Chapter 7
Olivia
The stainless steel counters of the bakery were covered in paperwork.
Olivia pushed a lock of blonde hair behind her ear, her eyes scanning the checklist provided by the cake competition committee. Maria leaned against the prep table, holding a fresh cup of coffee, her expression caught between exasperation and triumph.
"They need a lot of documents," Olivia murmured, tapping her pen against a printed email.
"Proof of business ownership, the commercial kitchen license, insurance paperwork, three years of tax returns, recent business bank statements, and a signed authorization form regarding the marital assets tied to the business. "
"And you have all of that, Liv," Maria pointed out, taking a sip of her coffee. "You just need to gather it. This is a huge opportunity. Do you realize what placing in this competition could do for us? It could triple our custom orders. It could get you national recognition."
Olivia sighed, organizing the folders. "I know. It is exciting, but we are not officially in yet. This is just the secondary review stage."
Maria rolled her eyes. "You keep hiding behind that technicality because you are scared to want it too much. You are allowed to be excited about your own success."
Olivia let out a soft laugh, but the words landed far deeper than Maria realized. She was terrified of wanting something and having it fall apart.
She looked back down at the list. She had the licenses and the insurance paperwork in the bakery's filing cabinet.
However, the tax returns, the joint account statements that tied into the bakery's initial funding, and the asset authorization forms were all at home.
James handled the bulk of their household finances and the shared accounts.
He always insisted he was better with the numbers.
Olivia pulled out her phone, opening her text thread with James.
Do you know where the joint account statements from last quarter are?
She watched the typing indicator bubble appear almost immediately.
James: Why do you need those?
Olivia: The competition committee asked for a list of financial documents for the final review stage.
James: I’ll handle it later.
Olivia frowned, her thumbs hovering over the keyboard. I need to send everything by Monday. I can just grab them today if you tell me where they are.
James: Then wait until I get home. Don’t dig through my office.
The response bothered her. Not because it was openly suspicious, but because of the phrasing. My office. Not their house. Not their paperwork. His office.
She locked her phone, telling herself not to overreact.
James had always been particular about his workspace.
He dealt with sensitive corporate documents.
Maybe he just did not want her misplacing anything.
Maybe he was in the middle of a stressful meeting and the text came at a bad time.
Maybe she was just being sensitive because the air between them had felt so strained lately.
But as she went back to organizing the bakery paperwork, the uneasy feeling lingered, settling heavy in her chest.
***
James did not get home until past eight.
Olivia was sitting at the kitchen island, the competition folder open in front of her. She had a glass of water she had barely touched. When the front door opened, she sat up straighter.
James walked into the kitchen, his tie loosened, his eyes glued to his phone screen. He looked exhausted and entirely distracted.
"Hi," Olivia said, keeping her voice calm.
"Hey," he replied, not looking up as he walked past her to open the refrigerator.
"Did you get a chance to look for those documents?" she asked.
James grabbed a bottle of sparkling water and shut the door. "I told you I would handle it, Liv."
"I appreciate that, but I need to know where things are, too," Olivia pressed, turning on the stool to face him. "The bakery is mine. The competition is mine. I should not have to wait for you to access documents connected to my own business and our shared accounts."
James sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. His expression shifted into familiar irritation. "You are making a simple thing difficult. You have been tense all week. This competition is stressing you out, and you are looking for problems where there are none."
"I am not accusing you of anything," Olivia said, her pulse quickening. "I just need the paperwork."
James leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. He looked at her with a mix of disappointment and exhaustion. "Then why does it feel like an interrogation?"
Olivia was taken aback. "Because I asked where a folder is?"
"Because you never just ask anymore, Olivia," James said, his voice lowering into a tired, wounded register. "You imply."
The shift was subtle, but it worked perfectly. Olivia felt the ground shift beneath her. She started doubting her own tone, wondering if she had sounded aggressive.
"You've been doing this for weeks," James continued, shaking his head. "Ever since that dinner with the partners, you have been looking for reasons to be upset with me. I am exhausted, Liv. I am working fourteen-hour days for us. I don't know what you want from me."
"I just want to be included," Olivia said quietly.
"You say you want us to be better, but then you treat me like the enemy," James countered. "You need to decide whether you trust me or not."
The line hit her hard, a sharp, precise strike. She wanted to tell him that trust should not mean she was forbidden from asking questions. She wanted to say she felt entirely shut out of his life. She wanted to ask why he worked late so often and why he never seemed happy to see her anymore.
Before she could form the words, James's phone lit up on the granite counter between them.
Olivia’s eyes dropped to the screen. She saw the name clearly: Amanda .
The preview text was brief. You owe me after today.
James moved fast, snatching the phone off the counter and silencing the screen. He saw that she had noticed.
"Is that Amanda?" Olivia asked, measuring her words carefully.
James’s jaw tightened. "Yes," he said, his tone suggesting the question itself was deeply exhausting.
"Why is she texting you so late?"
"It is work, Olivia."
"She always seems to need you after hours," Olivia pointed out, the hurt bleeding into her voice.
James let out a tired, dismissive laugh that made her feel incredibly small. "She is part of my team. We just closed the Longford account. That is how corporate jobs work."
"I know how jobs work."
"Then stop acting like every single message is some secret code," James snapped.
Olivia went perfectly still.
He immediately softened, rubbing his face with his free hand.
He took a step forward, his voice dropping back into a calm, reassuring cadence.
"I don't want to fight with you. I love you, Liv.
You are letting stress and insecurity get into your head.
We are fine. I will get the documents for you tomorrow. "
He turned and walked toward the stairs, leaving her sitting alone at the kitchen island.
Olivia felt cornered by his calmness. If she kept asking questions, she was the jealous, insecure wife. If she stopped, she betrayed her own instincts.
She looked down at the competition folder. She sat with everything he had said, trying desperately to force herself to believe him. She picked up a pen and wrote down the documents she still needed. Her handwriting was messier than usual, her hand shaking slightly.
She realized she could not wait for him. She realized how much of her life had become asking for permission without meaning to. Permission to interrupt him. Permission to be upset. Permission to ask about their own money. Permission to want his time.
She was not furious yet. She was not ready for a confrontation. But something fundamental inside her shifted.
***
Late that night, after James had fallen asleep, Olivia walked down the hall to his home office.
The room was dark and silent. She turned on the small brass desk lamp.
The space was purely James: an expensive leather chair, perfectly organized mahogany shelves, framed corporate awards, and a photo of them from their honeymoon sitting on the corner of the desk. Looking at the photo felt almost cruel.
She told herself she was allowed to be here. She was allowed to look for her own paperwork. She was allowed to access records connected to her business. She was allowed to know what was happening in her own marriage.
She started with the obvious places. She checked the labeled folders on the desk and the unlocked drawers where he kept their household bills. She found utility statements and property tax forms, but not the joint account summaries or the bakery's financial history.
She moved to the bottom drawer of the heavy wooden filing cabinet. It was packed tight with corporate paperwork. She sifted through the thick manila envelopes, her fingers tracing the rigid tabs.
She noticed something out of place.
Tucked entirely out of alphabetical order, hidden behind a stack of old warranty manuals, was a sleek, black plastic folder. It had no label.
Olivia pulled it out. It felt heavy.
She placed it on the desk under the warm light of the lamp. She opened the plastic flap and pulled out the thick stack of papers inside.
Her hand tightened around the edges of the pages. Her breath hitched in her throat. The color drained from her face as her eyes moved over the printed text.
For a terrible, blinding second, she could not process what she was seeing.
Then she saw her own name.
And for the first time since she married James, Olivia stopped trying to explain the feeling away.