The CEO's Contractual Wife

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.”

Drink water. Take

eggs while scrolling through emails, deleting promotional messages and flagging work–related ones for later. The coffee

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

slid into my desk at Carter Enterprises with two minutes to spare, offering

like death warmed over,”

the look I

her voice. “Or Alexander

with turning on my computer.

to crawl under my desk. “The marketing brief for the Westwood account is

1/3

“On it.”

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

throb. I ate a sad desk salad while finalizing the presentation, occasionally glancing at my phone to check the time. No

to myself. “You don’t

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

date with the boss?” Nova

corrected, slinging my bag over my shoulder. “My

“Oh,

Getting stronger every

good. Tell him I said

paused. “You’ve never met my

shrugged. “Just

the day’s tension easing. “Thanks, Nova. See you

trapped in air–conditioning. I walked six blocks to Sweet & Flour,

like heaven, with butter, sugar, and chocolate combining into an aroma that made my mouth water. When I reached the counter,

can I

landing on a row of elaborately decorated cupcakes. “Four of those