HIS

Chapter 1

Olivia's POV

"Miss Olivia, dinner is ready downstairs," Gloria called gently from the doorway, her warm smile lighting up her face. I returned the smile with a grateful nod and thanked her. Gloria has been with us for five years now, and in all that time, she's been the only person in this house I could truly call a friend—even though she's seven years older than me.

Before she came, it was just me and the occasional conversation with our driver. Loneliness has always been a quiet shadow in this house, and truthfully, it still lingers. But Gloria... she's been there through some of my darkest moments, offering comfort when no one else did. In a place that often feels cold and empty, she's the one constant warmth I've had.

As I descended the stairs, my eyes wandered over the familiar walls of the house I'd grown up in. So many memories lived here. The good ones—though they were few and fleeting—all belonged to the time when Mom was still alive.

Even now, I can recall her gentle voice and the way she showered me with love and endless patience, despite the fact that I was only five. She died just a month after my fifth birthday in a car accident—or at least, that's what my father told me.

Back then, it was mostly just the two of us. Dad was rarely around, always buried in work or away on business trips. After she passed, he became even more distant. For a while, I wondered if it was because I reminded him of her—but the truth is, I look more like him than I ever did her. We share the same sharply defined nose, jet-black hair, and piercing blue eyes. Mom, on the other hand, had soft blonde hair and warm brown eyes.

Just a month after Mom's death, my father brought home his new wife—Julia—and her six-year-old daughter, Sophia. At the time, I didn't realize how unusual that was. Looking back, it feels jarring. Julia is the kind of woman who seems manufactured from head to toe—platinum blonde hair, surgically enhanced features, and a personality that shifts depending on who's in the room. If you ask me, she's a walking contradiction—charming one moment, cold the next.

I once overheard her chatting with a friend over lunch while Dad was at work. Their laughter echoed through the house, loud enough to reach me upstairs. That's when I learned Julia had been his secretary—and apparently, their affair had started years before Mom died.

She even tried to justify it, claiming that my parents' marriage had ended long before she came into the picture. But that never made sense to me. If things were truly over, why didn't he just leave? Maybe if he had, Mom would still be alive.

I was stunned, but powerless to do anything about it. Julia never liked me—she made that clear from the start. Whether Dad was around or not, she treated me with thinly veiled contempt. Whenever Sophia misbehaved, Julia would twist the story and pin the blame on me, just to keep herself in good standing with Dad or anyone else who might be watching.

Dad, for his part, acted as if I barely existed. He only spoke to me when absolutely necessary, and any affection he had to give was reserved entirely for Julia and her daughter—who wasn't even his by blood. That's why I only come downstairs when I have to eat. I've learned to stay out of sight, to avoid drawing attention or being accused of things I didn't do.

Ironically, the only time I ever felt truly at peace was when they were away—off on their lavish trips, dining at expensive restaurants, or vacationing for weeks without so much as a thought of including me. I got used to that kind of life, the silence, the solitude. But no child should ever have to grow used to being neglected by their own parent.

When I was eight, I finally worked up the courage to ask him why I was never invited to join them—why I was always left behind while Sophia got to be part of everything. He looked at me coldly and told me to keep quiet and mind my own business.