Chapter 12
Chapter twelve
War
Not a second late.
Not a breath behind.
I feel it like clockwork. Like something locking into place.
Good girl.
Always so fucking obedient, without even realizing it.
I’m already standing by the window in my office, pretending to read the same zoning memo I’ve skimmed three times. But I’m not looking at the paper. Not even pretending, really.
I’m watching her.
Black pencil skirt. Pale blue blouse. Hair pinned back in that loose way that always falls by nine. I watch it fall every morning. Like a promise unraveling. She walks with her head slightly lowered, shoulders squared, like she’s holding herself together by sheer will.
That quiet, breakable strength wrecks me so much that I’ve studied her like scripture.
It makes her so beautiful.
How honest.
She crosses the floor, heels clicking on the marble, and disappears into her office.
I wait.
Ten seconds.
Fifteen.
Then I grab the coffee I got for her this morning and I follow.
I stop at her door. She doesn’t hear me. Her back is to me as she sets her bag down, adjusts the monitor, tugs the hem of her blouse like it’s not sitting right.
She’s always fussing with her clothes, like she hasn’t realized yet that they fit her like temptation.
She turns; and startles.
“Oh—Warren.” Her breath catches. “Good morning.”
Not Mr. Beaumont.
That matters.
I hold out the coffee. Her favorite. Half sweet cream, two pumps hazelnut, no foam. The lid already turned toward her so the mouth opening faces front.
She takes it with both hands, blinking up at me.
“Thank you,” she says softly, fingers brushing mine as she grips the cup. “I wasn’t expecting…”
She trails off when she sees I’m still watching her.
I don’t speak.
I just wait.
Her lips part, then close again. Then finally, eyes still on mine, she lifts the cup to her mouth and takes a sip.
Obedience.
No command.
Just instinct.
Reflex.
Everything in me clenches.
Good fucking girl.
“You’ll be in my office at noon,” I say, voice low, even.
Her brows lift slightly. “Yes, for the… lunch?”
I nod once.
“Yes, Olivia,” I confirm. “Lunch.”
Her name tastes like a promise I haven’t made yet.
I turn and walk away before I let myself say what I really want.
Before I do what I really want.
She followed without thinking today.
She came in on time.
She called me by name.
She took the sip.
She’s learning.
And I’m losing my goddamn mind.
I make it back to my office and immediately pull up the feed.
It flickers to life, clear picture, as it should be. Wesley’s newest piece of work.
There she is.
At her desk, shoulders tight with focus, lips pursed in that way she does when she’s trying to act unfazed. She sips the coffee I brought her, slow like it’s some casual habit, not a command she followed without realizing.
My jaw ticks.
She doesn’t know what she just told me about herself. What she just gave me.
A map. A rhythm. A window.
I watch her drag her fingers down the side of the cup. Thumb tapping once. Then twice. Nervous energy. A tell.
She has no idea I’m watching, and yet still—she’s performing. Still trying to be good, do good work.
For me.
I lean back in my chair, one elbow hooked over the armrest, the other hand curled tight around my coffee. I don’t taste it. Don’t care. Not when I’m locked on her.
She shifts in her seat. Her skirt rides just slightly higher.
I shouldn’t notice.
But I do.
Fuck, I notice everything about her.
The way she crosses her legs, ankles tight, as if modesty matters when I’ve already seen her in my head a dozen ways, moaning my name. Not Mr. Beaumont. Not Warren. Just War—like a prayer. Like a curse.
She pulls out her pen and starts scribbling in the margins of a printout.
Still using the cheap one.
I already ordered her the set she deserves.
Black lacquer, gold trim. Engraved.
Not because she needs it.
Because she will look fucking beautiful holding power in her hand and still not knowing it’s hers.
Yet.
I zoom the feed closer.
There.
9 on the dot.
A single loose strand of hair falls from that twisted knot she tries to pin back every morning. It brushes her cheek. She exhales. Doesn’t fix it.
I watch her breathe.
Watch her fucking breathe.
And I swear to God, I could sit here all day watching the way her chest rises and falls, soft and slow, like she doesn’t know she’s being seen. Touched. Undressed.
Owned.
I shift in my seat, suddenly too hard, too tense, too fucking close to unraveling from a single glance at a woman who still doesn’t know she already belongs to me.
But soon.. she’ll know and once she does, there’s no going back.
My office phone buzzes, I answer swiftly.
“Your package has arrived, sir.”
I don’t ask which one.
“Send it to Olivia Baker’s office.”
A pause. “Her… office?”
“Did I stutter?”
“No, sir.”
I end the call and lean back in my chair, attention back on the feed.
My sweet, focused Olivia, reading something intently, bottom lip caught between her teeth. If she keeps doing that, I’ll forget the whole plan and drag her in here now.
Her hair’s completely unraveled now. The collar of her blouse is slightly crooked. Still hasn’t noticed.
Then the knock comes to her door, her head lifts.
Cara, the first floor receptionist, enters the frame, holding the box with both hands. Matte black, ribboned, no label. Elegant. Ominous.
Olivia stands slowly.
Brows knit.
Confusion blooming.
She takes it.
Thanks her.
Sets it down on her desk like it might explode.
She stares at it for a beat. Then finally pulls the ribbon loose and opens the lid.
She freezes.
I zoom in slightly. Just enough to catch the flicker of shock on her face. Of disbelief.
Inside:
A custom-fitted gown. Deep emerald green. Structured stretch crepe, a fabric made to flatter every curve, hugging her waist and hips like a second skin, without clinging in the places she tries to hide. Sleek. Sculpted. Regal.
Not silk.
Not soft.
Powerful.
Exactly how she’ll look standing beside me tonight.
The note is simple, written in my own hand.
I want her to recognize it. To feel the shift. From assistant… to chosen.
You’re invited.
Tonight. 8PM.
I’ll pick you up
– W.
Her fingers tighten on the card.
Then she sits down.
Immediately stands back up.
Paces.
Pauses.
Moves toward the door, then stops short and turns around.
She stares at the dress again.
Goes to pick up her phone.
Puts it down.
Stares at it again.
Closes the lid.
Carries the box to the small couch in her office and sets it there like she needs distance.
Then she just sits at her desk.
Still.
Like she’s trying to regulate her heartbeat. Trying to think.
I smile.
I love watching her unravel.
Quietly. Beautifully. One thread at a time.
Moments later, she stands abruptly and disappears from the camera.
I already know she’s on her way and I know what she’s going to say.
I already know she’ll try to object, to decline, to remind me I never asked.
But I didn’t ask.
I don’t have to.
She’s already wearing the scent I chose.
She’s already sipping the coffee I handed her.
She’s already mine.
A knock comes sharp at my door.
Right on cue.