Chapter 25 #3
The shop is small, tucked between a café and a dry cleaner, its windows fogged with the breath of orchids.
Olivia wanders through the rows of flowers like she’s been doing it all her life, touching stems lightly, tilting her head as she decides.
Peonies, of course—her favorite—and garden roses, my mother's. White lisianthus to tie them together. She carries the finished bouquet to the counter and refuses to let me pay. I don’t argue.
Watching her take ownership of the gesture is its own kind of pleasure.
A few hours later, we arrive at the Windsor Room.
Olivia’s hand is tucked in the crook of my arm as we step inside. I feel it right away—the flicker of admiration that follows us through the doorway. And I’ll admit, I relish it.
The late-morning sun pours through the windows overlooking Central Park, turning the room to glass and light.
The trees outside are flushed with new green, soft and translucent, like the season hasn’t quite decided what shade to settle on.
Inside, everything gleams—the silverware, the crystal, the polished marble floors.
And yet, all I can see is her.
Her dress is lavender, fitted through the bodice and flowing in a long, liquid line to her ankles.
Wide straps frame her shoulders and the neckline is modest, the restraint somehow making the effect sharper.
Her hair is parted cleanly, drawn back into a low chignon that bares the elegant slope of her neck.
Gold sculptural earrings glint each time she turns her head, balancing the softness of the dress with just enough edge.
Cream-toned heels, exacting in their simplicity, complete the vision that is Olivia.
It isn’t just that she’s beautiful—it’s that she’s in her element.
She may tell herself she’s out of place in my world, but watching her now—serene, self-possessed, entirely herself—it’s as if she was made to move through these rooms, to command this kind of attention without even trying.
My mother spots us and waves us over, beaming. She’s elegant as ever in a mauve silk-crepe dress that falls just below the knee and a double strand of pearls gleaming against her neck.
Olivia steps forward first, bouquet in hand.
“Happy birthday, Renée,” she says, smiling broadly. “I wasn’t sure what could possibly do you justice, but these reminded me of you.”
My mother’s face softens as she receives them. “They are beautiful, and so thoughtful of you, my dear.” Her voice softens. “A woman after my own heart. Thank you.”
Olivia blushes, smiling shyly. “You’re welcome. I’m glad you like them.”
“Well, you both are certainly a sight for sore eyes,” my mother says, eyes sparkling. “I was almost worried I’d have to call in a search party last night when you disappeared so suddenly—but judging from the glow…I see you just found better ways to stay entertained.”
Olivia flushes instantly. To hide my grin, I reach for two mimosas from a passing waiter, handing one to her before lifting mine to my lips—an excuse to occupy my hands, to look anywhere but at my mother’s knowing smile.
“Oh no, it’s not like that at all!” Olivia says quickly. “We just thought it would be wise to slip out before it got too late. After all, we were very much looking forward to celebrating properly this morning.”
“Mmm.” My mother arches a brow, amused. “The McGraw Rotunda does have that effect, doesn’t it? The murals, the light—most inspiring. I can see the appeal.” Her tone is mock-innocent.
Olivia goes scarlet. I freeze mid-sip, the mimosa burning down the wrong pipe.
And then, as if summoned, my father adds dryly, “If you’re going to slip away during a gala, at least choose somewhere with a door. The Trustees Room is far more discreet.” He pauses, mouth twitching. “But then, I’ve never been an amateur.”
“Discreet, perhaps,” Renée counters, laughing, “but nowhere near as thrilling as the rotunda. The openness adds to the excitement.” Her smile curves like a cat’s. “Maybe it’s we who should be taking lessons from our son.”
Olivia’s blush deepens; I groan, dragging a hand down my face. “Please, for the love of god, stop.”
I should be dying of embarrassment—and I am—but the sight of Olivia beside me, pink-cheeked and luminous even under fire, makes it almost worth the humiliation.
Almost.
A bright, practiced laugh cuts through the polite murmur of conversation. I don’t need to turn to know who it is.
After all, the Vanderhoofs are always early—old friends of the family, bound by history and habit, the kind of closeness you can’t refuse but sometimes wish you could.
When I do glance over, she’s exactly as expected, surrounded by a cluster of socialites, all glitter and easy charm. Sunlight pours through the tall windows behind her, gilding her in a glow too studied to be accidental.
Olivia’s gaze follows mine—long enough for me to catch the tension in her expression before she smooths it away.
I draw her closer, my arm curving around her waist as I press a brief kiss to the side of her head. The movement is instinctive, meant to anchor us both. Whatever Anne thinks she’s playing at, she won’t touch this.
My mother watches from where she stands. There’s a flicker of awareness in her expression. She knows what she’s seeing and, as always, chooses to say nothing. Renée Caldwell prefers to let the theatre unfold.
The ma?tre d’ begins guiding guests to their seats.
We’re shown to our places at the connecting base of the U-shaped table beside my parents.
The layout gleams with deliberate symmetry—my mother and father in the center, the axis around which the room revolves.
Olivia and I sit to my mother’s right: the family flank.
The long arms of the U stretch outward, every guest angled inward so they can see each other and be seen.
Two seats remain open diagonally from us. The Vanderhoofs’. Of course. Anne directly across from me, Richard across from Olivia. Perfect for conversation—and crossfire. I’d have preferred them on a different continent, but here we are.
The first course arrives and the atmosphere of the room is pleasant. I let myself breathe. My knee finds Olivia’s under the linen, a small, grounding touch. She seems at ease—laughing politely at something my mother says, her eyes bright. The sight settles something in me.
I’d worried about whether she could ever feel comfortable in a world like mine. Yet, here she is, holding her own, a picture of effortless grace. My mother’s warmth toward her has made all the difference, and for once, everything feels…right.
Conversation drifts toward last night’s gala. Aunt Lydia, my mother’s younger sister, leans in from across the table with a grin that spells trouble. “You two caused quite the stir last night,” she says, tapping at her phone. “You’re already all over the society pages—look at this.”
She turns the screen toward us: Olivia and me on the red carpet, her hand in mine, the flash of cameras painting the moment in gold.
She passes the phone to my mother, who takes one look and smiles. “It’s lovely to see a photograph that actually captures what we see in person,” she says, expression warm. “You suit each other.”
My father lifts his glass toward Olivia, his mouth quirking. “My son’s finally proven he has taste. I was beginning to worry.” He glances at me sideways. “She’s improved the family image considerably. Try not to ruin it.”
I can’t help laughing. I don’t mind the teasing because he’s right. She has improved me. “I’m doing my best to earn the right to keep her looking at me that way,” I say.
The table buzzes with laughter. Olivia’s cheeks flush, and she hides her smile behind the rim of her glass.
A chuckle cuts through the table’s chatter—low, genial, condescending. Richard Vanderhoof.
“Well,” he drawls, swirling his champagne, “looking good together is one thing. True compatibility—that’s something else entirely, isn’t it?”
He leans back, steeped in the unshakable confidence of a man who’s never had to earn it. “The world you live in, Nathaniel, it takes…a certain fluency. Knowing how to navigate the business landscape, to hold your own among sharks.”
His glance flicks to Olivia—haughty, derisive. “I do hope your time at Halford has taught you some of that…to supplement your lack of exposure otherwise.”
The flash of anger is instant. He isn’t just making conversation, he’s taking aim. He wants to humiliate her—to make her small in front of my family, in front of me. I’m halfway to speaking when Olivia beats me to it.
“It has, actually,” she replies smoothly. “We’re surrounded by sharks on campus too, so we learn to swim early.”
Laughter ripples across the table—polite, impressed, the sound of an audience conceding victory. Richard’s expression falters, but he recovers quickly.
He tilts his head in mock intrigue. “Ah, but the open sea’s quite different from a small pond. Theory’s a luxury. Practice, that’s the real test.”
Olivia’s smile doesn’t waver. “You’re right. But I’d like to think I’ve been learning to navigate currents bigger than myself. Nathaniel’s taught me that execution matters as much as ideas.”
The words hit me like a live wire. Not because they’re flattering, but because I can tell she means them.
She’s never needed me. That’s one of the many things I love about her. And yet, here in front of everyone, she threads her name through mine—not as ornament, but as choice. A declaration that we stand as equals.
Across the table, my father’s gaze sharpens.
“And clearly you’ve been paying attention,” he says, his tone decisive, the kind of remark that carries weight long after it lands.
After a pause, he adds, “You’ve a good head for applied work.
Perhaps you should extend your stay in New York.
Come spend a few days with us at Caldwell Ventures next week, see how we operate in the depths. ”