Chapter 89 89
Clara—barely twenty, eyes flicking nervously to Blair—swallowed.
“Um… depending on the offense, Mrs. Brooks. Minor things like tardiness or sloppy work… extra duties, docked pay for the week. Repeated disrespect… written warning. Serious breaches—stealing, lying about duties, or… or insolence toward family members—immediate termination. Sometimes… sometimes the head of household requests police involvement if it involves theft or endangerment.”
Patricia nodded slowly, as if hearing this for the first time.
“And if someone were to, say… overstep their role? Act above their station? Pretend to be more than hired help?”
Clara’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“Dismissal without reference. And… and sometimes the family presses for… for legal consequences. Like trespassing charges if they refuse to leave.”
Blair’s face drained of color.
She stood frozen—hands trembling at her sides—while Patricia took another slow sip of coffee.
Olivia smiled thinly, eyes glittering with satisfaction.
Patricia set the cup down again.
“Very informative, Clara. Thank you.”
She finally looked directly at Blair—eyes cold, assessing.
“You may begin clearing the table now. And when you’re done… I expect the entire east wing hallway spotless before noon. Mave’s toys are not decorations. Neither are you.”
Blair swallowed hard—once, twice—then nodded silently.
She moved toward the table on numb legs, gathering plates and silverware with shaking hands.
Patricia watched every movement.
Olivia leaned closer to her future mother-in-law and murmured—just loud enough for Blair to hear—
“She cleans up nicely… for trash.”
Lucas returned from his Saturday golf round just after 4 p.m., clubs slung over one shoulder, polo shirt damp with sweat, hair tousled by the wind.
The mansion was quiet—Eleanor had taken Mave to the indoor playroom for “greatgrandmother time,” leaving the main floor eerily still.
He walked straight through the foyer, intending to head upstairs for a shower.
Instead he found Olivia waiting in the formal living room—silk robe loosely tied, legs crossed on the chaise, a glass of white wine already half-empty in her hand.
The moment she saw him she rose, slowly, letting the robe slip open just enough to reveal the black lace beneath.
“Finally,” she purred, setting the glass down. “I’ve been waiting.”
Lucas paused—still holding the golf bag—then let it drop to the floor with a dull thud.
Olivia closed the distance in three steps, hands sliding up his chest, nails dragging lightly over the damp fabric.
“You smell like grass and victory,” she whispered against his jaw. “I like it.”
She kissed him—hard—lips parting immediately, tongue seeking his. Lucas didn’t pull away. His hands found her hips, gripping tight, pulling her flush against him as the kiss deepened.
She moaned softly into his mouth, fingers threading into his hair, tugging just enough to make him growl low in his throat.
They stumbled backward together—her back hitting the nearest wall, his body pinning her there. The robe fell open completely. His mouth left hers to trail down her neck—hot, open-mouthed—while one hand slipped inside the lace, cupping her breast, thumb circling the already-hard nipple.
Olivia arched into him, gasping, legs parting so he could press between them.
“Yes—fuck—just like that,” she breathed, grinding against the growing hardness in his golf pants. “I’ve missed this… missed you taking what’s yours…”
Lucas’s breathing grew rougher. He yanked the robe off her shoulders completely, letting it pool at her feet.
His fingers hooked into the lace panties and tugged—hard—ripping the fabric with one sharp pull. Olivia laughed—low, triumphant—wrapping one leg around his waist as he lifted her higher against the wall.
He was about to undo his belt when—
CRASH.
A porcelain dinner plate shattered against the floor at the far end of the room.
Both of them froze.
Blair stood in the arched doorway to the dining room—still in the same jeans and hoodie from earlier, a second plate trembling in her hand.
She’d come to clear the breakfast dishes Patricia had left scattered. She hadn’t expected to walk in on this.
Her face was pale, eyes wide, lips parted in shock.
The plate slipped from her fingers—shattered into more pieces.
Olivia recovered first. She laughed—sharp, victorious—still pressed against Lucas, leg wrapped around him.
“Oops,” she said sweetly. “Didn’t see you there, nanny.”
Lucas slowly lowered Olivia back to her feet. His expression went blank—cold, shuttered. He adjusted himself with zero shame, then turned fully toward Blair.
His voice came out flat.
“You break one more thing in my house and you’re out tonight.
Blair flinched—like he’d slapped her.
She stared at him—then at Olivia, who was already retying her robe with a smug little smile—then back at Lucas.
No words.
Just a slow, silent nod.
She turned—bare feet stepping carefully over the broken porcelain—and walked away.
Lucas watched her go—back straight, shoulders rigid—until she disappeared around the corner toward the east wing.
Olivia stepped closer, sliding her arms around his waist from behind.
“Don’t worry about her,” she murmured against his neck. “She’ll learn her place. Now… where were we?”
Lucas didn’t move.
He stared at the shattered plate on the floor.
Then—quietly, almost to himself—he said,
“Get dressed.”
Olivia pulled back, smile faltering.
“What?”
He stepped away from her—coldly—and walked toward the stairs without another word.
Olivia stood alone in the living room—robe hanging open, victory souring on her tongue.
Upstairs, Lucas locked the master bedroom door behind him.
He leaned against it—forehead pressed to the wood—breathing hard.
A small knock sounded on Lucas’s study door.
“Daddy?” Mave’s muffled voice came through the wood. “Maverick wanna play… open the door, please?”
Lucas had been sitting in the dark since —chair pushed back, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.
The knock came again.
“Daddy…?”
He exhaled roughly, dragged a hand down his face, and stood.
When he opened the door, Mave stood there in dinosaur pajamas, hair mussed from trying to sleep, brown teddy bear dangling from one hand. His big eyes were wide and hopeful, bottom lip already trembling a little.
Lucas dropped to one knee immediately—bringing himself to Mave’s level—voice softening in a way it hadn’t all day.
“Hey, son…”
Mave launched forward without hesitation, wrapping both arms around Lucas’s neck in a fierce hug.
“I couldn’t sleep,” he mumbled into Lucas’s shoulder. “The stars on my ceiling are spinning too fast and I keep thinking about Mommy and the rocket and… and I want Daddy to play.”
Lucas’s arms came around him automatically—tight, protective—lifting Mave off the floor and settling him on his hip like he weighed nothing.
“Okay, buddy,” he said quietly, pressing a kiss to the top of Mave’s curls. “We’ll play. Whatever you want.”
Mave pulled back just enough to look at him—small hands cupping Lucas’s face, thumbs pressing into his cheeks like he was checking for realness.
“You’re not mad at Mommy anymore, right?” he asked seriously. “She was sad today. She didn’t sing the getting-ready song when she brushed my teeth. She just… looked at the wall.”
Lucas’s throat tightened.
He carried Mave into the study, kicking the door shut behind them, and sank onto the leather sofa with the boy in his lap.
“I’m not mad at Mommy,” he said—slowly, like he was testing the truth of the words. “Sometimes grown-ups get… mixed up. But I’m not mad.”
Mave searched his face for a long second.
“Promise?”
Lucas nodded once.
“Promise.”
Mave smiled—small, relieved—and snuggled against Lucas’s chest, teddy bear squished between them.
“Then can we play astronauts? You be the captain and I’ll be the co-pilot and we’ll fly to the moon and bring Mommy back a moon rock so she smiles again.”
Lucas let out a shaky breath that almost sounded like a laugh.
“Yeah,” he whispered, resting his chin on Mave’s head. “We’ll bring her the biggest moon rock. She’ll smile so big.”