Chapter 20
Chapter twenty
War
Ifinish pouring the wine.
The table is already set. Minimal. Elegant. Intimate. The kind of setting I never bother with because no one ever comes here.
Until her.
My phone buzzes.
My driver letting me know Olivia is on her way up.
I place the phone face down, adjust the napkin, and move toward the entryway.
The elevator doors open.
There she is.
She steps off the elevator and into my foyer like she has no idea she’s the most exquisite thing I’ve ever seen.
Hair down. Freckles bare. Lips painted that same deep wine-red from the gala.
My favorite.
She smooths her dress, eyes flicking to mine, and I can tell she’s trying not to fidget.
Good. A little nervous. That means she knows where she is.
My space.
My home.
My rules.
I extend a hand, and when she places hers in mine, there’s a subtle tremble. Barely there. But I feel it.
Perfect.
“You wore the lipstick.” My voice drops as I draw her inside.
Her eyes lift, curious. “Isabella left it behind,” she murmurs, almost too quietly. Then, a smirk. “I’m guessing per your orders.”
I don’t answer right away. I just look at her, really look.
The way her mouth moves when she tries to hold back a smile.
The way her dress hugs her curves without trying too hard.
The way she always teeters between wanting control and craving to give it up.
I step closer. My fingers trail a soft path beneath her jaw.
“That shade belongs to you now.”
Her breath hitches—and I want to swallow it.
So I do.
I press my mouth to hers, not rushed, not hard. Just enough pressure to remind her that I own this moment. Her lips part without hesitation and I deepen the kiss, tasting the quiet gasp she gives me.
She leans into me, pliant and yielding, her fingers brushing against my chest like she doesn’t even realize she’s reaching for me. Every soft sigh she lets slip makes me want to push further, take more, ruin the careful evening I’ve planned.
But I force myself to rein it in. Not yet.
When I finally pull back, her lashes flutter against her cheeks, and her lips are still parted, swollen from mine. I drag my thumb across the corner of her mouth, savoring the sight of her undone and breathless, and fight the savage urge to wreck her dress before dinner.
Instead, I slide my hand down to the small of her back, claiming that small space of skin through fabric, and guide her toward the dining room.
She follows, quiet, curious, every step a test of my restraint.
The dim light overhead casts a golden glow across the room, warm and decadent.
I pull out her chair.
She sits.
And for the first time in my life, I find myself hoping.
Hoping she likes this place.
My penthouse. My clean lines. My perfectly curated world.
Because Olivia doesn’t belong in a hotel like the other women I’ve used and tossed aside.
She belongs somewhere permanent.
She belongs here.
She lifts the lid on one of the covered dishes and her whole face lights up at what’s inside: handmade tagliatelle in saffron cream sauce, layered with paper-thin ribbons of zucchini and crispy prosciutto, a touch of lemon zest curling in the steam.
The kind of dish you can’t find just anywhere, not unless you know exactly what to ask for.
She takes a bite, her eyes flutter closed, and then she lets out a soft hum that curls low in my stomach.
“La Serenata?” she finishes, looking up at me through those lashes like I’ve just handed her the moon.
“Yes.”
Her fork stills. “That’s…my favorite place.”
She doesn’t say thank you. Just like I expected, she gets quiet. I watch her across the table, the candlelight dancing across her cheekbones.
Most people can’t stand silence. They scramble to fill it. She doesn’t. She just withdraws into it like armor.
But I know better.
I see the woman who’s afraid to be seen, yet dying to be claimed.
“You’re quiet,” I state, swirling the wine in my glass.
She shrugs, tries to hide behind another bite of food. But her throat works a little harder to swallow this time.
“It’s just…” She sets her fork down, eyes locked on her plate. “It’s weird. How much you know. My favorite restaurant. My coffee order. My dress size. What snacks I keep in the back of the cabinet.”
I take a slow sip of wine. “And?”
Her eyes flick to mine. “And…how?”
I let a beat pass.
Take in her honest eyes.
And then I answer.
“When I want something,” I say slowly, deliberately, “I make it my business to know everything about it.”
Her breath hitches. Just barely. But I catch it.
Everything about her, the freckles on her nose, the smudge of lipstick on her wine glass, the way she crosses her ankles under the table like she’s trying to ground herself, every bit of her is cataloged in my mind.
I don’t say all that out loud.
I just watch as she looks away again, cheeks flushing pink.
Good.
Let her wonder how much more I know.
Because she’s right.
It’s not a coincidence.
It’s obsession.
“Eat,” I say taking a sip of my wine.
She swallows hard and takes a breath before she complies.
We eat. The silence isn’t awkward, it’s taut, charged, the kind that makes every scrape of silverware on porcelain feel like a gunshot.
Finally, she breaks it.
“It’s still strange, and I need to talk about it,” she says slowly, “you know so much about me, but I don’t even know your favorite color.”
I set my fork down, lean back, and let her think she’s gotten the upper hand.
“It’s the exact shade of your eyes.”
Her breath catches. She blinks at me, stunned.
“And yours,” I continue smoothly, “is mint green.”
Her lips part. “How do you—”
“Like I said,” I interrupt, voice low, measured, “when I want something, I notice everything.”
Her fingers knot the napkin in her lap, her eyes searching my face. She doesn’t even realize I’m feeding her breadcrumbs, leading her exactly where I want her.
Ask me.
Ask me what you really want to know.
She straightens and meets my gaze.
“You left the dress in a box on my bed,” she says finally, eyes sharpening, “How?”
A dark chuckle escapes me, curling around the rim of my glass as I sip.
“Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to.”
“You’ve been in my apartment.”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation.
She stares, like she’s waiting for me to backtrack.
I don’t.
I expect anger. I expect her to push back. Storm off. Make me chase. I’m already ready to stop her if she tries.
Instead, she swallows, voice quieter now. “Did you pay my rent?”
“Yes.”
Her gaze narrows. “In exchange for…whatever this is?”
“In exchange for being mine?” I correct, my tone sharper, decisive. “No. I take care of what’s mine. So I took care of you.”
She nods once, slowly, lips pressing together. Then she wipes her mouth with the napkin, movements careful, precise. “A year. You paid a year.”
“Yes.”
Her eyes lift back to mine, wide now.
“That’s how long I expect it to take you to move in here instead. Though…” I let the pause stretch, savoring her pulse quickening across the table. “I plan on moving you in sooner.”
She gasps.
“That’s madness,” she says with a nervous laugh. “We’ve only known each other a little over a month. We’ve worked together what—two weeks?”
I lean forward, elbows on the table, voice dropping into something darker, rougher.
“Since I saw you,” I correct, “and claimed you for myself, one month, twelve days, nine hours…” I glance at my watch. “…and thirty-seven minutes.”
Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
No sound comes out.
Perfect.
Her throat works as she swallows, a nervous flush creeping up her chest. She’s unraveling exactly on schedule.
“Come with me.”
I push back from the table, my chair scraping against the polished floor. She looks up at me, still caught between resistance and intrigue, and I don’t give her time to choose. I stand, extend my hand.
When she hesitates, I arch a brow. “Olivia.”
Her pulse flutters at her throat. She places her hand in mine.
I pull her chair back for her, guiding her to her feet. Then I lead her toward the glass doors at the far end of the room, my palm steady against the small of her back.
The night air is cool when I open the doors, brushing over her skin. The city hums below us, restless and alive, but up here it’s quiet. Just us and the stars.
“Look,” I say quietly, steering her to the edge of the balcony. “Watch them.”
She grips the railing, eyes lifted. I step up behind her.
She exhales, soft. Almost relaxed.
Then I lean in and press a kiss to the curve of her neck.
Her body jolts, subtle, but there.
I brush her hair out of the way with my hand and do it again, slower this time, my lips brushing over her pulse, my breath teasing the fine hairs at her nape.
“You think too much,” I whisper against her skin. “I can see it.”
My hands slide down her waist, coaxing, claiming.
“You’ve built your entire life around doing the right thing. Following the rules. Staying in control.”
Another kiss, just below her jaw.
“But this,” I nip gently, soothing the spot with my tongue, “has nothing to do with control.”
She trembles.
“Shut it down, Olivia,” I breathe into her ear. “Your logic. Your guilt. All that noise in your head trying to keep me out.”
I lower my mouth to her shoulder, exposed beneath the slip of her dress. She tilts slightly, just enough.
“Let me in.”
“What do you want?” I murmur, mouth dragging along the line of her jaw. “Not what you’ve been told to want. Not what’s safe. Not what’s rational. What do you—” my teeth graze her ear, just enough to make her shiver, “want?”
She grips the railing like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered. But it’s not enough. Not anymore.
Her breath stutters with every word I press into her skin.
“I want to hear it from your lips,” I coax, soft but unyielding. “Say it. Tell me.”
I kiss the spot just below her ear, slow, claiming.
“Don’t think.” Another kiss, lower, harder. “Just feel.”
Her body sways back against mine, as though pulled there by gravity.
She turns in my arms, breathless, pupils blown, all pretense gone.
“You,” she breathes out. “I want you.”
I smile, slow and dangerous.
Step Two: Complete.