His Dangerous Love On Ice (Olivia and Zane) novel Chapter 16

OLIVE’s POV

My eyes had been glued to my phone for what felt like hours, checking every few minutes, even though only seconds had passed, waiting for some kind of message, call, or sign that this was really happening and I hadn’t just imagined the whole conversation.

It was 6:30 when my phone finally rang, an unknown number flashing across the screen, and I answered so fast I didn’t even think about who it might be or what they might want.

“Miss Monroe?” A professional voice came through, polite and formal. I’m outside your hotel. Mr. Mercer sent me to pick you up.”

My stomach did a weird flip thing that I refused to analyze too closely, and I grabbed my bag and headed downstairs before I could talk myself out of this entire insane situation.

The car waiting outside wasn’t just nice-it was the kind of car that made people stop and stare, sleek and black and probably worth more than I’d make in five years, and the driver opened the door for me without a word.

The drive wasn’t long, ten or fifteen minutes through Chicago streets that got progressively nicer and quieter until we pulled up to a building that made me question whether I’d accidentally gotten into the wrong car.

It wasn’t just a house; it was a mansion, the kind of place you see in magazines or movies and assume doesn’t actually exist in real life, with glass and modern architecture, and probably more square footage than my entire apartment garage building back home.

The driver pulled into a circular driveway and opened my door, gesturing toward the entrance where a woman in what looked like an actual staff uniform was waiting, and I felt completely out of my depth in a way I hadn’t since… well, since ever.

“Miss Monroe.” the woman smiled warmly, like having random girls show up at this house was a completely normal occurrence. “Welcome. Mr. Mercer said you’re free to make yourself comfortable anywhere you’d like.”

I nodded because words felt impossible right now, and she led me through an entrance that was bigger than my entire suite, all marble floors and high ceilings and art that probably cost more than my car.

“Is there anywhere particular you’d like to wait?” she asked, and I must have looked as lost as I felt because she added, “Perhaps the living room? Or the kitchen?”

“Kitchen,” I said immediately, because kitchens had always been my comfort place, the one room in any house where I felt like I could breathe.

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