Chapter 19
Chapter nineteen
Olivia
It’s one thing to establish a relationship.
To sneak kisses.
Report to HR.
Fingering in the workplace… not the best idea, but it’s not on display, it was a one time thing.
But lingerie on display in my office?
Warren Beaumont is a piece of work.
Those fabrics? Gorgeous.
I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t want them and yes I’ll take them if he wants to gift them, but lingerie.
No.
Hard no.
I don’t knock, I open his office door and shut it so hard his eyes lock on mine.
I didn’t mean to slam it.
My breath hitches at the look on his face.
I can’t tell if he’s angry or annoyed.
“Can I help you?” he drawls.
“Lingerie Warren? Lingerie in the office?”
“You need a complete wardrobe Olivia… or do you want to keep returning and repurchasing the same three outfits?”
My jaw drops and my face heats.
“That—”
“That?”
I exhale. “It isn’t HR appro—”
“HR knows you’re mine now, and I own HR. It’s just legal protection for us both and neither will need it.”
“Warren I don’t—”
He stands.
Just that.
Not a word. Not a raised voice.
But I step back anyway, breath catching as he rounds the desk, slow and deliberate, like a predator that knows the prey won’t run far.
“You burst in here,” he says, voice low and smooth, “because a few scraps of lace made you blush?”
He’s in front of me now.
Close.
Too close.
My back hits the door and I realize I’ve cornered myself.
“That’s not—”
His hand lifts. Just a single finger, pressed beneath my chin.
“Do you think I haven’t noticed what you wear under those skirts, Olivia?”
My throat tightens.
“You think I don’t know you wear those cheap cotton things every day?” But today you chose to wear the panties I bought you?”
I gasp.
He leans in, lips brushing the shell of my ear.
“You moaned in them.”
A pulse of heat floods my cheeks, and lower.
“Warren—”
“Do you know what I see when I look at you?” he whispers.
I shake my head.
“I see a woman who doesn’t know how to accept being taken care of. Who flinches every time something’s given to her. Who spirals the second she’s seen.”
His lips brush my jaw.
“Too fucking bad, sweet girl.”
My breath shudders.
“You said you can’t tell me to stop,” he drawls. “So don’t try to draw new lines now.”
He pulls back, eyes sharp and icy and utterly in control.
“Take the lingerie, Olivia. Wear it. Or don’t. But don’t storm in here like you’ve forgotten who you belong to now.”
I exhale my hands trembling by my side.
“Now go. Pick out something pretty. And when you try them on… bring me your favorite.”
I am not going to do that.
My brows furrow as he pulls away and sits at his desk.
He chuckles darkly.
“Stop thinking. Go. before I fuck the thoughts out of your mind and that’s not how I want our first time together to go.”
I take in a shaky breath.
This man.
I don’t stomp out.
That’s the worst part.
I want to. I should slam the door and mutter something biting under my breath, but I walk out like I’ve just been dismissed from a meeting, calm, composed… owned.
I get back to my office and smile politely.
Angelique is still waiting. Unbothered.
She greets me like nothing happened.
“Shall we continue?”
I nod. Wordless. The heat still clinging to my skin.
We go piece by piece. Fabric against fingers. Price tags I don’t want to look at. Everything tailored and pristine, clothes meant for someone with power. Someone with presence.
Someone like him.
But Angelique hands me things like I deserve them.
Like I’m not faking this.
I try on the first outfit.
It’s a navy silk blouse and high-waisted, cream wide-leg trousers with gold buttons. Not something I ever would’ve picked for myself. Not something I ever could’ve afforded.
But when I look in the mirror?
I don’t look like a mess of nerves. I don’t look like the girl who panicked in the elevator on her first day. I look…elevated.
Put together.
Beautiful.
My throat tightens.
This is amazing.
And terrifying.
Ugh. Part of me likes it.
The next few pieces blur. Tailored coats. Belts with subtle branding. A pair of sleek, minimalist heels that somehow make me feel taller than anything else I own.
I keep the trousers and blouse on. I don’t want to take them off.
I stare at myself for a beat too long, then glance toward the hallway.
No.
Absolutely not.
I am not giving Warren Beaumont a fashion show.
But I want to know what he thinks.
Just one outfit.
Just a peek.
Just…
God, I’m so stupid.
I open the door and make the walk back to his office, palms sweating even though my outfit looks like it belongs on the cover of Forbes.
I knock this time.
A soft, single rap.
His voice comes from behind the door.
“Come in, little doe.”
Little doe?
The nickname hits like a brand.
I breathe in, steady, shaky and open the door.
He’s at his desk, leaned back, arms resting lazily on the chair’s arms like a king on a throne. But his eyes, icy, assessing, go molten the second they land on me.
A slow smile curves his mouth. Dangerous. Knowing.
“That’s the one,” he says simply.
My pulse kicks.
He doesn’t stand.
Just lifts two fingers and curls them. A quiet summons.
“Come here.”
I move. Against everything in me, I move.
He slides his chair back an inch as I stop in front of him.
“Spin.”
The command is soft. Velvet.
I hesitate, just long enough for my skin to prickle.
But I do it.
Slowly. Carefully. I turn. His eyes track every inch of movement like he’s memorizing my silhouette.
When I face him again, his gaze is darker. Fixed.
“That outfit looks incredible on your shape,” he murmurs. “Tailored like it was sewn for you.”
My breath catches.
He shifts, rising fluidly from his chair. One hand gestures, fingertips grazing the edge of the desk.
“Up.”
I swallow.
And sit.
The desk is cool beneath me. He’s warm. Close. Towering without crowding.
His fingers slide into my hair, gentle but firm, and I feel my shoulders drop. The tension releases, just a little.
He leans in, lips ghosting down my jawline. Lower. Beneath my ear. My breath hitches as he presses slow, open-mouthed kisses to the side of my neck.
Then lower.
His fingers find the first button of my blouse.
Pop.
Then the next.
Pop.
His mouth moves lower, over the newly exposed skin of my collarbone, trailing fire in every press.
I’m trembling, hands curled into fists on my lap, brain barely functioning.
Then he whispers against my skin—
“I can’t wait to unwrap you, Olivia.”
A quiet, wrecked sound escapes me.
My spine tingles.
He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes.
“Dinner. A date,” he says. “This Friday. Say yes.”
I don’t hesitate this time.
“Yes.”
***
Tuesday
I’m learning the rhythm of War’s world.
How I fit in it.
My coffee order appears before I ask.
By noon, I’m pinned against a wall between back-to-back calls.
Where I come on his fingers with my mouth pressed against his shoulder to muffle the sound.
He doesn’t take more.
Just gives.
Cleans me up.
And gets back to work.
Like nothing happened.
Like it’s routine.
And maybe it is.
Before I leave, he hands me a box.
A new phone. Sleek. Expensive. Mint-colored case already wrapped around it.
“It has a stylus,” I say, blinking. “I don’t need a stylus.”
“You do,” he replies. “To take notes. And it has a location share.”
I roll my eyes. “You want to know where I am?”
“No,” he says simply, gaze steady. “I need to know where you are.”
The air shifts. My stomach flips.
I try to play it off. “Do I get to know where you are?”
He nods. “You have access to mine too.”
My heart stammers.
I stare at the mint case. I love it.
Damn it.
Wednesday
Lunch arrives at my desk before I even think to order.
Exactly what I wanted.
I stopped questioning how he knows.
He sends food to my apartment.
Groceries. Wine. My favorite snacks.
Little things I don’t remember mentioning, if I ever did at all.
It should feel invasive.
But it doesn’t.
It feels like he’s inside my life now.
Like he’s always been there.
At night, I open the pantry and spot the bag, barbecue chips.
The exact kind. The exact brand.
My weakness.
I smile before I can stop myself, curl up on the couch, tear open the bag, and dial his number.
“How did you know I love these?” I ask, licking the flavor from my fingers.
He doesn’t miss a beat. “I know everything about you, Olivia Baker.”
I freeze.
Not sure whether to be flattered or afraid.
But all I ask is, “Why?”
“Because I wanted to,” he says. “So I learned.”
Just like that.
No apology.
No explanation.
Just… him.
We talk for hours.
About nothing.
About everything.
And at some point, I fall asleep with the phone still pressed to my ear.
His voice the last thing I hear.
Thursday
I don’t flinch when his hand grazes mine as he passes a report across the table.
I don’t question the way he watches me during meetings, like he’s memorizing my posture.
Every blink. Every shift. Every line of my mouth.
I don’t even protest when he adjusts the strap of my blouse and says—
“You need to look polished if you’re going to represent me.”
Because that’s what I am now, isn’t it?
His assistant
His possession.
His.
Later, he walks into my office with a box tied with gold ribbon.
My heart stutters.
“This is…?”
“Open it,” he says.
Inside is a white Prada purse.
Soft leather. Real gold hardware. One I’ve stared at in department store windows but never let myself touch.
I trace the logo with my finger.
“My old one was fine.”
“It wasn’t good enough.”
“Oh yeah?” I ask, forcing a light tone. “Because I represent you?”
His gaze cuts into me, dark and unwavering.
“No,” he says. “Because you deserve the best.”
I look down at the purse.
At him.
I don’t say anything.
But when I walk out that evening, the Prada bag is over my shoulder.
And it feels like more than a gift.
It feels like a claim.
Friday
He never takes.
Never needs to.
He just knows.
When to look at me.
When to touch me.
When to own me.
What I need.
And somehow, it still doesn’t feel real.
Maybe because no one else notices.
Or maybe because he’s so good at making it feel like it’s always been this way.
I tell myself it’s temporary.
That he’ll move on.
That this will burn out as fast as it started.
But then I remember the way he looks at me.
The way his voice goes low when we’re alone.
The way he makes me feel—
Seen.
Shaken.
Worshiped.
And owned.
And the part that scares me most?
I like it.
God help me, I like it.
I get home a little after five.
Everything is just as I left it.
The lamp in the corner casts the same warm glow.
The scent of the vanilla candle I forgot to blow out this morning still lingers faintly in the air.
My shoes are by the door. My mail is on the counter. The hum of the fridge is soft and familiar.
It’s calm. Safe.
Mine.
But somehow, it doesn’t feel like mine anymore.
Like I left, and someone else moved in.
Someone who wears Prada.
And gets her own office and a new fancy phone.
I toe off my shoes and drop my bag by the couch. Move on autopilot.
Rent. I need to pay rent.
I pull up the app on my phone, expecting the usual anxiety to grip me as I check my balance, as I pray the page loads.
Only this time…
It loads instantly.
And the screen reads:
Paid.
My heart stutters.
I check again.
Paid. For the entire year.
A tight, cold coil winds in my stomach.
It had to be him.
Of course it was him.
I never told him I was behind.
Never asked.
Never even mentioned rent.
But he knew.
And just like everything else, he didn’t ask.
I step into my bedroom.
And freeze.
There’s a box on my bed.
Black. Sleek. Tied with a bow.
A simple ivory envelope sits on top.
My name in bold gold lettering.
I sit down carefully, like the box might explode.
I lift the lid.
A dress.
Casual, but expensive. The fabric is soft, light, the color perfect against my skin. Effortless, but luxurious. A dress designed for someone who doesn’t need to try hard to be stunning.
I don’t even want to know the price.
But what I do want to know how the hell it got in here.
I glance around the room like I’ll find the answer. I won’t.
My phone buzzes.
A single notification.
His name.
WARREN
My driver will be there at 7. See you soon.
My stomach flips.
I don’t respond.
But I stand up and get ready anyway.