Chapter 32 Olivia
OLIVIA
Dad leads me through the house. We wind through the formal living room with its uncomfortable antique furniture that no one ever sits on and past the dining room with its table that seats twelve but has only ever held three. The kitchen is dark. He flips on a light.
“Coffee?” he offers.
“Sure.”
He moves to the espresso machine, the same one that’s been here since I was a kid. I watch him measure out beans, tamp them down, pull the shot.
“Sugar?”
“Sure.”
He makes two cups and hands me one. The ceramic is warm against my palms.
“Let’s sit outside,” he suggests.
Again, all I offer is a lifeless “sure.”
I follow him through the French doors to the patio. The backyard is exactly as I remember it, though the fountain isn’t running. Something about the silent stillness is vaguely eerie in a way I can’t explain.
We sit in the wrought-iron chairs. The cushions are damp with dew. I shift, trying to find a comfortable position, though it’s the kind of night where there’s no comfort to be found anymore.
Dad takes a sip of his coffee. “So. What brings you by?”
“I needed to get out of the house for a bit.”
“Stefan’s house?”
“Yes.”
“Your mother mentioned you were staying with him.” He pauses. “She seems quite pleased about it.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I say nothing.
We sit in silence, like we’re strangers at a bus stop who happened to make eye contact and now feel obligated to acknowledge each other’s existence.
“How’s work?” I ask finally.
“Busy. The merger with Jameson Holdings is moving forward. Should be finalized by the end of the quarter.”
“That’s good.”
“Yes. Your mother is excited. She’s been quite instrumental in making it happen.”
“I’m sure she has.”
More silence. I take a sip of coffee. It’s good. Strong. The way I like it.
“How’s the clinic?” Dad asks.
“It’s fine. We’re opening a new location at Mass Gen.”
“Your mother told me that, too. Congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
He nods. Sips his coffee.
Christ, this is excruciating.
I’ve had deeper conversations with Uber drivers. Hell, I’ve had deeper conversations with the woman who waxes my bikini line. Is this really all we have to say to each other? Polite questions about work? Surface-level updates that mean absolutely nothing?
I think about Elena. It’s so easy to talk to her. She asks real questions and actually listens to the answers. She tells stories about Stefan as a child and makes me laugh until my sides hurt.
Then I think about Stefan. We can sit in comfortable silence or argue about everything or share secrets in the dark.
He knows what I’m thinking before I say it.
He makes me feel seen. Even when we’re fighting, even when he says cruel things, there’s still.
.. something. A connection. An understanding. A flame.
With my own father, there’s… nothing.
Just this forced politeness. This hollow performance of what a father and daughter should be.
“I’m pregnant,” I blurt out.
Dad’s cup pauses halfway to his mouth. He sets it down carefully on the table between us. “I know,” he says. “Your mother told me.”
“And?” I ask.
“And what?”
“What do you think about it?”
He considers this. “I think it’s your decision. Your life.”
“That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”
“What would you like me to say?”
“I don’t know. Something. Anything.” I lean forward. “Are you happy? Upset? Worried? Do you have any feelings about the fact that you’re going to be a grandfather?”
“I guess I’d say I’m... neutral about it.”
Neutral.
Not happy. Not excited. Not even concerned.
Just neutral.
I sit back in my chair. The metal digs into my spine.
“Why can’t we just talk, Dad?” I say, surprising myself with how ragged and emotional the voice coming out of me is. “Like normal families do? I feel like it’s the reason we’ve never been close. Because we can’t have a conversation without some sort of plan or strategy in place.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. Then he sets his cup down and looks at me. Really looks at me, maybe for the first time tonight.
“I suppose it’s because we’re playing a family instead of just being one,” he admits. “It’s all performative. It’s all for show. Like my marriage to your mother.”
I blink. “What do you mean?”
“Your mother and I have slept in separate bedrooms now for years, Olivia.” He picks up his cup again but doesn’t drink. Just holds it like he needs the warmth to anchor him. “She has a boyfriend, who in all fairness, is actually a pretty decent guy. And I have someone in my life, too.”
I grip the arms of the chair to steady myself. “Wh…what?”
“We have an arrangement. It works for both of us.”
“You’re... you’re having an affair?”
“It’s not an affair if both parties are aware and consenting.”
I can’t process this. Can’t make sense of it. My parents. The perfect couple. The power duo. The ones who built empires together and hosted dinner parties and presented a united front at every charity gala.
“Then why stay together?” I ask.
“Because we have an image to keep. We have business interests that are tied together. It’s more convenient this way.” He finally takes a sip of his coffee. “Plus, divorce is expensive. Messy. This is cleaner. Cheaper, too.”
“You’ve been lying to everyone—me included—for over a decade because it’s cleaner?”
“We’re not lying. We’re just... not sharing certain details.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“Is it?” He looks at me. “You’re living with Stefan. Carrying his child. But you’re not married. You’re not even in a relationship, from what I understand. Is that lying? Or is it just keeping certain details private?”
The comparison stings because he’s right. Sort of.
“That’s different,” I insist.
“Is it?”
I don’t answer.
“Your mother and I care about each other,” Dad continues. “We respect each other. We work well together. But we’re not in love. We haven’t been for a very long time. Maybe we never were.”
“Then why did you get married?”
“Because it made sense. Our families approved, our careers aligned, and we were compatible on paper.” He shrugs. “Love seemed... optional.”
Love doesn’t feel optional with Stefan. It feels inevitable. It’s an all-consuming plummet from everything I ever knew into a deep, turbulent where nothing makes sense and everything is terrifyingly unoptional.
“I don’t want that,” I say quietly. “For myself or for my baby. I don’t want a life that’s just convenient.”
“Then don’t choose it.” Dad crosses his legs and looks at me, not unkindly. “But understand that every choice has consequences. Love is messy. It’s unpredictable. It makes you vulnerable in ways that simpler arrangements never do.”
“You sound like you’re talking from experience.”
He smiles, but it’s sad. “I am. The person I’m seeing... I care about them. More than I probably should. More than is wise.” He looks out at the dark garden. “But it’s not something I can build a life around. Not in a way that matters.”
“Why not?”
“Because some things are worth more than love, Olivia. Security, stability, the ability to control your own narrative—those things have value, too.” He turns back to me. “Your mother understands that. She’s always understood that. It’s why we work as partners.”
I want to argue. To tell him he’s wrong. Love should be worth more than convenience and happiness matters more than appearances.
But the words stick in my throat.
Because isn’t that exactly what I’ve been doing? I’ve accepted Stefan’s protection at the cost of my pride. I’ve stayed in his house even when he hurts me? Accepting his money, his influence, his control over my life—that’s a choice, isn’t it?
All because leaving feels impossible.
Maybe I’m more like my parents than I want to admit.
The thought makes me feel sick.
“Don’t tell your mother we had this conversation,” Dad says suddenly. “She’ll kill me.”
“Why? If you have an arrangement, what does it matter?”
“Because your mother values discretion above all else. She doesn’t like her private life discussed. Even with you.” He chuckles and adds, “Especially with you.”
“Why especially with me?”
“Because you’re the one thing she can’t control, no matter how hard she tries.” He smiles slightly. “It drives her crazy.”
“She tries her hardest to control me,” I point out.
“‘Tries’ being the operative word. But you’ve never quite fit into the mold she wanted for you. You’ve always been difficult.”
“Difficult.”
“Independent. Strong-willed. Your own person. Choose whichever word suits you best.” He pauses. “It’s not a criticism, to be clear. If you ask me, it’s actually quite admirable.”
That might be the nicest thing he’s ever said to me.
“I don’t feel very admirable right now,” I admit.
“Why not?”
“Stefan said some… things to me tonight. They weren’t nice, but the more I think about them, the harder it is to say he was wrong.”
“Is that what you think?”
“I don’t know what I think anymore.”
He drains his coffee and settles back in his seat.
His gaze drifts out over the darkened garden, settling on the turned-off fountain.
Without looking at me, he says, “Love is the biggest risk you can take, Olivia. Sometimes, it pays off. Sometimes not. But losing doesn’t mean the game isn’t worth playing.
Not if you believe in the hope of winning. ”
“I don’t know if I’m strong enough for that gamble,” I whisper.
“Then you have your answer.”
“What answer?”
“If you’re not willing to risk everything, then you need to protect yourself. Build walls. Keep your distance. Don’t let him in any deeper than he already is.”
I laugh bitterly. “It’s too late for that.”
“It’s never too late. Not if you’re willing to make the hard choice.”
“What hard choice?”
“The choice to walk away.”