Chapter 75 75
To touch me. To crawl into my arms like nothing ever happened. You’ve been in this house less than forty-eight hours and you’re already finding ways to get close. Craving my touch so bad you invented a damn spider just to throw yourself at me.”
Blair’s face went still. Then something hot and angry flashed in her eyes.
She didn’t raise her voice—didn’t dare wake Mave—but every word was precise, quiet fury.
“You really think that low of me? After everything?”
“I think you’re a woman who’s spent five years alone,” he said without flinching. “I think you’re in my bed, in my house, and the second you get scared—or pretend to—you glue yourself to me like it’s five years ago.
Don’t play innocent, Blair. We both know you’re not above manipulation when you want something.”
Blair stared at him for a long beat. Then she let out a small, humorless breath.
“You’re right about one thing,” she whispered. “I did want to feel safe tonight. Not because I’m craving you, Lucas. Because I’ve spent every night since he was born terrified that someone would take him from me.
And last night—you did. So yes, when I saw something crawling toward my sleeping son, I panicked. And yes, I reached for the only solid thing in the room that wasn’t going to hurt me in that second.”
She leaned forward just enough that their faces were close, voices barely above breath.
“But don’t flatter yourself. I didn’t lie about a spider to get your arms around me. I lied to myself for years thinking you’d ever be that safe place again. I was wrong. Clearly.”
The room settled back into quiet darkness after Mave’s breathing deepened again.
Blair stayed curled on her side, facing their son, one arm draped lightly over him like a shield.
Lucas remained on his back, staring at the ceiling stars until exhaustion finally pulled him under.
No more words passed between them. No accidental touches.
Next morning— Mave was already up and gone (probably raiding the kitchen with Eleanor for pancakes), leaving the king bed a mess of tangled sheets and indented pillows.
Olivia hadn’t spent the night in the house.
She’d stormed out around 2 a.m. after hearing Mave’s cries echo down the hall and realizing Lucas had let her—the ghost, the stripper, the mother—into his bed for comfort.
The annoyance had boiled into full rage. She’d grabbed her keys, driven to her downtown penthouse, and spent the rest of the night drinking expensive wine and scrolling through old photos of her and Lucas, deleting the ones where he looked too happy.
Now—late morning—she was back.
She let herself in through the side entrance (she still had keys; Lucas hadn’t asked for them back yet), heels snapping across marble as she headed straight for the master suite.
She needed to see him. Needed to remind him who belonged here. Needed to reclaim the space that little brat and his scheming mother were trying to steal.
She pushed the bedroom door open without knocking.
And froze.
A woman’s bra—simple black lace, nothing flashy—lay draped over the back of the armchair near the window. Not hers. She knew every piece in her own drawer.
“What the fuck…”
Olivia stepped inside, eyes darting. The bed was wrecked—sheets twisted, pillows shoved to one side, clear evidence of bodies having shifted and tangled during the night.
Lucas’s golf bag was gone from the corner; Saturday ritual. He must have slipped out early to hit the course.
She turned slowly, pulse hammering.
The bathroom door opened.
Steam billowed out.
Blair stepped into the room—wrapped in one of Lucas’s oversized white towels, hair dripping wet, skin flushed from the hot shower. She stopped dead when she saw Olivia.
They stared at each other across the rumpled bed.
Blair recovered first.
“Sister…”
Olivia’s laugh was sharp and ugly.
“Wow. Really.”
She took another step forward, eyes raking over Blair like she was cataloging every insult.
“What are you doing here, you bitch? Don’t call me that.”
Blair tightened her grip on the towel, chin lifting.
“I’m here for my son. That’s all.”
“Your son,” Olivia repeated, voice dripping acid. “The one you hid for five years while you shook your ass for tips? The one Lucas dragged out of your rat-hole apartment? That son is in my house now.
And you—” she gestured at the bra, at the bed, at Blair herself “—you don’t get to waltz in here dripping wet in his towel like you belong.”
Blair didn’t flinch.
“He let me stay. For Mave. Not for me.”
Olivia stepped closer, close enough that Blair could smell her perfume—sharp, expensive, angry.
“Oh please. Spare me the martyr act. You saw your chance and you took it. Crawling into his bed the second the kid cried? Pathetic.”
Blair’s eyes narrowed.
“You weren’t here last night when he needed someone. I was.”
Olivia’s smile was cold.
“I’m here now.”
A beat of silence. Thick. Dangerous.
Then Olivia’s gaze flicked to the bathroom door still ajar, steam curling out like smoke.
“You showered in his bathroom. Used his towels. You really think he wants you here? Or are you just hoping he’ll remember how easy you used to be?”
Blair took one slow breath.
“Get out of this room, Olivia. Before Mave comes looking for me and sees you like this.”
Olivia laughed again—short and bitter.
“You don’t give orders in this house. You’re the help now. The nanny. The charity case. And when Lucas gets back from golf?” She leaned in, voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “I’m going to remind him exactly why he kept me around for five years… and why he’ll never keep you.”
She turned on her heel, snatching the black lace bra off the chair as she passed.
“Keep your dirty laundry off my furniture,” she hissed, and walked out—door slamming behind her hard enough to ra
ttle the frame.
Blair stood there a moment longer, towel clutched tight, water still dripping from her hair onto the rug.