Chapter 5
Chapter five
War
Ishouldn’t still be watching her.
But I am.
I’ve been watching her for ten minutes now.
There’s a crease between her brows that deepens when she bites her lip, those lips, and leans closer to the screen. She’s nervous, fidgeting. She keeps adjusting the hem of her skirt, like she thinks it’s too tight.
It’s not.
It’s perfect.
She’s nervous. Self-conscious. Probably sweating under that polyester blend she tried to pass off as business casual.
But she’s holding it together.
Barely.
That’s what makes it interesting.
There’s always a moment right before a person breaks, when you see the cracks, the fragility. It’s the moment I want to catch, pry open, keep. Olivia Baker is teetering there, and it’s fucking fascinating. I want to push.
I shouldn’t care. She’s just another name on a file. Another pretty girl in a borrowed skirt.
But then she tucks her hair behind her ear, glances toward the elevator like she’s already wondering how hard it would be to run.
Run little doe.
“Cut it out,” Wesley mutters under his breath as he steps up beside me, his arms crossed.
I don’t answer. Just keep leaning against the glass wall of the conference room, my arms folded, gaze locked on Olivia.
A flicker moves through my chest. Discomfort. Or something worse.
I don’t turn to look at him. “Cut what out?”
“You know exactly what,” he hisses. “You’re burning a hole in her back.”
“She can’t feel it.”
“Warren.” His tone sharpens; firm, clipped. Serious. No one calls me that. Not unless they want to start something.
I slowly turn toward him.
His expression is taut. Tired. Protective. “You are not sleeping with this one.”
“I’m not sleeping with her.”
It’s a lie.
He knows it.
Wesley scoffs. “Bullshit. You said that about the last one, too.”
I shrug one shoulder. “The last one wasn’t your assistant.”
“She worked for me.”
“She also had a thing for being tied up and left begging on her knees, but I didn’t see her filing a complaint.”
“You left her stranded at the fucking docks, “Wesley hisses, jabbing a finger into my chest. “Luckily it only took twenty grand to keep her quiet.”
I grin. “She wanted the water view.”
“She cried, War.”
“She begged to go again.”
“I’m serious, she’s perfect, War. I don’t need you fucking this one up.”
I chuckle. “You’re so dramatic. I’m not going to touch her.”
Yet.
I already want to touch her in every way that would ruin her. Wesley thinks ‘perfect’ means fragile. It means ripe.
He mutters something under his breath. Probably cursing my name. Then storms off back to Olivia’s desk like some righteous office knight.
I wait.
I watch the moment Olivia looks up at him. She smiles. Soft. Grateful.
Then I turn, slow and controlled, and head for the elevator.
I take it up to my floor, the elevator doors open, and the scent of roasted coffee hits me before I even step out.
Broderick’s already there.
He holds out a to-go cup like it’s a peace offering.
“Morning,” he says. “Brought your usual.”
I take the coffee without looking at him.
Of course he brought my usual.
Because that’s Broderick. Fetching, smoothing, smiling. A man who knows how to wag his tail without ever baring teeth.
Always trying to stay one step ahead. Smooth. Polished. Friendly.
I don’t need a friend. I need someone who shuts up and gets the job done. He forgets that sometimes.
“Thanks,” I mutter, heading toward my office, the city skyline stretching wide and glassy beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Broderick follows, talking numbers. Three buildings under contract, one tied up in zoning. I nod when necessary, sip my coffee, let the silence stretch long enough to make him fidget.
“The Parker Estate got another inquiry this morning.”
My gaze cuts to him.
“Who?”
He hesitates. “Korsakov.”
The name crawls under my skin like rot.
“We’re not selling to that asshole.”
“I figured,” he says quickly. “He offered cash, above asking.”
I turn to face him fully.
“I don’t give a damn if he offered a blank check and a bow-wrapped yacht. That property stays off-limits.”
“Got it.”
He knows better than to push. At least on that.
There’s a pause. Then Broderick shifts.
“By the way, there’s a girl—woman, Olivia Baker. She’s interviewing with Wesley today.”
I don’t answer. He talks too much. Always filling silence like it’s his job to keep me entertained.
He keeps going.
“She get the job?”
My jaw tightens. “Yeah.”
“She’s my neighbor.”
That makes me pause.
I glance over.
Broderick shrugs like it’s no big deal. “We have apartments next to each other. She made me these peanut butter cookies once when I helped her carry groceries upstairs. Best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
I cut him a look. “What are you, twelve?”
He laughs. “No, just saying. She’s a good person.”
My gaze sharpens. “You got a crush?”
His smile falters. “What? I’m just looking out. She’s new, and she’s… you know. Real.”
I stare at him for a beat too long.
Because I do know. I saw it the second she stepped into the conference room.
Brody shifts his weight. “Just wanted to make sure she’s good. Seems like the kind of person who deserves a break.”
The heat in my chest starts to cool. Slightly.
Until he adds, too casually, “Plus now that she’s officially an employee, I’ll have to file with HR if she says yes when I ask her out.”
The silence after that is sharp. Tense. Immediate.
I take a long sip of my coffee. Let the quiet stretch.
Then I look at him. Really look at him.
“Don’t.”
I don’t tolerate competition. Especially not from my own dog sniffing at the same bone.
Brody blinks. “What?”
“Don’t ask her out.”
He opens his mouth, then closes it. “Come on, I was just—”
I turn back to the window, cutting him off without another word.
He stands there for a moment, the weight of the warning hanging between us.
Eventually, I hear him exhale and step back.
“I’ll get those zoning files updated,” he mutters, heading for the door.
I don’t respond.
The door clicks shut behind him, and silence fills the room.
I turn back toward my desk, set the coffee down, and wake the screen with a flick of my wrist. Still logged in.
Good.
I open the surveillance system.
Pull up the building feed.
Click the tab labeled 18–Executive East. Wesley’s floor.
Password required.
Of course.
I smirk, cold and humorless.
Wesley locked me out of live access to his floor’s cameras months ago after I accidentally caught footage of his last assistant doing unsanctioned yoga stretches between filing cabinets. He called it invasive. I called it preventive liability.
Now I call it inconvenient.
I could try and override it.
But not without leaving a trail.
And I don’t need Wesley at my office door.
So instead, I lean back, crack my neck, and open Broderick’s employee file. He’s been with me long enough.
Quick search. Directory. Address.
Gotcha.
Broderick’s apartment is in the West Tower, Unit 5C.
I don’t own the building, but I’ve done business with the property management group before. One call, one favor, and I can see what I need to.
But I don’t call.
Instead, I pull up the shared backend portal for local holdings, one of those convenient city-wide real estate integrations my company helped fund back when no one thought to ask why we wanted access.
I click over to tenant data. It’s protected, technically.
But not from me.
Olivia Baker. Unit 5B.
Next door.
Just like he said.
I stare at the screen for a long beat, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
Then I open a new search.
Olivia Baker.
There’s a hit on her work socials. Sparse. Community college. A stack of clerical certs, typing speed, office software, the usual bullshit. The kind of paper resume that says steady, not brilliant.
No real social media presence, just a locked photo account and another account abandoned four years ago.
Clever girl.
Private.
Not Flashy.
I dig deeper.
Age, she’s Twenty-seven.
A decade younger.
I shrug. I’ll make the exception.
I slide back to the tenant data I technically shouldn’t be looking at.
She’s been in 5B for two years. No roommate. No car on file. Emergency contact listed as “Mom.” No pets.
One late rent notice on record—six months ago. Paid in full the same week.
Then another. She missed this months payment.
Hmm, explains the need to return the skirt.
Quiet tenant. Quiet life.
No one stays quiet in this city without reason.
What’s she hiding?
What’s she running from?
Or maybe it’s the other way around.
Maybe she’s running to something.
Her license is on file. I click.
Five-five.
A full foot shorter.
Would’ve guessed smaller.
Probably because of the way she carries herself, head ducked, shoulders tucked, like she’s trying to vanish.
Like she doesn’t know how fucking visible she is.
Compact. Easy to corner.
But not delicate. Not breakable.
She’s lush in all the delicious places, full hips, thick thighs, soft stomach, the kind of curves that make a man’s hands feel; made for gripping.
Not fragile. Not fake.
Just real. Real enough to sink into.
I click her file closed and stare at the screen, my fingers still twitching on the mouse.
I should stop.
I should stop.
But I don’t.
Because Olivia Baker is now under my roof, close to my brother, and even closer to a man who basks in her attention and thinks peanut butter cookies mean something.
And if she’s going to live next to someone who clearly wants her,
If she’s going to work inside my family’s empire, I need to know exactly who she is, because I’ve already decided how much of her I’ll take.
All of it.