Chapter 27 Olivia
Chapter twenty-seven
Olivia
Ilean against the counter and swipe to answer.
“Hey, Mama.”
“Hi, Liv Bug,” she says, her voice warm and tired all at once. “You haven’t called in a while. Are you alright?”
Guilt punches me square in the chest.
She’s right. I haven’t called. Not since… not since Warren. Not since my whole life shifted into his orbit.
“Yes, I’m good,” I say quickly, forcing a smile she can’t see. “Is everything okay with the inn?”
There’s a pause, a little sigh. “Yes, we’re fine. Next quarter is coming up, but we may just make it. Chase is picking up some renovation work in the next town over, he’s going to put that money toward what we need.”
Relief and shame crash together in my gut. They’re scraping by, counting on my brother’s side jobs, while I’ve been—what? Laying in silk sheets? Forgetting to call? Forgetting why I even came to the city in the first place?
“I’ll transfer funds today,” I blurt. “I have it.”
“Liv, no. Don’t you dare. You keep that money for rent. We’ll figure it out.”
Rent.
My stomach knots.
Rent that’s already paid. For the whole year. Because of him.
And I’ve been so wrapped up in Warren Beaumont, his world, his hands, his everything. I forgot.
The job. The paycheck. The reason I left home.
To keep it standing.
“No, Mama,” I whisper, throat tight. “I got it. I’ll send it.”
She sighs again, softer this time. “I love you, Liv Bug. Be good. Be safe.”
“I love you too. Tell Daddy I love him.”
We hang up, and I stare at the dark screen, guilt burning holes through me.
“Your family needs money?”
My heart lurches. I spin around.
He’s leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
Watching me.
I swallow. “Yes. The inn… it’s tight right now.”
The look in his eyes makes my chest seize. Calculating. Decisive.
I know that look.
“No.” I shake my head before he even says it. “Don’t. Don’t even think about it. You are not sending them money.”
His jaw flexes, that dangerous silence stretching between us.
One look. That’s all it takes to make me want to give in. To let him fix it. To let him be who he is, powerful, unstoppable.
But this is my family. My responsibility.
Finally, he exhales through his nose, almost like he’s humoring me. “Fine.”
Then he moves.
Pushes off the door.
And cages me in against the counter.
One hand planted on either side of me, his body crowding mine.
He towers over me like a threat and a promise, six-foot-five of heat and control.
The counter bites into my back. His chest blocks out the rest of the kitchen.
I can feel the tension rolling off him in waves.
“Then explain,” he demands, voice low. “What’s going on?”
I lick my lips, trying to steady myself.
“They’ve been… wanting to renovate the inn. Sell it eventually. But between the mortgage and everything else, they can’t keep up with payments and renovations at the same time. So, yeah.”
I force a small laugh. “They’re in a pickle.”
It’s only half the truth.
I can’t possibly tell him everything. Not about Ronnie. Not about the threats.
Not about how close my parents are to losing the place for good.
He’d march in and fix it his way, with money and intimidation, and that could probably get him killed.
“A pickle?” he repeats, lips curving like he’s tasting the word.
“Yeah,” I say, trying to sound casual. “It’s what we say back home.”
His gaze sharpens. “And where exactly is back home?”
I hesitate. Just a beat too long.
“Brokenwoods,” I say finally, naming the small town that raised me. Not even a dot on most maps.
He hums, thoughtful, and it vibrates against my chest, where he’s still crowding me in.
“We should go visit. Maybe after Paris.”
I freeze.
Warren Beaumont in Brokenwoods?
The billionaire storming Main Street, standing in my parents’ inn?
Oh, that would never work. He’d stick out like a diamond in a gravel lot.
My palms tingle just thinking about it.
“Maybe,” I chuckle, trying to brush it off.
His eyes narrow like he knows I’m dodging, but then his mouth is on mine before I can think.
And just like always—I melt.
Melt and hate myself for it.
Leave it to me to turn into the girl who gives in to the billionaire.
***
The Beaumont plane. Air Beaumont, apparently; is beautiful. Polished leather seats, dark wood trim, the kind of opulence you only ever see in magazines.
I should be staring at everything. Maybe joining the mile-high club with War. But it’s awkward because of who’s sitting across from me.
Wesley.
And Wilder.
Wilder catches me looking and smirks, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. I force a polite smile. “I didn’t know you flew back in from California.”
“Yeah,” he says easily. “Just last night. With Brody.”
Warren scoffs beside me. Low. Sharp.
“Brody’s back?” I ask, before I can stop myself.
Warren’s hand finds mine, grips tight. A warning.
“Yup,” Wilder drawls, eyes glinting. “Figured why not fly with my big bros since we’re taking a family trip to Paris? Didn’t know we could bring our girlfriends.”
“You have a girlfriend?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Nope.” He grins, wolfish.
“Wilder.” Wesley’s tone is flat. “Cut it out.”
Wilder leans back like a cat who got the cream. “Where’s Evie Mitchell, hmm? Wesley?”
“Shut up, Wilder.”
My head jerks toward Wesley. “You’re dating Evangeline Mitchell? She beat me out for a job with Santo Amato.”
Warren stiffens instantly. His eyes cut to me, sharp enough to slice. “You applied to work for him?”
I nod slowly. “Yeah. I was late for the interview, though, so… I didn’t get it.”
“Good.” His jaw flexes. “Don’t ever mention that bastard’s name again.”
Wilder chuckles. Wesley shakes his head like this is normal family turbulence.
“So why didn’t you bring Evie?” I ask, softer this time.
Wesley exhales hard. “I’m not dating Evie. Yet. It’s—we will. Just… not right now.”
“Aww, Wesley.” Wilder smirks. “Still saving yourself for marriage?”
“Shut the fuck up, Wilder.”
“Are you?” The question slips out of me before I can think better of it.
“No!” Wesley’s voice is sharp, defensive.
Wilder bursts out laughing, the sound filling the cabin. Even Warren’s mouth curves, a rare crack in his armor.
“No,” Wesley mutters again, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I just don’t fuck anything that moves like they do.”
The words hang in the air, heavier than the jet itself.
He pushes up from his seat before I can even process the sting, muttering something about needing a drink.
His footsteps fade toward the bar at the back of the plane, leaving behind a silence that feels sharp. Exposed. Too much.
Wilder exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “He didn’t mean you, Livvy. He’s just an ass.”
His smirk fades. His voice dips; lower, almost regretful.
“Wes is… complicated. Always has been.”
I nod, but the smile I force doesn’t reach my eyes. “It’s fine.”
But it’s not fine. Because it scraped something raw inside me. Something I’ve been trying not to think about since the moment Warren pulled me into his world.
Warren’s past.
The headlines. The gossip. The women.
And here I am, just another one, sitting on his family plane.
The thought makes my stomach twist until warm lips brush my temple. Warren’s voice, low and rough, chases the spiral away.
“Stop over thinking,” he whispers. His grip on my hand tightens, solid, grounding.
I close my eyes, leaning into him even as my pulse hammers.
“You’re it for me, Olivia Baker.”
And somehow, even surrounded by his brothers, I believe him.
***
The hotel is unreal.
Crystal chandeliers drip light. Velvet drapes sweep the floor. Everything touched in gold.
I can’t stop smiling, can’t stop spinning like a kid, because Paris, actual Paris, is all around me.
I press my palms to the glass, forehead against it as I stare out at the skyline. And there it is. The Eiffel Tower.
Not a postcard. Not a screensaver. Right there in front of me, lit up against the night.
My chest tightens, hot and giddy.
I’ve wanted this since I was a little girl. Paris. Romance. The dream.
And War promised we could stay the weekend. That after all this, we’d come back for Christmas too.
Christmas.
My heart squeezes. I should go home for Christmas. Back to Brokenwoods, to my parents, to Baker’s Inn and the people who actually need me. But Paris… Paris feels like a once-in-a-lifetime wish I never thought I’d get.
Arms slip around my waist. Strong. Certain.
War’s chest presses against my back, solid and warm, and then his head dips, lips brushing the curve of my neck. My breath catches.
He smells expensive and intoxicating and something darker, sharper. Him.
“You look divine,” he murmurs, voice low against my skin. “Like a goddess.”
Heat curls through me. My reflection in the glass catches the Givenchy dress he picked, sleek and perfect, hugging curves I usually try to downplay. For once, I don’t feel out of place. I feel… beautiful.
His mouth grazes my ear, a tease that makes me shiver. “We’ll go to this dinner,” he promises, his tone roughened with hunger. “Smile. Survive. Then come right back here…”
His hands skim down my waist, over my hips, anchoring me.
“…so I can peel this dress off you myself.”
My pulse stutters. My body answers before I can speak.
Paris outside.
Warren Beaumont wrapped around me inside.
And for one dizzying moment, I don’t know which one is more dangerous.
***
The car slows, tires whispering against smooth cobblestone. My breath catches as the wrought-iron gates rise in front of us, tall and black and gleaming like something out of a period drama. Beyond them, stone. Not just a house. A mansion.
An h?tel particulier, I think I heard Warren call it. But that doesn’t prepare me for this.
The gates swing inward and the driver eases us through. The courtyard opens like a secret garden, perfect rows of trimmed hedges, white roses climbing the walls, every detail manicured within an inch of its life.
My chest tightens. It’s beautiful. Gorgeous. But there’s nothing warm about it. Even the flowers look like they’ve been told how to bloom.
I lean closer to the window, whispering, “This doesn’t even look real.”
Beside me, Warren doesn’t move. His hand rests over mine, solid, unmoving, but his jaw is tight. Too tight.
The car stops in front of wide stone steps. I tilt my head back to take it all in—the tall windows, the carved balconies, the crest above the massive front doors. It looks like it was built to outlast time itself. Built to judge anyone walking through those doors.
I suddenly feel small in my fancy dress. Like a girl playing dress up who has no business being here.
The driver gets out, circles the car. Warren beats him to it, opening my door himself. His hand extends, palm up, commanding and protective at once.
“Olivia.” His voice is low. A reminder. A promise.
I slip my hand into his, and the second my heel hits the stone, his arm comes around my waist. He pulls me in, grounding me before I can spin too far into my own head.
“Breathe,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of my ear. His scent curls around me, sharper here, against the cold Paris night. “Remember what I said, we go in, smile, eat their dinner, then we’re gone. Back to the hotel. Just you and me.”
I nod, though my stomach still twists.
Warren leads me up the steps, his hand firm at the small of my back. The massive doors swing open before he even reaches for them.
A butler stands there, tall, gray, and impossibly formal, bowing just enough to make me feel like I’ve stepped into another century. “Monsieur Beaumont. Mademoiselle.”
The foyer unfolds like a cathedral—soaring ceilings, marble floors that gleam under the light of an enormous chandelier, and portraits on the walls that all seem to look down their noses at me.
I’m still trying to take it in when she appears.
Vivienne Beaumont glides into the room, tall, thin, every movement deliberate. Her hair, dark chestnut with not a strand out of place, frames a face that’s sharp in a way beauty can be when it turns to intimidation.
She doesn’t look at me at first. She goes straight to her son, kissing Warren once on each cheek. “You’re late,” she says, her voice soft, but laced with disapproval sharp enough to cut. “Your brothers arrived twenty minutes ago.”
Then her eyes trail to me. Assessing. Calculating.
“And who is this?”
Warren doesn’t flinch. His arm tightens around my waist. His voice is steady, deliberate.
“Olivia Baker. She’s mine.”
The words steal the air from my lungs. Not a label. Not a definition. Just possession, plain and irrevocable.
My face heats and his mother’s eye brows raise slightly.
Vivienne extends her hand. “Vivienne Beaumont.”
I slip mine into hers. Her fingers are cool. Her grip is feather-light. Dainty. The kind that makes you feel clumsy just for existing too loudly.
“Thank you for allowing me in your home,” I manage, my voice steady even as my pulse races.
She smiles then. A curve of lips without a hint of warmth. No crinkle in her eyes. Just calculation, dressed up as civility.
I already know.
This house wasn’t built to let people like me breathe.