Chapter 9 A Morning That Felt Too Normal
1398 Words
(Olivia’s POV)
Olivia barely slept that night.
Not because the bed was uncomfortable. The guest room at Havenmere was spacious and quiet, with a soft mattress and thick blankets that felt warmer than the ones she used in her London apartment.
The problem wasn’t the bed.
It was her mind.
Every time Olivia closed her eyes, the same images returned.
Those photos.
Oliver is laughing with Cassie.
The small handwriting on the yellow Post-it.
Ollie.
A nickname she had never used.
Olivia turned for what felt like the hundredth time, the sheets twisting slightly beneath her. The first light of dawn began to slip through the sheer curtains, pale streaks settling gently across the wooden floor.
Night eventually surrendered to morning.
She exhaled slowly.
Good.
Morning meant a new day.
And a new day meant she didn’t have to think about those photos anymore.
Or Oliver.
Or the fact that they were now, legally, husband and wife.
Olivia pushed herself up slowly, rubbing her face with both hands.
The house was still quiet.
No footsteps.
No sound at all.
The silence felt… too complete.
She frowned slightly.
If Oliver were still in the master bedroom, she would hear something—a door, movement, anything that confirmed his presence.
But there was nothing.
With quiet steps, Olivia left the guest room and walked toward the master bedroom.
The door stood open.
Empty.
The bed was untouched—too neat, as if no one had slept there at all.
Olivia paused at the doorway.
She didn’t know where Oliver had gone.
And for some reason, that unsettled her more than it should have.
But she pushed the thought aside.
Good, she told herself again.
A little distance wouldn’t hurt anyone.
She stepped inside.
The room felt different without him—larger, quieter… colder, somehow.
Olivia walked straight into the adjoining bathroom.
Cold water touched her skin, grounding her, clearing her thoughts—if only for a moment.
When she stepped out, she went straight to the wardrobe.
Of course, her clothes were here.
This was her room now.
Olivia changed into a simple cotton T-shirt and loose linen trousers.
She paused in front of the mirror.
Her eyes looked tired.
But she was still Olivia Sinclair.
And Olivia Sinclair did not hide in the guest room of her own house.
With that thought, she turned and headed downstairs.
---
Morning light had already filled the lower floor of Havenmere. The wide windows overlooking the lake reflected soft golden hues as the sun rose over the hills of the Lake District.
Lake Windermere lay calm.
Its surface was as smooth as glass.
Olivia paused on the stairs.
The view was breathtaking.
Almost too perfect.
And yet, the silence of the house still felt strange.
Too quiet for a place now occupied by two people.
She finally made her way to the kitchen.
Havenmere’s kitchen was large and modern, with a marble island at its center and wide windows overlooking the garden. Everything was immaculate—too neat, too controlled.
Oliver Sterling, of course.
Olivia opened the fridge and began pulling out ingredients without much thought.
Avocado.
Eggs.
Sourdough.
If she had to begin her first morning as Oliver Sterling’s wife, she would at least do it with a proper breakfast.
Soon, the kitchen filled with the scent of toasted bread and perfectly poached eggs.
Olivia moved with quiet efficiency. She sliced the avocado, sprinkled sea salt and chili flakes, and carefully arranged microgreens on top.
Simple movements.
A small ritual to steady her mind.
But her thoughts drifted back to last night.
“You’re jealous.”
Olivia frowned slightly.
She wasn’t jealous.
She was just—
…annoyed.
Yes.
That was the right word.
The spoon in her hand tapped lightly against the plate as she placed the poached egg.
That was when she heard the front door open.
Olivia turned.
A few seconds later, footsteps echoed into the house.
Oliver appeared in the kitchen.
He wore a thin black T-shirt and sweatpants, his hair slightly messy, his breathing still uneven.
Olivia noticed immediately.
He had been running.
Oliver stopped when he saw her.
Their eyes met.
A few seconds passed in silence.
“Morning,” Oliver said finally.
Olivia raised a brow.
“Morning.”
He walked to the sink and grabbed a glass of water.
“Sleep well?” he asked.
Olivia flipped the egg before answering.
“Amazing,” she said flatly.
“No one is snoring. No one is stealing the blankets.”
Oliver let out a quiet chuckle.
“That was subtle.”
Olivia didn’t respond.
She plated the food and carried two dishes to the dining table overlooking the lake.
One plate looked nearly perfect.
Smooth avocado, the poached egg sitting neatly on top like a small golden crown.
The other—
…not so much.
Same ingredients.
But messier. The avocado was roughly spread, the egg slightly off-center, and the greens were scattered carelessly.
Olivia sat and took the perfect plate.
Oliver glanced at both.
Then raised a brow.
“That one’s mine, isn’t it?”
Olivia sliced her toast calmly.
“You’re an architect,” she said.
“I assumed you appreciate imperfect structures.”
Oliver laughed softly before taking the seat across from her.
He ate without complaint.
Several minutes passed in a silence that wasn’t entirely uncomfortable.
The morning breeze drifted in through the slightly open window.
After a few bites, Oliver nodded.
“It’s good.”
Olivia didn’t reply.
But the corner of her lips almost moved.
When they finished eating, Olivia stood and carried her plate to the sink.
“You’re washing,” she said simply.
Oliver raised a brow.
“I think that’s a fair division of labor.”
Olivia leaned against the counter, watching him with an unreadable expression.
“Don’t procrastinate, Sterling.”
Oliver gave a small nod before taking the sponge.
Olivia left the kitchen without another word.
But a few minutes later—
She returned.
And stopped at the doorway.
Water splashed across the sink.
Clean plates weren’t in the drying rack—they were stacked unevenly at the edge.
The sponge floated in a pool of soapy water.
Olivia closed her eyes.
Took a deep breath.
Then opened them again.
“Oliver Sterling.”
Her voice was low.
Very low.
Oliver turned from the sink.
“Yes?”
Olivia gestured to the kitchen, now resembling a small disaster zone.
“What exactly is happening here?”
Oliver shrugged lightly.
“I’m washing dishes.”
Olivia stared at him.
For a long moment.
Then walked into the kitchen with unnerving calm.
“You call this washing dishes?”
She grabbed a cloth and wiped the counter quickly.
“This isn’t dishwashing, Sterling. This is a domestic catastrophe.”
Oliver stayed by the sink.
Olivia reorganized everything with precise movements, placing each plate properly into the drying rack.
Oliver’s gaze remained on her, and Olivia knew he was watching every movement she made.
It only made her more irritated.
She finally set the cloth down.
Then turned slowly.
Their eyes met again.
And for the first time that morning, Olivia noticed something that unsettled her slightly.
Oliver was smiling.
Not his usual sarcastic smile.
Something lighter.
Almost… amused.
As if the entire mess had been intentional.
As if he had been waiting for her reaction.
Olivia narrowed her eyes.
“…You did this on purpose.”
Oliver didn’t answer.
But his expression was enough.
Olivia glanced at the kitchen she had just fixed.
Then back at him.
And suddenly she realized something.
Last night’s argument.
The box.
The anger that had been tightening in her chest—
Somehow didn’t feel as heavy anymore.
That only irritated her further.
Olivia crossed her arms.
“Fine,” she said.
“If you want to play domestic war—”
She grabbed the sponge from the sink.
And threw it straight at him.
Soapy water splashed across his black shirt.
Oliver froze.
Olivia stared at him without blinking.
“Now,” she said coolly,
“You actually have a reason to clean the kitchen.”
Silence fell between them.
And for a brief second—
Olivia had the unsettling feeling she had just started something far more dangerous than last night’s argument.
Because Oliver Sterling was still standing there.
And for some reason—
He didn’t look bothered at all.
- Writer
