Chapter 14 Olivia
Chapter fourteen
Olivia
The knock echoes like a warning.
My stomach flips. My pulse jumps to my throat. I almost don’t move.
I reach for the door handle with trembling fingers.
And there he is.
Warren Beaumont.
Tall, broad, commanding. Just as put together as he is at work, but now—dressed in a tux so sharp it could cut glass, he looks... powerful. His jacket is open, his stance relaxed, but every inch of him radiates control.
He looks like he owns everything he touches. And right now, I feel like one of those things.
His eyes drop instantly to the necklace resting above my collarbone. Then lower. A long, measured sweep down the gown he chose, probably wondering if I’m wearing the lingerie beneath it. My face heats.
His gaze lingers, unreadable, at the dip of my waist.
When he speaks, his voice is velvet and steel.
“Turn around.”
My breath catches.
He’s not asking.
I hesitate, just for a second, then slowly I turn, spine straight, face burning.
He hums low. Approving. “Good.”
The word lands somewhere low in my stomach. Heavy. Warm. Dangerous.
I face him again, stunned into silence.
He doesn’t smile.
Instead, he reaches forward, brushes his knuckles against the necklace, his fingers grazing my skin.
“Stunning,” he says, voice dipped in something darker. “I knew emerald would suit you.”
I try to speak, but nothing comes.
I should say thank you. Or ask him what this is. But I can’t do either.
“Hand,” he commands, already extending his own.
I place mine in his without thinking.
The second our skin touches, I feel it, that invisible pull. Like I’m being drawn into his world, inch by inch, whether I mean to or not.
“Good,” he murmurs, almost too quiet to hear.
My heart stutters. He’s already turning, leading me to the elevator, our hands still joined like some kind of claim.
He doesn’t speak.
His hand steady in mine.
I remind myself over and over as the elevator takes us down:
This is not a date.
This is not a date.
Then why does it feel like it?
At the curb, a sleek black car waits, engine already purring.
He opens the door for me.
I slide in, careful not to wrinkle the dress.
The seat is warm.
Soft leather.
Screams money. Like I expected.
Warren rounds the car and takes the driver’s side.
Breathe Olivia.
He glances at me once as he shifts into drive.
“Comfortable?” he asks, voice low, threaded with something I can’t name.
“Yes,” I manage.
He hums, as if amused by that. Or maybe by me.
“You wear that dress better than I expected.”
My cheeks burn. My pulse kicks. I can’t tell if it’s a compliment or a test.
“You picked it.”
“I pick a lot of things. Doesn’t mean they all look like that.”
I pause.
I swallow. That pause stretches like it means something.
I want to ask what this is. I need to know what he thinks this is going to be.
“That necklace suits you.”
My fingers drift to the emerald at my throat.
“You did a great job picking it all. I’ll be sure to return them all to you on Monday.”
“Don’t.”
I shift slightly in my seat.
“But—”
“They’re yours.”
“Warren?” I ask, my voice quieter. “This was all very kind, but the lingerie—”
His smile is barely there.
“You put it on.”
I open my mouth. Close it.
My body heats like he touched me, when all he did was name the truth.
What the hell do I say to that?
He turns onto a main road, headlights painting gold against his knuckles. I regain my resolve.
I steel myself.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” I say quietly. “It’s a lot and I don’t—”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“Yes. You don’t know how to accept them without something in return.”
My breath hitches and his lips quirk.
“I make my living reading people Olivia” He says my name like he owns it.
“It’s how I make my deals. I can read you too.”
I stare out the window.
“I’m just not used to it,” I admit.
I feel his eyes on me again, sweeping slowly down my profile before returning to the road.
“You’ll get used to it.”
His voice is calm. Certain. Like getting used to being spoiled by Warren Beaumont is inevitable.
And that should scare me more than it does.
The car eases to a stop in front of a building that doesn’t look real.
I square my shoulders, but nothing prepares me for what I see.
Glass. Light. Music drifting through stone archways.
It’s like the set of a movie. Not a place people like me get invited to.
The doorman opens my door and offers a quiet “Ms. Baker.”
I step out, heels clicking against smooth stone, my emerald gown brushing over polished floors.
Warren appears at my side, jacket now buttoned, posture impeccable. His hand hovers just above my lower back.
Not touching.
But I feel it anyway.
Warm. Anchoring. Dangerous.
Inside, the air is velvet and champagne.
Every detail gleams, chandeliers dripping like constellations, golden trim curling around high vaulted ceilings, servers gliding past with trays of wine and caviar.
I catch my breath.
God.
This is it.
This is the world he lives in.
My heart flutters in my chest, somewhere between nerves and awe.
Warren leans in slightly, voice a brush of silk behind my ear.
“Try not to stare, Ms. Baker.”
Heat floods my face.
“Sorry.”
He chuckles, not unkindly.
“You’re doing fine.”
We glide into the crowd, his pace unhurried, his presence magnetic. People turn. Eyes follow.
Warren Beaumont, in his element.
I trail just half a step behind, trying not to look as overwhelmed as I feel.
But I already know—
I’m not walking into a gala.
I’m walking into something I may never walk out of the same.
He stops at a small cluster, two men and a woman dressed in old money and quiet menace.
The kind of people who wield their smiles like knives.
“Ah, and who’s this?” one of the men says.
Warren’s hand finds the small of my back.
Heavy.
Possessive. Calm.
Like he’s claiming me in front of them.
“Olivia Baker,” he says smoothly.
“My right hand.”
The words hit like a shot of whiskey, unexpected and warm.
He’s never called me that before.
“I thought Broderick was your right hand,” the woman asks, arching a brow.
Warren smiles, slow and lethal.
“He was. But Olivia’s much better looking, don’t you think?”
The group laughs, the indulgent kind that only comes from people who haven’t worried about money in decades.
I force a polite smile, but my insides are molten.
He goes on, tone breezy, eyes on the crowd as if he’s scanning for his next deal.
“She’s my new rising star. Brilliant. Smart as hell. Beat out Wesley to get her.”
He grabs a drink from a passing waiter and hands me one.
He sips his drink like he didn’t just hand me the sun.
“Told HR I wouldn’t take anyone else.”
Their laughter rings out; light, rich, effortless.
Like power is an inside joke I’ve just been let in on.
But I can’t laugh.
Because I’m still trying to breathe.
Who is this?
This version of Warren, polished, warm, casually charming, unsettles me more than his coldness ever did.
Because he doesn’t try to make me feel like I belong here.
He just does.
He puts me at ease.
And yet…
He’s not the man I work for.
That man is sharp-eyed.
Unsmiling.
Cold enough to freeze the air between us.
This man?
This man makes me feel beautiful just by standing next to him.
“Dance with me,” he says suddenly, cutting through my thoughts like a knife through fog.
I blink up at him.
“What?”
He takes my drink away and offers his hand.
“We’ve mingled. Time for the fun part.”
Without thinking, I take it.
The crowd parts for him.
Black marble stretches beneath crystal light.
It feels like stepping into a fairytale I wasn’t cast for.
Music swells. Something elegant and slow.
He pulls me close, one hand at my waist, the other guiding my hand to his shoulder.
His frame eclipses mine, even in heels, I feel swallowed by him.
Like gravity bends toward him.
Our bodies fall into step like we’ve done this before.
Like we’ve always done this.
Like we were always meant to.
The scent of him wraps around me.
His hand is warm. His hold, steady.
And those eyes… they don’t look anywhere but me.
Like I’m the only thing he wants to see.
I glance up, unsure.
He frowns. Just a little.
“I told Isabella not to cover them.”
I blink.
“Cover what?”
His thumb brushes gently across my cheek.
“Your freckles.”
My breath stutters.
“Oh.”
He says nothing else.
Just keeps looking.
Holding.
Leading me across the floor like we’re the only two people who exist.
My body hums.
My thoughts snarl in velvet knots.
And in his arms, for the first time, I don’t feel like I’m pretending.
I feel seen.
Claimed.
And I’m terrified of what that means.
***
The hallway feels quieter than usual.
Maybe because my heart’s still pounding from the dance. From the champagne. From the way he looked at me like I belonged in that world.
I pause at my door, still smiling.
Tonight was…
Perfect.
More than I ever expected and Warren was….
“I had an amazing time,” I say softly. “Thank you. For everything. The dress, the jewelry, the car… I mean, I don’t even have words for how—”
“Unlock your door.”
His voice cuts in. Sharp. Commanding.
He hands me my clutch he was holding.
My heart stutters.
I blink. “Oh. Right.”
I fumble for my keys, fingers clumsy with nerves. The lock clicks.
I turn back to him.
“I just wanted to say I really appreciate—”
He leans in.
My heart leaps and I don’t think. I just move.
My lips press against his. Soft. Grateful. Hopeful.
But he doesn’t kiss me back.
His body stays still.
My heart stalls.
Oh God.
I pull away like I’ve been burned, breath catching in my throat, but he doesn’t react.
Doesn’t flinch.
Just reaches past me and opens the door.
The air leaves my lungs.
He wasn’t leaning in to kiss me.
He was just opening the door.