Chapter 28 War
Chapter twenty-eight
War
The table is long. Too long.
Silverware glints under the chandelier. Porcelain plates, pristine and untouched.
I can barely taste the food. Olivia’s taken only a few polite bites, her fork stalling every time she feels eyes on her. My hand hasn’t left her under the table, anchored on her thigh, thumb stroking, keeping her with me.
But I see it.
The way my father keeps looking at her. Not leering; worse.
Assessing. Judging.
Like she’s another balance sheet, another acquisition to pick apart. It’s making her uncomfortable, and I fucking hate it.
“How did you and Warren meet?” my mother asks suddenly, voice smooth as silk, but sharp as the knife hidden beneath it.
Olivia turns to answer, but Wilder beats her to it.
“She was Wesley’s before she was Warren’s.”
Wesley chokes on his drink, coughing into his napkin.
My blood goes molten. Seething.
Wilder chuckles. Smug. Careless.
My mother blinks. Her expression sharpens. “Excuse me?”
Olivia clears her throat. Her voice is steady, bless her. “I worked for Wesley. But now I work for Warren.”
My mother nods once, lips pressing thin.
My father’s eyes narrow. Cut to me like a blade.
“Dating your subordinates, Warren?”
I drag my gaze to Wilder.
Heat radiates off me.
He only shrugs. Unconcerned.
“I wanted Olivia to work for me,” I say evenly, my grip on her thigh tightening.
“So now she does.”
I leave it there. Final.
But my father doesn’t look at me. He looks at her. “How old are you, Olivia?”
My mother’s rebuke is quick.
“William, we don’t ask a woman her age.”
“It’s okay,” Olivia says softly.
She glances at me before answering.
“I’m twenty-seven.”
My mother hums.
That sound.
That disapproving hum I grew up drowning in.
My father leans back, eyes still fixed on Olivia. “And where are you from?”
Before she can open her mouth, I cut in. My voice is steel. “Enough. She’s not here to be interrogated. I brought her here for dinner. We’re having dinner. Then we’re leaving.”
The air snaps tight.
My father scoffs, shaking his head. “Still the same.”
Across the table, Wilder sighs loudly and downs his drink. “Here we go.”
Wesley mutters, “You had to start it, didn’t you?”
My eyes snap to my father, burning.
Olivia’s thumb brushes over my knuckles, grounding me.
The only thing keeping me from slamming my fist into the table.
“And what do you mean by that, Father?”
I bite it out, jaw tight enough to crack.
His eyes slice into me. Cold. Unflinching.
“Still the same boy. Reckless. Disobedient. Always needing to make a scene.”
The air freezes.
My blood turns molten.
“You want to lecture me at your dinner table?”
My voice drops lower. Darker.
“Then do it. Stop dancing around—say what you want to say.”
My father’s mouth twists. His gaze flicks to Olivia.
“You don’t think we’ve known about that one?”
He gestures toward her with his glass, casual.
Like a blade.
“The small-town bumpkin. Keeping your little gold diggers in the city to warm your bed is one thing, Warren. But to present one to us?”
He shakes his head slowly, like I’ve spat on the family crest.
Olivia’s face flames red, her shoulders stiff.
My chest roars. “You’re so afraid of gold diggers, yet everyone knows how you met Mother.”
The room gasps.
My mother’s hand flies to her chest. “Warren.”
“Watch your mouth,” my father snarls, the mask slipping for the first time.
“You whine enough for someone who’s had everything handed to him. But no, you’re still chasing shadows. Still clinging to weakness.”
His eyes narrow. Sharp. Merciless.
“I didn’t think you could disappoint me more, until I hear you’re restoring the Parker Building. Still chasing what? Redemption? Over the death of some orphan?”
The word hits like a blow.
My breath turns to ash.
“Don’t.”
My voice tears through the silence. Raw. Jagged.
My hand crushes Olivia’s under the table.
“Don’t you dare bring him into this.”
Wesley’s chair scrapes back.
His face is red. His composure cracking. “That’s enough, Dad.”
“Quiet,” William snaps, turning his fury like a blade.
“You—” He points at Wesley, disdain curling his lip. “You’ve always been the weak one. You hide behind your computers and gadgets, yet nothing of use has come from it.”
Wesley’s jaw flexes.
He doesn’t move.
But the wound is written all over him.
“And you.” William turns on Wilder.
His tone laced with venom.
“Reckless. Careless. Squandering every advantage, every opportunity. Do you think your name will shield you forever? Through every flop you create?”
Wilder’s smirk is gone.
He stares at our father with ice in his eyes. “Fuck you.”
I shove back from the table.
The chair legs screech against marble.
My hand finds Olivia’s, firm, pulling her up with me. “We’re done here.”
The three of us move as one.
Me. Wesley. Wilder.
Storming from the room like a front breaking open.
But his voice follows.
Sharp. Final.
“Just once, Warren, I wish you didn’t disappoint me.”
I stop.
Every muscle locks.
Rage claws up my spine, tearing through me.
He still thinks I’m chasing shadows.
But Olivia’s hand is in mine, and for the first time in my life,
I’m walking toward something real.
I don’t look back.
We walk out.
***
I sit on the edge of the bed, the drink I’d been nursing abandoned on the nightstand, fury still burning low in my chest.
My father’s words echo.
The look on her face at that table.
It guts me.
I can still see the way her shoulders tensed, the flush of shame rising to her cheeks, shame that wasn’t hers to carry.
I wanted to put my fist through his skull.
But worse than that… I let it happen.
I put her in his path. Let his poison touch her.
And I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive myself for it.
The shower cuts off. A curl of steam escapes through the cracked bathroom door. Then Olivia steps out.
Her face is fresh, bare. No armor.
Just those wide, beautiful brown eyes that undo me every time.
She’s wearing my sweater, the one she stole without asking. It drapes over her curves, clinging to them when she moves, loose in others.
She’s perfect.
And I sent her in there like cannon fodder.
She crosses the room to me, quiet as a breath, and stops.
Her fingers slide into my hair, soft and tender. The simplest touch, and it nearly undoes me.
My eyes close.
“Are you okay?” she asks softly. Her voice catches. “I know that’s a dumb question, but… are you?”
I open my eyes, look into hers—and every wall I’ve ever built starts to crack.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. The words drag out of me like a confession. “I should’ve let you stay here. Explore Paris. Instead, I dragged you into that circus and let them…berate you. Interrogate you.”
My chest tightens, splitting open.
I’ve taken fists to the face. Dealt with monsters.
But nothing, nothing, has ever cut me like watching her sit at that table and take their judgment with her chin held high.
She deserved candlelight. Roses.
Not to be treated like a fucking transaction.
And I brought her there.
She exhales, shoulders dipping. “It’s okay.”
I shake my head. Hard. “No. It’s not. I should’ve known better.”
My hand slides along the curve of her hip. I squeeze, grounding myself in the feel of her. “They don’t deserve you.”
A pause.
“Hell, neither do I. But you’re mine.”
Her breath catches. Her lips part.
That’s all it takes.
I rise, pulling her with me, my hand anchored at her waist. Our mouths meet slow; deep. I turn and guide her down onto the bed.
She sinks into the sheets, eyes locked on mine, chest rising and falling like she’s waiting for proof that I meant every word.
I strip us bare between kisses. The sweater slides up and over her head, her skin revealed inch by inch.
My shirt gone.
Her hands on my belt.
My pants shoved down.
Soon, there’s nothing between us but skin and heat and the gravity that pulls me into her like the tide.
I settle over her, kissing down her throat, her breasts, her stomach—worshipping every curve until she’s trembling.
My hands roam her thighs, her hips, her back.
Owning.
Devouring.
Claiming.
When I guide myself to her entrance, I pause, pressing my forehead to hers.
Her eyes, wide, glassy, shining, undo me all over again.
Slowly, I push inside.
She gasps.
Her body clenches around me, welcoming me in, taking me deep until I’m buried to the hilt.
My jaw locks; my chest heaves.
This isn’t hunger.
It’s not rage.
It’s something else—deeper, quieter.
More dangerous.
I start to move.
Slow. Deliberate.
Each thrust feels like a vow carved into stone.
My past burns away in the heat of her body, in the softness of her hands gripping my shoulders.
Every scar.
Every shadow.
I rewrite all of it inside her.
She’s not my escape.
She’s my future.
She’s everything.
Her lips brush my ear, her breath hot and trembling.
“I love you.”
The words tear me wide open.
I choke on a groan, driving deeper, clutching her like I’ll lose her if I let go.
No one’s ever said those words to me and meant them.
Not like this.
The truth rips out of me, raw and unguarded.
“I love you.”
I say it again, harder this time, desperate.
“I fucking love you, Olivia.”
Her nails dig into my back, her body trembling around me as she breaks—gasping my name, clinging to me.
And I follow.
Spilling into her with a guttural sound, holding her through it, clutching her like a man drowning who’s finally broken the surface.
When the waves fade, I stay inside her.
Our foreheads pressed together.
Our breaths tangled.
My chest raw. Stripped bare.
But clean. Free. Hers.
The words fall out again, quieter now. A broken whisper against her skin.
“I love you.”
Not a declaration.
A vow.
A prayer.
A truth that will never leave me.
I am forever hers.
Step Four: Complete.