Chapter 8
Chapter eight
Olivia
This is crazy.
This is batshit crazy.
My own office? There’s no way I’m getting this lucky.
Then again, it’s Warren Beaumont. I’m not that lucky. He’s been staring daggers at me since I started, and now I work for him?
I follow him down the hall in silence. Every step feels unreal. My heart is pounding, loud enough I’m sure he can hear it, but he doesn’t look back. Just walks with that confident, predatory calm.
Yet somehow not as scary or intimidating as he usually is.
He stops at the office down the hall to his. Opens the door and steps aside so I can walk in first.
I hesitate before stepping in and can’t suppress the gasp that escapes my lips.
It’s… stunning.
Spacious. Modern. Glass windows that let in soft natural light. A sleek white desk with gold hardware, not a fingerprint on it. Built-in shelves lined with organizational trays and fresh notebooks, like someone knew exactly what I’d need before I even asked.
There’s even a small couch along the wall, pale cream, plush, and so pristine it feels like it belongs in a showroom. The kind of thing I wouldn’t dare sit on without permission. Like I’d leave a mark.
I’ve never had anything like this.
Not even close.
I walk further in, eyes scanning the room, breath catching as I spot a glass water bottle waiting on the corner of the desk, just like the one I bring from home. And next to it, a tiny ceramic diffuser, mint green. My favorite color.
I pick it up. It’s already filled. I twist it gently in my hands, like it might disappear if I’m not careful.
I lift it to my nose.
Eucalyptus.
How did he know?
I almost forget he’s standing there until he speaks again.
“There’s a pay increase,” he says simply. “You’ll see it in your next deposit.”
I turn, still holding the diffuser in my hand. “I don’t understand. Why me?”
His expression doesn’t change. It’s unreadable. Cold, maybe. Or too calm.
“I told you. I need someone I can trust.”
“But you don’t even know me,” I whisper.
He steps into the room. Closer than he needs to be.
“I know enough.”
I nod.
“Enjoy your space. Take a moment to get acclimated, and meet me in my office around lunch, we’ll review your initial thoughts on the Parker file. Read what you can, see what jumps out. I’m not expecting a miracle by noon.”
“Yes, Mister—Warren,” I say before adding. “I’ll do my best work.”
He raises a brow. “That you will.”
And just like that, he’s gone.
The door clicks softly behind him.
I stand in the center of the office, still holding the diffuser like it might blow up in my hands if I believe too hard it’s really mine.
This is real.
This is mine.
I let out a slow breath and turn in a circle, eyes sweeping over every detail. The matching note pads. The soft light spilling across the desk. The elegant little clock on the wall ticking softly like a countdown to something I can’t name.
This is crazy.
Insane.
But also, it’s kind of beautiful.
My throat tightens unexpectedly. I blink hard, swallow it down.
There’s no time for tears. No space for weakness.
Set my purse down.
Slide into the chair behind the desk and open the folder he gave me.
Focus. Breathe. Work like your life depends on it.
If I’m going to survive this, I have to prove I belong here.
***
The knock on my office door startles me.
I glance at the time.
12:15.
Damn it. I’m late.
“Come in,” I call, though my voice barely carries.
The door opens with a quiet click.
I start gathering up papers and open files from my desk as I rise.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Beau—Warren. I must have lost track of time, but I sent you the—”
I look up.
There he is.
My new boss.
Icy eyes locked on mine.
A chill licks down my spine. I’m about to speak again when I notice the tray in his hands. His sleeves are rolled to the elbows, forearms flexing as he holds the tray like it’s a peace offering.
But his stare tells me it isn’t.
“I had lunch sent up,” he says simply. “But you’re late.”
I clear my throat as I tap the file against my palm. “I—”
“You tend to always be late, Ms. Baker.”
My spine stiffens. “I was working, and I sent you—”
He doesn’t let me finish.
“The files. I heard you the first time. You’ll get better at efficiency.” His tone cuts, final. Then he sets the tray down, so close his cologne drags through me like smoke.
“Sit.”
My body obeys before my brain catches up. Heat rushes to my cheeks.
“Good.” The word lands like a verdict.
What the fuck was that?
He takes the seat across from me, and I glance at the tray.
“I wasn’t aware there’d be actual lunch,” I murmur. “I thought—”
“There is now,” he says, lifting the lid.
Grilled chicken, roasted vegetables, jasmine rice, simple, warm, fragrant. Plated like it belongs in a five-star suite.
“Eat.”
I lift the fork, unsure why I’m even following his commands.
This man won’t even let me finish a sentence.
I eat in silence, the only sound, the soft clink of silverware.
It could almost feel normal, if I didn’t feel him watching me chew like he’s grading my performance.
Is it how I hold the fork?
How fast I eat?
I can’t even taste the food.
I put the fork down.
“Can we go over what I sent you now?”
His lips twitch, so slight, I wouldn’t have noticed if I weren’t watching him as closely as he’s watching me.
“In a moment,” he drawls, eyes scanning my face. “You’re nervous.”
“No,” I lie.
He leans in, voice low. “Your hands are shaking.”
I fold them in my lap. “You’re watching too closely.”
“I always watch closely,” he says. “That’s how I built this empire.”
“I’m not an empire,” I mutter, too quiet to stop myself.
His lips twitch again. “You could be, Olivia.”
My name sounds like a secret when he says it.
Like a leash he’s tightening.
“I don’t like being scrutinized,” I say, straightening in my seat. “You make me feel like I’m under a microscope.”
His eyes narrow, deliberate. “Good. That’s where you belong. Every move measured. Every flaw magnified. That’s how I know who to keep… and who to break.”
My stomach flips. I should stop there. But I don’t.
“Then why?” I press, softer. “If I’m here because you trust me… why the microscope?”
His answer is quiet.
Cutting.
“Because you make me feel something I don’t have a name for.”
The words hollow me out. My pulse hammers. I should get up.
I should run.
But I don’t.
“Work isn’t about feelings,” I say, forcing the words flat. “So whatever you think you’re feeling—swallow it.”
His jaw ticks once. Then, like a wall slamming down, his tone hardens.
“Let’s go over what you sent.”
I wait for a beat as he watches me. “You didn’t read what I sent in the email?”
“I reviewed it. I didn’t read it. I expected a presentation, punctuality at lunch so you could recap.”
“Right, okay.”
I nod, take a breath and reach for the folder even though my hands are still trembling slightly. I hand it to him, pointing to the page I marked in yellow.
“I cross-referenced the zoning archives with historic registries and noticed a clause that stood out,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
He takes the file. Doesn’t look at me. Just flips through it and skims.
I watch his eyes flick back and forth, cold, detached.
But I see it.
That flicker.
A pause.
I press on, “There’s a line in the supplemental zoning clause; section 3.4b. It was quietly filed five years ago but never activated, likely overlooked. If it’s tied to environmental reinvestment or community innovation, the city will fast-track variances.”
He doesn’t react. Just keeps flipping pages.
“I double-checked it with the property tax logs. The Parker Building qualifies. You could bypass most of the red tape if you file before the quarter closes.”
I stop talking, realizing how fast I’m rambling.
He says nothing.
The silence thickens.
I shift in my chair.
“Sorry, I know that’s not really enough. I just saw the discrepancy when I was going through the investor packet, and I thought it might help—”
“You thought?”
His voice cuts me off.
Quiet.
Sharp.
I blink. “Yes. I-I thought that even if you’re not final on what you want to use the building for this could still fast track your renovation.”
He finally looks up.
And I don’t know what I expected, maybe annoyance or maybe dismissal, but what I get is something else entirely.
Stillness.
Tension.
Like a wire stretched too tight.
“You read all of this on your own?“ he asks.
I nod slowly. “Yes.”
“You made the connection. Alone.”
My pulse flutters. “I—well, yes. I’ve been in my office all day. I checked it a few times to be sure.”
He closes the file. Smooth.
Careful.
Then he stands.
I brace, suddenly unsure. He paces behind the desk once, then stops at the window, looking out like the skyline holds answers.
A long moment passes.
Then, quietly, he says, “Do you know how many people I’ve had on that building?”
My throat goes dry. “No.”
“Four attorneys. Two consultants. A city zoning liaison with thirty years’ experience.”
He turns back toward me.
“None of them found this.”
I sit frozen.
A chill going down my spine.
“I’ve spent months waiting for something to shift,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “A reason. An angle.”
His eyes drag across me.
And then, lower. A little colder.
“And you—you walk in here in a thrift store skirt and shake the goddamn foundation.”
I flinch and his stare hardens.
“Don’t mistake me,” he says. “That wasn’t an insult. That was a warning. Because now that I know what you can do, Olivia… you don’t get to hide anymore.”
He places the file in front of me next to the tray of unfinished food, but I don’t reach for it.
His eyes stay locked on mine, something unreadable behind them, something I’m only beginning to understand.
“Take the afternoon to draft a summary memo,” he says. “Include the tax leverage, the variance opportunity, and the timeline.”
I reach for the file, but as I move, I knock my purse on the edge of my desk and it falls.
A few things spill out; pen, lip gloss, my keychain.
I start to bend down, but Warren’s already there.
He gathers the items with calm efficiency, slipping them back into my bag before handing it over.
“Careful,” he murmurs.
“Thanks,” I say quickly, flustered but already too focused on the win still buzzing in my blood.
As he moves toward the door, I set my purse straight and gather the file, my fingers shaking again, but not from nerves this time.
From adrenaline.
From power.
I’d just uncovered something massive.
And whatever it means to him…
I did it.
I found it.
Pride swells in my chest.
He opens the door, pauses.
Doesn’t look back when he says:
“Good work, Ms. Baker.”
The door clicks shut behind him.
I exhale now that the air is breathable again.
Warren is no Wesley, but I can do this.