Isla’s POV
DAYS LATER
The soft hum of the clock in the living room was the only sound in the house when Oliver walked in. His presence, like a storm, always preceded him—heavy, oppressive, and impossible to ignore. I heard the sharp click of his shoes against the marble floor, each step measured and deliberate. I knew he would find me. He always did.
I stood in the kitchen, hands trembling slightly as I pretended to clean the already spotless countertop. My back was to him, but I felt his gaze burn into me the moment he stopped in the doorway.
“Isla…” He called out my name, his deep voice sending a wave of jitters round my body.
“Yes,” I forced myself to respond without turning back at him.
“What’s cooking sweetheart?” He asked.
Sweetheart? This man is pathetic. Today he treats me n
