39. Oliver
Oliver
After I’ve stared at the closed door for almost a full minute, wondering what just happened, I tug on some clothes and leave the bedroom.
Reaching the door to the other bedroom, I pause, standing beside it, listening intently to see if Lissa is still moving around inside.
I want to go in there, drag her out, and bring her back to my room, anger simmering beneath my skin as I place a hand on the handle.
The one thing I told her at the beginning of all this was that we should keep open communication. I was clear that if anything between us had made her uncomfortable, we should talk through it.
But then, I never expected the very terms of our relationship to be in question.
I know I’ve clearly misjudged this, but it was a gesture to help her, nothing more. It isn’t as if she didn’t earn it. It’s a bonus payment for all the time we’ve spent in my office.
I stand there beside the door for a long time, listening for any sign of movement. I consider whispering her name, opening the door a bit, and asking her to come and talk to me.
But eventually, I just go to bed like a coward and lie awake staring at the ceiling until four in the morning.
When I wake only a couple of hours later, I’m hot and uncomfortable, my head swimming with questions I can’t answer.
She mentioned yesterday that she’s dropping Henry off with a sitter. I’m hoping she’ll let me drive them there, and we can talk once we’ve dropped Henry off.
Throwing off the covers, I go to the kitchen, making her a cup of coffee to distract myself from the unpleasantness of what’s to come.
Holding the steaming cup in my hand, I go and knock on the guest room door, but as my knuckles rap against the wood, it opens.
I walk inside to find the bed made and no trace of Lissa or Henry.
“Fuck!”
I spin around, wondering whether they just left, but I don’t hear any voices nearby. It’s the kind of silence that only comes from an empty house. I want to punch something.
Placing her coffee down on the counter in the kitchen, I put some kibble into Truman’s bowl and get out my phone. I call her, pacing the length of the room, but she doesn’t answer. Did she just walk out of our bedroom, pick Henry up, and leave last night?
Our bedroom.
My head begins to ache.
Does she still work for me? Have I screwed this up so badly that she’s completely walked out of my life?
I stare down at Truman as he laps at the contents of his bowl, crunching the dry food loudly as his little paws do a happy dance on the floor.
Gripping my phone tighter, I call Lissa again, but it goes to voicemail. It’s not even 7 am yet. How long has she been gone?
I run my hands through my hair as I think about what she was wearing last night. Definitely not something you should be tromping through the snow in.
I hear a crack and look down at my phone to find a splintered white line skittering outward from its edge, the screen shattered from my grip.
“Fuck!”
I spin on my heel, stalking into my room to get dressed. My guilt is morphing into anger now.
How dare she leave without telling me? How dare she walk out without talking to me?
My bad mood continues all the way to the office, and it isn’t improved by the shitty traffic. The snow looks like it’s about three feet high and there are several crashes snarling up the intersections all the way to the building.
As I drive, I dictate a quick text to my mom to make sure she’s alright and receive a picture in reply. It’s just her feet surrounded by cats in front of a warm fire. Some of the tension eases from my shoulders, but there’s still no word from Lissa.
Once I’ve parked my car in the lot beneath the office and made my slow ascent in the elevator up to my floor, I’m at a breaking point.
I haven’t felt this furious since I saw James threatening Lissa in the hospital. I’m not in control of myself, and I don’t like being unable to deal with my emotions.
Walking briskly down the hallway, I head to my office, knowing that Adelaide likely won’t be here yet. And I hope to god Lissa came straight here when she dropped Henry off.
But both their desks are empty.
I walk through my office door, ready to kick over my chair, but stop in my tracks as I find Thomas Burton inside waiting for me. He’s bent over my desk writing something, and I stand in the doorway waiting for him to see me.
I look quickly around, checking that I haven’t left anything incriminating for him to find, but as he notices me, a wide smile spreads over his face.
“Ah, Oliver, I’m sorry to barge in so early. I have an exec meeting in a few minutes, and I wanted to leave you a note to call me. Felt more personal than an email.”
“Morning, Tom,” I say, biting back the anger as best I can. “What can I do for you?”
“I just stopped by to let you know how impressed Carmen is with your work.”
I glance up at him, frowning. Using ‘Carmen’ is odd; he wouldn’t usually address a client by their first name.
“Yes,” I say. “It’s better than we could have hoped for. Richard Reynolds has failed to disclose at least three residential holdings in different states that he uses to house his mistresses. She’ll take him for everything he’s got.“
I walk around my desk, putting a barrier between us as I sit down in my chair.
“It was actually one of my executive assistants who found the link,” I add, my heart clenching. “Kudos to Noah Finnigan, of course, he’s done the lion’s share of the work. But Lissa Davenport was the one who discovered the first apartment.”
“Huh… Good little EA you’ve got there,” Tom mutters condescendingly, and I chew the inside of my cheek to stop myself from giving a sharp retort.
Careful Oliver. Don’t piss off the man who will vote you in as the next EP.
“Either way, it’s excellent news,” Tom continues. “Good work.”
“Has there been any news on when the partnership vote will be scheduled?” I ask quickly, but he’s already lost interest, his eyes wandering vaguely around my office. He clearly has more important places to be.
“It’s between you and Warren Sutcliffe,” he murmurs. “I assume you’re aware of that?”
“I am. But I’m also aware I’ve brought in a lot more revenue for the firm than Sutcliffe has. And several new high-profile clients.”
“True,” he says with a tight smile. “You’ve done good work lately, Oliver. Keep it up. But it’s not just me you have to impress.”
There’s a knock on the door, and my heart leaps into my throat at the possibility that it’s Lissa, but instead, Noah pokes his head in.
“Oh!” he says with a look of surprise. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were in a meeting.”
“I was just leaving, come on in, Finnigan,” Tom says, winking at me and sauntering towards him. “Oliver tells me you’ve been working hard on the Reynolds case. Good job.”
It’s incredibly patronizing as he pats him on the shoulder, but Noah smiles as he passes, stepping out of Tom’s path and gazing after him as if he were some kind of god.
Once Burton is out of sight, Noah turns to me, walking into the room, a folder clutched to his chest.
“Morning, Mr. Heath,” he says, his eyes bloodshot and tired as he holds the folder out to me.
The image of him sitting opposite Lissa in the restaurant, making her laugh with a candle between them, flashes through my mind. I take it out of his hand a little too forcefully.
“Morning, Noah, what’s this?” I ask.
“Some info on James Davenport,” he says, pointing to the file as I open it. “I took the liberty of having him followed when I discovered some strange activity on his social media.”
“Anything significant?” I ask, my heart hammering.
“Oh, I should say so.” I glance at him, my fingers tightening on the folder in my hands. I open it, looking at the photographs inside with a jolt of satisfaction.
“Good job. Thank you.”
“He’s… Lissa’s husband, right?” he asks, his brows lowering as he fixes me with a long stare.
“You went on a date with her recently, didn’t you?” I ask, and his cheeks turn scarlet. “They’re separated if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“N—no,” he says, but his gaze doesn’t leave my face, his lips twisting as he gives me a long, unblinking stare. “I just wondered what this has to do with this firm.”
I pause, kicking myself for mentioning the date. “It doesn’t matter,” I say slowly. “I needed it done, and I don’t answer to you. That’ll be all.”
He stands in front of my desk for another few seconds, glaring at me with that same irritated expression, before he turns and walks out.
An uneasy feeling grows in my chest as I watch him leave. I get up and close the door, tapping the file against my thigh.