Chapter 25 Olivia
Chapter twenty-five
Olivia
By the time we pull into the garage at Beaumont Enterprise, my body feels like it’s been through a war. A very good war.
Every muscle aches, sore in places I didn’t even know I could be sore, but it’s the kind of ache that makes me smile to myself. Like I’m carrying the proof of him inside me, everywhere.
Every step reminds me of him. Every ache sings the same name. Warren. Warren. Warren.
It’s embarrassing how much I like it.
The elevator dings, and he’s standing beside me, suited and smug.
He didn’t even touch me this morning, just kissed my forehead and poured my coffee like it hadn’t taken me twenty minutes to walk straight.
Like he didn’t fuck me so thoroughly over the weekend I’m probably glowing through the tinted glass.
The lobby doors part, and we walk onto his floor like it’s just for us.
He reaches for the small of my back as we walk toward the executive wing. My heels click. His hand is warm.
He’s in a good mood. Whistling, even. The sound rattles in my chest, softening me, making me forget how nervous I was to agree to move in.
It’s all normal.
Until it’s not.
Because no matter how many nights I spend in his penthouse, no matter how many times he calls me his… I’m still keeping my apartment.
Just in case.
Because Warren Beaumont makes my heart race.
But I’ve lived long enough to know that doesn’t mean he won’t break it.
We stop outside his office. He kisses me, just a brush of lips and the whisper of a smile.
Then his palm swats my ass.
“Don’t miss me too much,” he murmurs, already walking backward into his office.
I roll my eyes and turn toward mine.
I barely make it two steps in before I see them.
Peonies.
A full, lush bouquet sitting on my desk, blushing pinks and creams like the inside of a love letter. My breath catches.
I walk to them slowly, fingers grazing the soft petals before I spot the card tucked inside.
Scrawled in dark, slanted handwriting.
For the woman who makes my walls worth rebuilding.
We’ll add soundproofing to the bedroom.
—W.
I sit down hard, heart in my throat, and chuckle.
He’s infuriatingly good at making me blush.
My lips curve before I can stop them. I press the card to my chest for a second too long, then set it down and open my laptop.
There’s work to do.
The Parker Building is finally under renovation, and our new hotel chain, Beaumont Luxe, is moving from dream to blueprint. I spend hours sorting through floorplans, confirming room redesigns, checking on contractors, and linen vendors, and digital keys.
I get so deep in the numbers I forget where I am, until the knock comes.
Three soft taps.
My heart leaps.
Warren.
I smile, already halfway to standing, when the door opens—
And it’s not him.
It’s a her.
Tall. Thin. Blonde. The kind of blonde that glints almost white under the office lights. Her body is lean, sculpted, perfect. The kind of perfect that doesn’t happen by accident.
She smiles politely, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Sorry, I was told this was Warren Beaumont’s office. Reception must’ve gotten it wrong.”
My stomach drops.
Her voice is smooth. Confident. The kind of voice that doesn’t apologize much.
I force a smile I don’t feel. “His office is the next one over.”
She thanks me, teeth flashing, then turns and walks down the hall, heels clicking sharp against the tile.
Something ugly twists in my chest.
I follow her.
I don’t mean to.
But I do.
I step just far enough out of my office to watch her knock on Warren’s door. Hear his deep voice invite her in.
She smiles.
And shuts the door behind her.
Panic hits like a slap.
I freeze.
Do I interrupt? Knock? Pretend I didn’t see it?
I glance toward my desk. My laptop is still open to his shared calendar, the one I manage for him. The one I check every morning before I pour my own coffee.
No meetings today.
No woman listed.
Which means she’s personal.
Not business.
My stomach knots. The bouquet suddenly feels stupid.
I sit down. Hard. Try to focus. Try to breathe.
His door is still closed.
I keep it in my periphery. The hallway is quiet.
My clock ticks.
Five minutes.
Ten.
Fifteen.
Maybe she’s a lawyer.
Maybe this is about the Parker Building.
Maybe she’s married. Maybe she’s a cousin. A PR rep. A—
Shut up, Olivia.
Twenty minutes.
I get up. Pace once.
Sit down.
Stand again.
Twenty-five.
I open my phone. Nothing. No message. No calendar change.
Twenty-eight.
I lean closer to the screen, eyes glued to the hallway.
Thirty.
The door opens.
She walks out, polished and perfect, phone in hand, no lipstick smudged, no dress askew. She smiles at someone down the hall. Hair still intact. Nothing on her face to betray anything.
But it doesn’t matter.
Because my brain doesn’t care about evidence.
My brain only cares about the way her hand brushed the doorknob, the way her head probably tilted back in a laugh I couldn’t hear, the way Warren didn’t tell me she’d be here.
I’m already sure.
I barely notice when Warren appears in my doorway.
“You okay?” he asks, brow furrowing. “You look sick. Are you feeling alright?”
I look up.
He looks the same.
Pressed shirt. Belt buckled. Nothing out of place.
But he has a bathroom in his office.
One he cleans me in.
And probably her.
I swallow the panic clawing its way up my throat.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m fine.”
He tilts his head. Doesn’t believe me.
But he doesn’t press.
“Come on,” he says instead. “It’s time for lunch. We’ll talk about whatever’s going on in that head of yours.”
He walks away.
And I follow.
But inside?
I’m unraveling.
***
The food tastes like sand.
I stab at the salad, force a bite past the knot in my throat, chew until my jaw aches. Every swallow burns, like it has to claw its way down. Warren talks, his voice low and smooth, but I can’t hear a damn thing.
My brain is too loud.
The image of her: tall, blonde, perfect, sitting in his office with the door shut. The clock ticking. Thirty minutes.
My stomach churns with every second I remember.
And then I hear it.
“Her name is Katya.”
My head snaps up, breath frozen in my chest. I wait for it. For the kill shot. For him to execute me right here in this glossy restaurant with nothing but the truth. To rip out my stupid heart for daring to believe I could be more than another girlfriend on his roster.
Katya.
Even her name is pretty. Sharp edges softened by silk.
I want to ask.
I want to demand.
Why didn’t you tell me you had an unscheduled meeting? Why did you call me yours all weekend if you already belonged to someone else? Why move me into your penthouse only to shred me with this?
But the words knot in my throat. The same knot that’s been strangling me since that door closed behind her.
So I swallow hard and manage the smallest sound.
“Oh.”
I go to lower my gaze, to hide before I break. But his voice slices through.
“Don’t.”
The command snaps my head back up. My eyes lock with his. His gaze is steady, dark, unflinching.
We’re in public. People are talking around us, glasses clinking, silverware scraping. I don’t want to cry here. Not where he can see it.
But he leans back, casual, controlled. Watching me unravel.
“You’re spiraling about her instead of just asking, aren’t you?”
The lump in my throat tightens. My chest constricts. I nod, small and weak.
His jaw ticks.
“Words.”
I shake my head once, because I can’t. I can’t breathe past it. The knot is suffocating me, choking me, and yet he sits there, calm, expectant, waiting.
The silence presses. I break.
My voice scrapes out, ragged. “Who is she… to you?”
And then he smiles.
It knocks the breath right out of me. He’s not angry. Not defensive. Just smiling like I passed some kind of test.
“Good,” he says.
Confusion rattles me. Good?
He leans forward, forearms braced on the table, voice dropping into something that coils around my spine. “Her name is Katya Korsakov.”
The name hits me like a punch. I frown, blinking. “Maksim Korsakov’s sister? I thought you hated him?”
My mind races. Pieces spinning too fast to catch.
“Was she here to get the Parker Building for him?”
Warren chuckles, low and sharp, like I’m amusing him. “Slow down.”
I flush hot, biting my lip.
“She doesn’t dabble in her brother’s business,” he continues smoothly. “She has her own.”
His hand dips into the inside pocket of his jacket. When it comes back up, he sets a small, sleek white box on the table between us.
My pulse stutters.
“Open it,” he says.
My fingers shake as I lift the lid.
Inside, nestled against velvet, is a cuff bracelet. Gold, delicate but strong. Etched with peonies—tiny, intricate blooms carved in sweeping detail. The metal catches the light, petals shimmering like they’re alive.
It’s gorgeous. Staggering in its beauty.
“She custom makes them,” Warren says quietly, his gaze fixed on me, not the bracelet. “Carves the designs by hand. It’s truly an art.”
I run my thumb over the engraving, breath caught in my throat for an entirely different reason now. The flowers seem to bloom under my touch, like she knew exactly what they meant to me.
Peonies.
My peonies.
The knot in my chest loosens.
“She’s not a threat, Olivia. No one could be.”
My breath catches. The bracelet still cradled in my hands. “I just wish you would have told me.”
His expression doesn’t change. “And spoiled the surprise? No. You just have to remember that I wouldn’t betray you. I don’t want to.”
I flinch.
But he doesn’t say it to wound.
He says it like truth.
Simple. Unadorned.
Then he leans forward and lowers his voice.
“Next time you’re spiraling, do me a favor.”
“What?” I breathe.
He leans in just a bit closer. Taking the bracelet from my hands and slipping it on my wrist.
“Come to me. I’ll clear your mind.”
His thumb strokes once over the cuff as if sealing the words into my skin.