forensic evidence - everything in perfect order. Then I need you to create a tiline of Paul Windhill’s last week alive. Every appointnt, every eting, every person he spoke to."
Maxwell stood up slowly, wincing slightly as he moved. "And I need you to schedule a eting with Tracy. Today, if possible. I want to hear her story directly, and I want to see how she responds to questions."
"Of course, sir. Anything else?"
Maxwell paused, studying my face intently.
"Yes," he said finally. "I need you to be prepared to take detailed notes during client etings. Your handwriting is surprisingly neat for a man."
My heart skipped a beat. *Was that suspicion in his voice? Did he notice sothing?*
"I... thank you, sir," I managed. "I’ve always had a good handwriting."
"Indeed." He said dryly. "Well then, Mr. Hopton. Let’s see if we can save an innocent woman from death row."
As he turned to look out his office window, I caught sight of his reflection in the glass. For just a mont, I could have sworn I saw sothing in his eyes that looked almost like excitent.
*Maybe this case would be exactly what I needed. A distraction from all the personal drama, a chance to prove myself as a lawyer, and hopefully an opportunity to see a different side of Maxwell Wellington.*
*A side that might actually make understand why I couldn’t seem to stop thinking about him, even when he was making my life hell.*
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