The CEO's Contractual Wife (Olivia and Ryan) novel Chapter 72

Chapter 72

Olivia

I woke with a start at 5:43 AM, seventeen minutes before my alarm. My mouth felt like sandpaper, and my head throbbed with the beginnings of a hangover.

“Coffee,” I croaked, dragging myself out of bed. “Need coffee.”

The bathroom mirror revealed the full extent of my poor life choices: mascara smudged under my eyes, hair tangled in a nest that would make birds jealous, and a crease mark on my cheek from my pillowcase.

“Gorgeous,” I told my reflection sarcastically. “Absolutely stunning.”

I grimaced at my tangled hair, then stepped into the shower, letting the hot water wash away last night’s makeup and drama. The memory of Madison and Stella’s words lingered like the wine headache pulsing at my temples.

“Not thinking about that now,” I muttered, working shampoo into my hair. “Nope. Not today.”

By the time I stepped out, wrapped in my towel, I felt marginally more human. I blow–dried my hair into submission and applied minimal makeup, just enough to look professional without screaming that I was hungover.

My closet offered limited options after a week of neglecting laundry. I settled on a navy pencil skirt and cream blouse.

In the kitchen, I opened my fridge to find it depressingly empty except for half a carton of eggs, some questionable cheese, and a ketchup bottle. Breakfast of champions.

“This is why you’re single,” I told the eggs as I cracked them into a bowl. “Well, fake–dating. Whatever.”

The eggs sizzled in the pan while I made coffee strong enough to wake the dead. My phone buzzed with a text from Emilia.

“DETAILS NOW. Did the CEO take you home and rock your world? Also, how’s the hangover?”

I typed back one–handed while flipping my eggs. “No rocking. Just dropped me off. Head feels like someone’s using it as a drum set.”

Her response was immediate: “Boooring. Drink water. Take Advil. Call me later.”

I scarfed down my eggs while scrolling through emails, deleting promotional messages and flagging work–related ones for later. The coffee burned my tongue but sent blessed caffeine coursing through my veins.

By the time I left my apartment, I was running late. I power–walked to the subway, mentally rehearsing excuses for my tardiness that didn’t involve “I was hungover because my fake boyfriend’s cousin’s friends ambushed me at a bar.”

I slid into my desk at Carter Enterprises with two minutes to spare, offering Nova a weak smile.

“You look like death warmed over,” she observed cheerfully.

“Thanks. That’s exactly the look I was going for.”

“Girls‘ night?” She lowered her voice. “Or Alexander night?”

I busied myself with turning on my computer. “Girls‘ night. Just drinks with friends.”

“Mmm–hmm.” Nova’s knowing smile made me want to crawl under my desk. “The marketing brief for the Westwood account is due by three. Derek’s been asking for it.”

1/3

“On it.”

I buried myself in work, grateful for the distraction. The Westwood campaign needed a complete overhaul; their previous marketing strategy had all the appeal of watching paint dry. I sketched concepts, wrote copy, and built a presentation that wouldn’t put the client to sleep.

By lunchtime, my hangover had receded to a dull throb. I ate a sad desk salad while finalizing the presentation, occasionally glancing at my phone to check the time. No messages from Alexander, which was both a relief and strangely disappointing.

“Stop it, I muttered to myself. “You don’t need his attention.”

The afternoon dragged on with meetings and revisions. Derek approved my Westwood presentation with minimal changes, which in his world counted as effusive praise. By five–thirty, I was packing up, eager to escape before anyone could dump. last–minute work on my desk.

“Hot date with the boss?” Nova asked, wiggling her eyebrows.

“Family visit,” I corrected, slinging my bag over my shoulder. “My dad’s recovering from surgery.”

Her expression softened. “Oh, right. How’s he doing?”

“Better. Getting stronger every day.”

“That’s good. Tell him I said hi.”

I paused. “You’ve never met my dad.”

Nova shrugged. “Just being supportive.”

I laughed, some of the day’s tension easing. “Thanks, Nova. See you tomorrow.”

The evening air felt good after a day trapped in air–conditioning. I walked six blocks to Sweet & Flour, joining the line of people waiting for their sugar fix.

The bakery smelled like heaven, with butter, sugar, and chocolate combining into an aroma that made my mouth water. When I reached the counter, a perky woman greeted me.

“What can I get you?”

“Two chocolate croissants, please. And…” I scanned the display case, my eyes landing on a row of elaborately decorated cupcakes. “Four of those red velvet cupcakes.”

“Excellent choice,” she said, boxing up my selections. “Anything else?”

I hesitated, then added, “One of those chocolate chip cookies, please. For the road.”

She winked. “I like your style.”

The total made me wince slightly, but I reminded myself that I had money in my checking account. The thought still felt surreal, like Monopoly money rather than actual wealth.

Verify captcha to read the contentVerify