Chapter 13 Olivia
Chapter thirteen
Olivia
That dress is worth more than every piece of clothing I own. Combined.
He can’t just buy me something like that.
Invite me to the gala? Fine.
But a designer gown tailored to my measurements, hand-delivered to my office in a matte black box?
No.
That crosses a line.
I stop in front of his office door, hand raised to knock, and hesitate.
I want to go. God, I do.
A part of me wants to wear that dress. To be seen like that.
And I don’t have anything close to good enough for an event like this.
But still. This feels... dangerous.
Why shouldn’t I accept it? It’s just a gift. Right?
Except it doesn’t feel like a gift. It feels like something else.
A claim. A collar made of crepe and emerald.
And maybe I want to wear it. That’s the problem.
“Damn it,” I mutter under my breath, then knock.
“Come in.”
I twist the handle and step inside.
“Warren, the dress—”
“Not the right color?” he asks without looking up from his desk.
“What? No, I—”
“I thought emerald would suit your complexion. And your eyes.”
I blink. “My eyes are brown.”
“When the light hits them,” he says, finally meeting my gaze, “they flicker green.”
My mouth goes dry.
He leans back in his chair like this is nothing. Like he didn’t just casually admit to noticing the microscopic variations in the pigment of my irises.
“If you’d prefer royal purple, say the word,” he adds. “Or red. Brunettes always look stunning in red.”
Brunettes. Not me.
Not Olivia.
Just a hair color. An accessory.
Arm candy.
I’ve been here before.
Not with designer gowns or black boxes or cryptic invitations.
But with men like him.
Men who smile and flirt and see you as something soft to touch. Something nice to look at.
Something to fuck once, maybe twice, before moving on to the next thing that shines.
That dress—
That dress doesn’t say you’re invited.
It says you’ve been chosen.
And not for the gala.
My chest tightens.
Because that’s what I’ve let myself be before, isn’t it?
A one-night stand.
A secret worth unwrapping in the dark, but never bringing into the light.
A temporary indulgence.
A beautiful body with no permanence attached.
I clench my jaw.
I am not arm candy.
I am not a pretty distraction.
I am not a body worth dressing up just to be discarded.
“I’m not going to sleep with you,” I blurt.
The words fall sharp and clumsy into the space between us.
Warren’s brows rise, slow and deliberate, like I’ve just said something wildly amusing.
“I didn’t ask to sleep with you, Ms. Baker.”
Ms. Baker.
Sharp. Formal. Like a boundary drawn in ink.
Not Olivia.
My stomach twists.
That’s when it hits me.
He’s Warren Beaumont.
The man who’s rumored to sleep with whoever he wants, whenever he wants.
The man who always has someone on his arm, but never twice.
The man I assumed this was about.
But this gala is a professional event.
Maybe this was professional.
An invitation, not an implication.
And I just walked in here, dripping with my own damage, and handed him a rejection he didn’t earn.
Because men like him don’t need to ask. And women like me don’t get invited.
I wince internally.
God. I’m fucking this up.
My cheeks flush. Hard.
“I-I’m so sorry,” I start, shaking my head. “That wasn’t fair. I shouldn’t have assumed—”
He doesn’t move.
Just sits there, one arm draped casually over the armrest of his chair, the other resting against his chin like he’s considering something.
He’s looking at me.
Right at me.
Through me.
Like he sees through the apology, through the panic, straight into whatever cracked part of me expected the worst.
“It’s fine,” he says finally, voice low and even. “If you don’t want to go, you don’t have to. It’s not a job requirement.”
I blink.
No pressure. No guilt.
Just an open exit door.
But I don’t want to walk through it.
“No,” I say quickly, shaking my head. “No, I do want to go. I just… it’s tonight and I don’t even have time to get my—”
“Hair and makeup are being handled,” he interrupts, still watching me like he’s memorizing every twitch of my mouth.
“They’ll arrive at your apartment by five.”
I blink at him. “You…what?”
“My driver will take you home at four,” he continues like he’s listing facts, not orchestrating every second of my day. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”
I open my mouth, maybe to protest, maybe to thank him, but nothing comes out.
He lifts one hand. Waves it vaguely toward the door.
Dismissive. Effortless.
But somehow… not unkind.
And for some reason, I obey.
I turn.
I leave.
The door clicks shut behind me and I’m still holding the weight of his words in my hands like something breakable.
He didn’t ask.
He arranged.
And I let him.
God, what is happening to me?
And why does it feel like falling?
***
The ride is smooth and this is by far the fanciest car I’ve ever been in.
I don’t even know what kind of vehicle it is. It’s sleek. Black. The interior smells like leather and something expensive I can’t name. The driver calls me “Ms. Baker” and opens the door for me like I’m royalty. No conversation. No music. Just polished silence and tinted glass.
The moment I step inside my apartment, I drop my bag, and immediately hop in the shower, not ten seconds after I’m done, towel wrapped around me, a knock comes.
“Hair and makeup,” a cheerful voice calls from the other side.
I open the door to find a woman who looks like she belongs on the cover of a beauty magazine, thin, early thirties, glowing skin, warm smile.
“I’m Isabella,” she says, breezing in with a massive case and zero hesitation. “Mr. Beaumont sent me.”
I nod and move out of her way.
“I haven’t even had time to put on the dress yet—”
Isabella spots the box on the couch and waves me toward it.
“Good thing you didn’t try it on alone. Those dresses are a nightmare to wrestle into solo.”
She sets her cases down on my kitchen island like she owns the place, then turns back to me, handing over a sleek black box tied with a satin ribbon.
“This is for you. Also from him.”
I blink, caught off guard. “The makeup?”
“Nope. This is the first part to the dress.” She gestures to the box. “He said you should change into this first, before we do the dress.”
I stare at her. “First part?”
She nods expectantly.
My hand tightens around the ribbon of the box.
“You wanna change out here, or in your room?” she asks gently.
I hesitate.
She’s kind. Pretty. Bubbly.
Still… a stranger.
“I’ll go to my room,” I murmur.
“Of course, take your time,” she says easily, turning her attention to unpacking a tray of lipsticks like this is totally normal.
I walk slowly to my room, fingers trembling slightly as I untie the ribbon.
When I lift the lid, my breath catches, and I almost drop the box.
Inside: black lace.
Soft. Expensive.
Lingerie.
Not just any lingerie. My size.
Perfectly cut for curves.
No tags. No receipt. No notes.
Just… picked out for me.
By my boss.
Heat floods my face.
I want the ground to swallow me whole.
I stand there, frozen, the lace trembling in my hands.
He bought me lingerie.
Not the way I thought. Not just polite invitations and emerald dresses.
He knew my size.
He’s thought about this.
About Me.
He said he didn’t ask to sleep with me. He didn’t say he didn’t want to.
No.
I scoff at myself. Why would he want me? I’ve seen the women on his arm, sleek, flawless, not… this.
I should stop this. I should call and say this has gone too far.
Breathe.
I take a deep breath.
Toss my towel on the bed
And I slip on the lingerie.
It fits like a glove. Silky against my skin, hugging every soft place I try to hide. I glance at myself in the mirror and have to look away before I fully absorb what I see.
A knock on the door pulls me back.
“Ready for the dress?” Isabella calls.
I look toward my towel and back at myself in the mirror. No point in hiding from her. “Come in.”
She enters, holding the gown carefully.
I try not to look her in the eyes, but she doesn’t even blink.
Professional. Efficient, as she helps me slip into the dress.
“You look beautiful already,” she says, smoothing the gown down my hips as she zips me in. “This man has good taste.”
I say nothing.
I try to thank her, but the words get stuck somewhere in my throat.
The dress fits like it was made for me. Structured. Smoothing. Elegant. The emerald green pops against my skin, making me look somehow taller. Bolder.
Different.
Like someone took time measuring a body I’ve only ever tried to shrink.
Isabella steps back and beams. “Okay, now let’s get to work on that gorgeous face.”
She guides me into the kitchen and starts setting up products with practiced ease. Her voice is gentle now, like she knows I’m spinning.
“Not used to men like this, huh?”
I shake my head, barely able to meet her eyes.
“He’s just my boss,” I whisper.
But my body doesn’t feel like it believes me.
She lifts a brow, a teasing smile tugging at her mouth.
“Sure he is.”
She gets to work, sweeping foundation and blush with expert hands. We don’t talk much, which is fine. My brain’s a mess of static and pulse and what the hell is going on.
It’s not until she reaches for the eyeshadow palette that I realize something’s off.
“Wait. Is that green?” I ask as she lifts a brush.
“Mhm.” She dabs it gently into a muted emerald shimmer. “He chose this. Said to match the tone to the dress. And your eyes.”
My breath catches.
He chose the makeup?
I don’t even know what to say to that. I barely remember how to breathe, let alone form a full sentence.
Isabella doesn’t comment on my stunned expression, just keeps working, humming softly as if this is all completely normal.
Once my face is done, she steps back, wiping her hands. “Time for hair.”
I nod, still silent, letting her turn me in the chair. She blow-dries with careful hands, working product through the strands, until my hair is soft and glossy and lighter than air.
I start to relax. Until she pulls out a set of pins.
“What are you doing?” I ask as she begins twisting a section at the base of my neck.
“Chignon,” she says, focused. “Classic. Elegant. He said up.”
My brows draw in. “Warren wants my hair up?”
Isabella’s lips twitch with amusement. “To show off the jewelry.”
My entire body goes still.
Of course. The hair. The face. The dress. All pieces to complete the look.
His look.
“I—what jewelry?”
She doesn’t answer right away, just keeps twisting and pinning.
When she finishes, she gently tilts my chin so I’m facing the mirror she placed on my kitchen island.
Then she reaches for a sleek velvet box sitting quietly on the counter. I hadn’t noticed it before.
She opens it slowly, like she’s unveiling something dramatic.
A delicate emerald bracelet sparkles inside, paired with a matching necklace and drop earrings set in white gold. Understated. But not cheap.
Definitely not cheap.
They glitter like promises.
And I don’t know if I’m supposed to wear them… or return them with my soul.
I stare.
“That’s… that’s for me?” I ask softly.
I’ve never owned anything this beautiful. Not even close.
Let alone had it picked out just for me.
She smiles at me in the mirror. “It’s all part of the look, carina.”
“I-I can’t accept this,” I breathe, even as she lifts the bracelet and clasps it around my wrist.
“You have to look the part,” she says, her voice gentle now. “He chose them to match the dress. And your skin.”
My skin.
When did he start studying me like this?
How long has he been planning this moment?
I don’t respond.
Because I can’t.
I’m afraid if I say anything, I’ll cry. Or laugh. Or both.
Then, as if it’s nothing, she pulls out a sleek shoebox and opens the lid to reveal a pair of emerald green stilettos with delicate straps and a pointed toe. They look like something out of a dream.
“Oh,” I whisper. “Those are… wow.”
“He said you wear a seven and a half,” she says, kneeling to help me slip them on. “He was right.”
How the hell did he know?
They fit perfectly.
Isabella hands me a silver clutch and I stare at myself.
The woman in the mirror doesn’t look like me.
She looks powerful. Soft and sharp all at once.
And she looks like she belongs beside Warren Beaumont.
Which is the most dangerous lie I’m starting to believe.
My heart races.
It’s just a professional event.
A networking opportunity.
It means nothing. It can’t mean anything.
This is still just work. I’m just an employee.
A pretty one in borrowed power. That’s all.
Isabella packs up swiftly, leaving me standing in the middle of my apartment like I’ve been dropped into someone else’s life.
“Have fun,” she says with a wink as she leaves. “And try not to fall too hard.”
The door clicks shut.
I turn toward my phone. Reach for it.
I can’t do this.
I’m not ready.
I’m going to cancel. I’m going to tell him I’m sick.
I stare down at my phone. My finger hovers over his name.
Maybe if I text fast enough, I can get out of this—
Knock knock.
My head snaps toward the door.
Too late.
He’s here.