2. Olivia #2
Back then, the arrangement felt like a fair trade—his stability for her ambition.
But as the semesters turned into years, the temporary bridge of his support began to feel more like a gilded cage.
By the time Olivia finally walked across the stage to receive her advanced degree, the triumph felt muted, almost hollow.
She looked back at her sister’s kitchen-table warnings with a new, bitter understanding. The man who had funded her dreams was still the same selfish boy she had married, and the transformation she had promised Julia would come had never even begun to take root.
The marriage had been practical—a survival tactic she’d mistaken for love.
As she found her footing in her career and her own bylines began to carry weight in the industry, that financial tether finally snapped.
What remained wasn’t need; it was merely habit—the terrifying, suffocating comfort of the known.
Maybe one day she would find the courage to tell him it was over, but for now, it was easier to play the part. It was safer to bury herself in her work, losing herself in the stories she read—worlds where women were truly seen, valued, and loved in the way she still secretly longed to be.
She closed chapter twelve of her novel and let the book rest in her lap.
Her eyes slipped shut, and she let her mind wander to the heroine’s world.
The heroine was cherished, adored, and desired in a way that made her soul come alive.
Yes, it was fiction, but someone, somewhere, must have known love like that to write about it so vividly.
Why not her? Why couldn’t she feel that, too?
Later, she went upstairs and prepared for bed. Sliding beneath the covers, she thought Mark was already asleep until she felt his hand slide between her thighs. Instinctively, she pressed her legs together, stopping him.
“I thought you had to get up early?” She whispered, her voice sharper than she intended.
“I do,” he murmured, his hand lingering, “but I thought you might want to feel some of that excitement again.”
She forced a smile and shook her head. “No. Before was enough. I’m tired. I just want to sleep.”
His groan carried his frustration. “Okay,” he muttered, withdrawing his hand. The sharp, tight way he rolled to the far edge of the mattress told her the rejection had stung him, but for her, there was only relief.
The next morning, she woke before the alarm, staring at the ceiling in the dim light of dawn.
Mark was still asleep beside her, his heavy breathing filling the silence.
She slipped quietly out of bed, careful not to disturb him, and walked into the bathroom.
As she dried off from the shower, a towel wrapped around her, she brushed her teeth and applied her makeup.
Then she studied her reflection in the mirror.
The woman staring back at her looked composed, polished, professional—everything her colleagues would expect when she walked into the studio later.
But beneath the concealer and lipstick was someone tired, worn, hollowed out by a marriage that had long since lost its meaning.
By the time she slipped into her blazer and heels, Mark stirred, grumbling something about his meeting. He didn’t ask her about her day. He never did. His world revolved around quarterly numbers, land deals, and pleasing his brother.
Olivia’s world—her real world—was built in the rush of deadlines, interviews, and live segments that kept her moving, alive, distracted from the void she felt at home.
Driving to work, she felt the knot in her chest loosen.
It was always that way. The moment she left the house, the air seemed lighter, the weight on her shoulders lifting bit by bit.
Her career wasn’t just a job—it was an escape.
It was a purpose. At the studio, no one saw her as Mark’s wife.
She was Olivia Daniels, the producer with sharp instincts, the woman who could pull strings and make magic happen behind the camera.
People respected her. They listened when she spoke. They valued her in ways Mark never had.
Walking into the building, the hum of voices, the clatter of keyboards, and the faint smell of fresh coffee wrapped around her like a second skin.
Here she belonged. Here she was seen. And as she greeted her team and colleagues with a smile and checked the day’s rundown, she promised herself once again that one day she would find the courage to want more outside these walls.
One day, she wouldn’t just escape to work—she would escape for good.
Later that afternoon, Mark texted Olivia.
I'm going out after work for drinks with the guys.
She stared at the screen for a moment, wondering. Was it because she had rejected him last night in bed? Or was it simply that he needed time away from her? Whatever the reason, she felt no sting of disappointment. Instead, she typed back.
Have a good time
Then she set her phone aside. Relief washed over her almost immediately, surprising in its intensity.
It wasn’t as though she wouldn’t see him later—he would stumble in, a little drunk, expecting five minutes of what he called romance.
But knowing she had at least a few hours of peace before hearing the garage door open gave her a freedom she cherished.
On her way home from work, she picked up a pizza from the local pizzeria.
Once inside the quiet of the house, she poured herself a glass of the half-empty red wine Mark had left in the fridge, the chilled glass cool against her palm.
She curled up on the couch, flicked on the evening news for background noise, and savored the fresh comfort of a hot slice.
For a moment, it felt almost like her own space—her own life.
After dinner, she settled deeper into the couch with her latest romance novel.
The familiar comfort of its pages drew her in, and before long, she reached a scene that sent a thrill through her.
The writing was raw, passionate, almost intoxicating, and she could feel her body respond despite herself.
A quick glance at the clock told her it was only eight.
Mark probably wouldn’t be home until at least ten.
She decided to slip upstairs early, craving the sanctuary of her bed more than the couch downstairs.
In the bedroom, she took her cotton pajamas out of the dresser drawer, but left them folded neatly beside her on the bed—just in case she needed to dress quickly.
Sliding between the sheets, she reached into the nightstand and pulled out her trusted companion, her vibrator.
It had been with her for years now, tucked away like a secret lifeline.
She had bought it about a year after their marriage, when things between her and Mark had already started to sour.
At first, she thought it might save them, thought it might bring excitement back into their bedroom.
One night, when Mark wanted sex, she had dared to reach for it, believing he might find it thrilling to watch her use it, to share that intimacy with her.
She had been so wrong.
His reaction was instant and sharp. “What the hell is that?” he had barked, his expression twisting as though she’d insulted him.
She had stared at him, stunned. “You don’t know what this is?”
His face reddened, his jaw tight. “Are you trying to embarrass me? What’s wrong with you? No wife uses one of those instead of enjoying her husband.”
The shame in his words silenced her.
She shoved the vibrator back into the drawer, heat rising in her cheeks, and needless to say, there was no sex that night.