The rest of the morning dragged like a clock with a dying battery.
Olivia had tried to distract herself—halfheartedly scanning the shelves in the study, flipping through books she barely read, wandering to the balcony for a gulp of fresh air—but every small task felt hollow.
Her mind kept circling back to breakfast.
The deliberate pauses in Taymond's speech.
The way his gaze had lingered, like he was peeling her apart layer by layer.
The calmness that was almost too calm, like someone hiding the knife they were holding.
She was starting to think the silence of the house was worse than his company.
That's when she heard the knock.
Firm. Steady. Measured.
She closed the book on her lap without marking the page. "Come in," she called, her voice more neutral than she felt.
The door opened, and Raymond stepped inside as though he'd always been welcome there. He didn't just walk into a room—he claimed it. Even without touching anything, his presence shifted the air, pulling it taut like a bowstring.
His eyes flicked briefly to the book in her lap before meeting hers. "Not working?"
"Just reading," she replied, her tone light. "Trying to enjoy the quiet."
He came closer, each step unhurried but deliberate, until he stopped beside the desk. "Good. You might want to keep your afternoon free."
She closed the book completely now. "Why?"
"I'd like you to come with me," he said simply.
Her heart gave an involuntary jump, but she kept her expression mild. "Where?"
"There's an exhibition downtown. A private showing. A few pieces you'll never see in a public gallery—they'll be sold before the public even knows they exist."
He said it like an opportunity, but she heard the undertone: This isn't optional.
"That's… short notice," she said carefully.
"Life is more interesting when it's short notice," he countered, almost with a smile, but not quite. "Besides, I think you'll find the art… revealing."
She tilted her head slightly, studying him. "Revealing?"
"Paintings that tell you exactly what the artist was thinking," he said, his voice lower now, smoother. "If you know how to look."
His gaze locked on hers as he said it, and Olivia 's pulse spiked. She had the uneasy feeling he wasn't talking about art anymore.
"I think you're good at looking, Olivia," he added, the words lingering in the space between them.
She let out a soft laugh, hoping it didn't sound forced. "You make it sound like a test."
"Everything is a test," he said without hesitation.
For a moment, they stood there, the silence humming with unspoken things. She wanted to ask why he'd chosen her, why this sudden "invitation" felt like anything but casual, but she knew better. Questions were dangerous.
Instead, she said, "When do we leave?"
His smile was faint, but it was there. "In an hour. Wear something that feels like armor."
As he turned to leave, she caught herself gripping the book in her hands until her knuckles whitened.
Armor.
She didn't know whether he meant physical elegance or emotional steel, but she had the feeling she would need both.
And whatever this exhibition was—it wouldn't just be about art.