Olivia woke with her head pounding, the weight of her own breath caught in the pillows around her. Morning light slipped through the curtains, too bright, too sharp. Her skull throbbed with every heartbeat. She winced, pressing the heel of her hand against her temple.
The night before came back in fragments, flashes of noise, heat, skin, his eyes, the red dress crumpled somewhere on the floor.
She had somehow made it home, though the walls of her apartment looked like they'd survived the same storm she carried inside. The air was stale, heavy with perfume and smoke.
The room smelled of sweat, alcohol, and regret. Clothes trailed across the floor, bottles empty, ash scattered on the nightstand. The chaos around her was too familiar. It mirrored the noise in her chest, restless, jagged, wrong.
Her skin still remembered a touch that didn't belong here. It sat like static under her ribs, unwanted and unforgettable.
With a low groan, she swung her legs off the bed. The cold floor bit at her bare feet. For a moment, she just sat there, elbows on her knees, trying to steady her breathing. The reflection in the mirror caught her off guard, messy hair, makeup smeared, eyes empty. She looked like a stranger wearing her own face.
She reached for the painkillers on the nightstand, shook two into her palm, and swallowed them dry. The taste was bitter, the silence worse.
Her phone lit up. A flood of notifications, too bright, too loud. She unlocked it with a swipe she didn't remember doing.
Photos from last night.
Her laugh frozen mid-movement.
Eyes hollow behind the flash.
The kind of chaos people called fun.
A message blinked at the top. Bailey.
Brunch at The Ivy? You in? I need a little escape after last night.
Olivia's stomach turned. Different morning, same script. Another hangover dressed up as friendship. Another round of pretending that everything was fine. She tossed the phone aside, the sound of it hitting the floor too loud in the quiet.
The screen blinked once before going black, leaving the faint reflection of her face staring back. Her gaze slipped to the background image, her and her father. The sight hit harder than the hangover ever could.
He had his arm around her in the photo. A smile made for cameras. She was maybe sixteen. Her eyes were bright, hopeful, unbroken. That version of her didn't know what it meant to wake up like this, in a room that reeked of smoke and guilt.
Her thumb brushed across the glass as if she could touch that version of herself.
Her father had given her everything that looked right on paper, the school, the rules, the name, but none of it had ever felt like love. He'd been composed, distant, predictable. His affection appeared in front of others, never when she needed it most. He was never cruel, just careful. Calculated. Cold.
He smiled for photographers and disappeared in private. That was his version of love. And no matter how much she hated it, she still wanted it.
The realization sat heavy in her throat.
The loneliness came back, sharp as ever. All the noise, the drinks, the men, none of it filled the hollow part of her. Even the guy from last night had vanished like he was never real. Everyone did. Everything did.
She stared at her phone again. She could call him. But she wouldn't. She couldn't. She was done chasing people who only knew how to love her when someone else was watching.
Still, sitting here felt like disappearing. The silence was suffocating. She needed to move, to see him, even if it hurt.
She drew her knees to her chest and let her forehead rest against them. Her hair fell forward, a curtain between her and the world. For once, there was no performance. No mask. Just her, the hangover, and the photo.
She didn't want brunch. She didn't want filters or followers. She wanted one real moment. Just one.
---
By the time she reached downtown, the city was already awake and merciless. Traffic pulsed in waves, horns cutting through the morning air. She didn't remember the drive, only the silence inside the car and the taste of old coffee on her tongue.
Olivia walked into the office like she owned the place. Her boots hit the marble floor with steady, unapologetic rhythm. The air conditioning brushed cool against her skin. Heads turned. Conversations faltered. She felt their eyes follow her, but she didn't care. She didn't care about much anymore.
Her hair was still a mess, her white shirt hanging loose, the denim hugging her hips. No makeup. No smile. Just defiance.
The receptionist, perfect hair, practiced voice, straightened immediately. "Miss Pereira, your father is in a meeting. He's not available right now."
Olivia didn't slow down. "I'm here to see him."
"You can wait in the lounge until…"
"I'm not asking," she said quietly.
The woman blinked, then nodded, stepping aside. Olivia passed without another word.
The corridor stretched long and cold. Glass walls. Polished floors. The kind of silence that smelled like money and fear. Her pulse echoed with every step. This place always made her feel small, even when she pretended not to care.
She turned a corner and saw them, a cluster of men by the coffee machine. Their laughter bounced off the walls, low and smug. The kind of sound that made her skin crawl.
One of them turned.
Blue shirt. Rolled sleeves. Tired eyes. That stare.
Her breath hitched. Her chest tightened before her mind caught up. Recognition came fast, brutal.
That stare. That fucking stare.
Her boots struck the marble harder now, each step faster, sharper. She stopped in front of him, shoulders squared, chin high.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" Her voice cut through the room.
He didn't move. His jaw tensed. Those eyes, same as last night, steady and unreadable.
She didn't need him to answer. She already knew.
The last person she expected to see there… was him.