MTLNOVEL Chapter 8: Quiet Adjustments
The penthouse was bathed in warm ambient light, the kind that made the edges of silence feel soft instead of hollow. Olivia, freshly showered and in a long robe, padded barefoot from her room with a single goal: food. She hadn't eaten since morning and was dangerously close to raiding Damien's pristine fridge with zero shame.
What she didn't expect was the scent—garlic, rosemary, maybe citrus. Something delicious. Something... cooked.
She paused as she entered the open kitchen.
Damien Quinn stood at the stove, sleeves rolled up, brow slightly furrowed in focus. A sauté pan hissed under his control, golden chicken searing to perfection while roasted vegetables rested on a tray beside him. No staff. No hidden chef. Just Damien, in his own domain.
Olivia leaned on the counter. "You cook?"
He didn't glance up. "I eat."
She smirked. "Right. And I suppose you also do laundry, clean windows, and dust crystal vases?"
He flipped the chicken expertly. "No. I have people for those."
"Ah, balance."
He finally looked at her. "Hungry?"
"Starving."
He plated two portions without another word. Lemon herb chicken, wild rice, charred vegetables. Surprisingly thoughtful for someone who seemed to run on caffeine and disdain.
They sat across from each other at the kitchen island.
It wasn't romantic. It wasn't even warm.
But it wasn't awkward either.
Just... quiet. Surprising.
"I didn't peg you for domestic," she commented after a few bites.
"I like control over what I consume."
"Of course you do." She chewed thoughtfully. "Still, I appreciate the effort. Wouldn't have guessed our first dinner post-marriage would involve actual food and civility."
"You expected a press statement and separate wings?"
She gave him a sidelong glance. "Don't tempt me."
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Saturday morning arrived with sun-drenched windows and the comforting hum of machinery from Damien's study. Olivia stirred early, made herself coffee, and dove into a fresh string of assignments. She completed three digital cleanup jobs before noon and compiled a new financial spreadsheet for her earnings.
The rest of the day passed in quiet rhythm.
Damien remained in his own space, handling calls and board reports. Olivia kept herself busy with filtered data requests, shell identities, and scheduling a mock press leak.
It was surprisingly... efficient.
They didn't talk much. But when they passed each other—on the way to refill a mug, or crossing in the hallway—there was no tension. Just a nod. A fleeting glance. A strange new normal.
But by early evening, the calm began to break.
The Laurier household was in chaos.
Back in the family's main estate, panic had erupted as the gala loomed and their golden girl was nowhere to be found.
"What do you mean she's not answering?" Elizabeth Laurier barked into the phone, pacing the grand foyer in six-inch heels.
"She said she needed space! It's part of that wellness retreat she mentioned," a junior assistant replied weakly. "She texted two days ago to confirm. That's all I have!"
Elizabeth gritted her teeth. "We're hours away from the Whitmore gala. The engagement announcement is set. Press has been notified. And the bride is meditating in the mountains?"
Harold Laurier entered with a glass of scotch and an unamused expression. "Handle it. I don't care if she's on top of Everest. Get her in that gown before the cameras flash."
The staff scrambled. Calls were made. Security double-checked locations. No one knew where Rose Laurier was.
Back in the penthouse, Olivia monitored the meltdown quietly from her laptop.
A live feed of PR mentions. A whisper of press leaks. An intercepted email.
She sipped her tea, watching the storm from above, untouched.
The Whitmore gala was just hours away.
And she had no intention of showing up.
Meanwhile, at the Whitmore estate, tension dripped from the chandeliers like sweat. The ballroom had been transformed into a floral wonderland—orchids, hydrangeas, pale roses in cascading displays. Rows of crystal glasses sat untouched, the quartet played a soft waltz, and high-profile guests mingled under carefully rehearsed smiles. But beneath the glamor was a tightening thread of gossip.
Where was the bride-to-be?
Cameras whispered. Socialites exchanged looks. Editors refreshed their inboxes for a press release that hadn't come.
Anthony Whitmore paced behind the curtained edge of the ballroom, his perfectly tailored tux clinging to a body brimming with rage. His father hissed at him from the side. "Smile. Smile and say she's getting touched up."
"She's not even here," Anthony growled. "She won't answer her phone. That ungrateful—"
"Fix your face," his mother snapped. "If this breaks tonight, the shareholders will panic. Our merger with the Laurier's depends on that announcement."
"She's embarrassing us."
"And she'll pay for it," his father muttered darkly.
The press whispered about a delay. Guests noticed the missing key piece of the night's puzzle.
Rose Laurier—socialite, darling, scandal magnet—was a no-show.
And across the city, she was curled on Damien's lounge sofa, drinking jasmine tea and watching the empire burn slowly.