Chapter 23 Olivia
Chapter twenty-three
Olivia
The sex? Amazing.
This food? Phenomenal.
Warren Beaumont pulling out clothes, lining them up like soldiers, and telling me I’m moving in?
No.
No.
No.
NO.
I move the tray off my lap, every nerve suddenly screaming wrong, and gather the comforter up to cover my chest as I swing my legs off the bed.
I need out.
I need air.
I need to think without him watching me like he owns every breath I take.
I spot my dress on the floor. My underwear. I grab both in one frantic motion and step into the panties like I’m on fire.
He’s still watching.
Warren fucking Beaumont takes a seat, shirtless, in a chair like a king watching a prisoner try to escape. His eyes are molten steel, pupils blown wide, and still, still he doesn’t move.
I pull the dress over my head.
Fuck the bra. I don’t care.
I just need to get out of this bed, this tower, this trap.
“Olivia.”
One word. Just one. And it stops me.
His voice slices straight through the noise.
I freeze, halfway to the door.
“I’m not doing this,” I say quickly, not looking at him. “I’m not playing house in your penthouse. I’m not your girlfriend of the month.”
Silence.
No footsteps. No outburst. Just pressure. His silence is heavier than most men’s screams.
“We had fun,” I push, my voice rising. “We had sex. That’s all this was. You don’t get to order my clothes and plan my calendar and decide where I live like I’m one of the properties you buy and control.”
Still nothing.
I can feel his stare on my back like heat.
My throat tightens. I hate the way my voice wavers next.
“I don’t want to be in your loop of women, Warren.”
Finally, I hear it. The soft creak of the chair as he rises.
My body locks up.
“I said—”
“You’re spiraling,” he says, voice calm. Too calm. “I can hear the thoughts bouncing around in that pretty head of yours, and not a single one of them is real.”
I turn to face him, and it’s a mistake.
He’s close. Too close.
“Stop talking at me,” I snap. “You don’t know what I’m thinking—”
“I do.” His eyes flash. “You think I recycle women. You’re right. I do. But not you.”
My breath gets caught in my chest.
“But, there’s something more Olivia. Maybe you think this is too much. Too fast. You don’t deserve it. That if you stay, I’ll see too much. That I’ll figure out you’re not the polished, perfect woman you think I want.”
I swallow hard. He’s half right.
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
He steps closer.
“Tell me,” he demands, “what are you so scared I’ll find out?”
My heart stammers. My pulse is everywhere.
“Nothing,” I whisper.
“Liar.” His voice softens, darkens. “What are you hiding?”
The air thickens between us.
I weigh my options. If he’s serious about this. About me. Maybe he could…
No.
No one else gets dragged in to my family shit.
“I just have a lot going on.”
Warren exhales slowly. “I’ll figure it out, Olivia.” He smirks.
“You know I will. Now take off this dress. Take a shower and change. We leave in twenty.”
I don’t move.
He watches me, waiting.
Ten seconds feel like ten years.
But then, I turn.
Wordless.
Obedient.
Furious at how much I want this.
Want him.
***
The garden is quiet.
Not silent. There’s the hum of the city beyond the hedges, the crunch of gravel beneath my shoes, the flutter of wings near the rose beds, but quiet in a way that feels rare.
Rare and…intentional.
Warren walks beside me. No suit today. Just slacks and a white button-down, sleeves rolled, the top undone. A watch still gleams on his wrist, subtle yet stupid expensive.
He looks like he walked out of a billionaire magazine spread titled: Undress Me With Your Eyes.
Unfortunately, my eyes are traitors.
He hasn’t said much since we arrived, just kept pace beside me as we followed the winding paths. The conservatory garden is lush, overgrown in the best way, with high hedges and arched iron gates and blooms that look like they were painted instead of grown.
My brain should still be in fight mode. Still pissed. Still storming out.
But he handed me a coffee I didn’t ask for, my order, perfect, of course, and led me through this secret pocket of the city like it was a gift.
I hate how easily my heart flutters.
“You brought me here to win me over,” I murmur, half a step ahead of him now, dragging my fingers through a cluster of soft pink petals.
Warren’s voice comes low behind me. “No. I brought you here so you’d stay long enough to see I’m not trying to win. I’m claiming.”
My stomach flips.
I whirl on him. “What do you want from me, Warren?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just steps closer. Eyes on mine.
Not devouring like earlier. Not demanding.
Just…seeing me.
“I want you,” he says quietly.
“That’s not an answer,” I snap, voice too breathy.
“It’s the only one that matters.” Another step forward. So close his cologne permeates my senses. “You can ask why.”
I do.
My voice comes out softer. “Why me?”
His gaze drops to my mouth and then lifts again. And when he speaks, it’s a whisper, meant just for me.
“Because you’re the only woman who seems strong enough to survive me.”
My heart stutters. Hard.
Before I can say anything—before I can breathe, he lifts a hand and brushes a petal from my hair like it was interrupting his view.
“What’s your favorite flower, Olivia?” he asks softly.
I blink, still rattling.
“What?”
He repeats it, even softer. “Your favorite flower.”
The question guts me in a way I’m not ready for.
No one’s ever asked.
Not once.
Not in all the years I’ve bought them for myself and pretended it didn’t matter.
I look down, then back up.
“Peonies,” I whisper. “Blush pink ones.”
Warren nods once. “Noted.”
And I don’t know why, but I believe him.
That he’ll remember.
That I’ll come home one day and they’ll be there.
Waiting.
My heart shouldn’t flutter.
It does anyway.
We walk in silence for a while, the gravel path winding beneath our feet. The wind teases a loose strand of hair into my face, and I tuck it back, needing something, anything, to keep myself grounded.
So I ask.
“So when you renovate the Parker Building… are you going to do something with it?”
His gaze shifts, but he doesn’t stop walking.
“Like what?” he asks.
“I don’t know. A plaque, maybe. Something for Noah?”
He hums. “Maybe.”
Then, after a pause:
“Perhaps.”
It should be a non-answer, but something in the way he says it feels loaded. Like the thoughts behind it are heavy. Sharp-edged.
He stops near a bench tucked beneath a weeping cherry tree, pink blossoms raining down around us, and sits. I stay standing.
“You know,” he says, eyes fixed forward, “you and my brothers are the only people who know the truth about the Parker Building.”
I frown, sitting beside him now, the breeze curling around my legs.
“I mean, I know of it,” I say gently. “I know it was a tragic moment for you. But I’m not sure I understand the full significance.”
He’s quiet for a moment.
Then:
“It’s the biggest stain I ever left on my family’s name.”
I blink. “What do you mean?”
His jaw clenches. His hands are resting on his thighs, but I can see the tension crawling up his arms.
“‘Beaumont’s child gets foster kid killed in abandoned building on the outskirts of town.’ That was the headline.”
I feel my breath catch.
“Foster?” I whisper.
He nods.
“My parents fostered a lot of kids. Not for money. Not even because they cared. It was for optics. To look like good billionaires.” He scoffs. “As if any of us are.”
I stay quiet. I can tell he’s somewhere else now, eyes distant, mouth a hard line.
“That was my first taste of the media, sharp, bitter, and ruinous.” he murmurs.
“My family’s faces plastered across every paper.
Talk shows. Lawsuits. The whispers. My parents were livid, but I—“ His voice falters for the first time. “I was the disappointment. Out of control. The one who didn’t care about the family name.”
The wind rustles through the trees, scattering petals like a silent kind of mourning.
I don’t speak. I don’t know what I could say.
He turns to me slowly, the sadness still there, but something else building underneath.
“So the Parker Building? Renovating it?” He gives a small, sharp smile. “That’s my penance. A monument to my failure. It’s more than I deserve.”
He reaches for my hand. Gathers it carefully, like he’s holding something breakable. Then he leans down and presses a kiss to my knuckles.
Soft. Reverent.
“But you,” he says, eyes lifting to mine, “you’re the one who brought that renovation back.”
My breath stutters.
“You’re the hope in the ashes, Olivia Baker.”
And just like that, I forget how to breathe.
He straightens, still holding my hand.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get lunch. Then we’ll head back, get ready for the exhibit tonight.”
I nod, wordless, and let him lead me through the garden.
Not because I’m his.
But because, for the first time, he feels like mine too.