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.”

immediate: “Boooring. Drink water. Take Advil. Call

through emails, deleting promotional messages and flagging work–related ones for

left my apartment, I was running late. I power–walked to the subway, mentally rehearsing excuses for my tardiness that

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

death warmed over,” she

the look I was

She lowered her

my computer. “Girls‘ night. Just

desk. “The marketing brief for the Westwood account is due by three. Derek’s been

1/3

“On it.”

The Westwood campaign needed a complete overhaul; their previous marketing strategy had all

ate a sad desk salad while finalizing the presentation, occasionally glancing at my

myself. “You don’t

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

boss?” Nova asked,

over my shoulder. “My dad’s recovering

“Oh,

Getting stronger

Tell him I

“You’ve never met my

shrugged. “Just

the day’s tension

a day trapped in air–conditioning. I walked six blocks to Sweet &

combining into an aroma that made my mouth water. When I

I

case, my eyes landing on a row of elaborately decorated cupcakes.