Chapter 29 Olivia
Chapter twenty-nine
Olivia
Paris feels like a dream I was never meant to touch.
Too soft. Too glittering. Too beautiful.
Yet, here I am.
The city glows around us like something out of a movie. The Eiffel Tower sparkles in the distance. The Seine ripples with light. And Warren’s hand is wrapped around mine, warm and solid, like he’s tethering me here on purpose.
We stop at a little café tucked into the corner of a cobblestone street. The kind with tiny round tables, flickering candlelight, and chipped menus no one bothers to read. He doesn’t glance at it anyway, he orders in low, confident French that makes something flip in my chest.
When the waiter returns, he sets down two flutes of champagne and a plate of delicate macarons, lavender, pistachio, rose. They look like jewels, soft and breakable.
Warren picks one up and holds it out. “Open your mouth.”
Heat prickles up my neck. I should roll my eyes, say something sarcastic, anything, but his stare is too intense. Too smug. Too him.
I part my lips, and he feeds it to me, slow and deliberate, watching every second like he owns the moment.
“Sweet?” he murmurs, thumb brushing my bottom lip.
“Mhm.” I swallow carefully. “But not as sweet as hearing you speak French. Since when do you do that?”
His mouth curves, the kind of smile that always makes me forget how to breathe. “Since I learned it.”
I raise a brow. “And how many languages have you learned, exactly?”
“Four.” He says it like it’s nothing. Like it isn’t drop-dead sexy.
“Four?” I blink. “You don’t exactly scream ‘secret linguist’”
He leans back, eyes unreadable. “Andras Academy. I got shipped off there for high school.”
I frown. “Never heard of it.”
“You wouldn’t have.” He nods once, sharp and final. “Mostly kids of high-profile men. Or mobsters.”
That last word hangs in the air. Heavy. Quiet. Meant to be left alone.
But I can’t.
My fingers tighten around the stem of my glass. “How close are you to them?” I ask carefully. “The mafia?”
He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t shift. Just watches me for a long, weighted beat. Then he sets his glass down with a soft clink.
“We’re not in business with them,” he says finally. “But we’ve had dealings. My sister… she dated Santo Amato for a time. Denies it now, but it happened.”
The name punches through me.
Of course I know the Amatos.
Unfortunately, so.
Warren’s jaw tightens. “When it ended, the only way to cut him off clean was to give up a property he wanted. A trade. It kept him out of her life. And out of ours.”
His tone is level, but I see the tension in his shoulders. He’s still carrying it.
Still angry. Still protecting.
“So you’re not…” I trail off, unsure where the line is.
“Mafia?” he says, a bitter little smile tugging at his mouth. “No. But we’ve been close enough to know better. Close enough to protect what’s ours.”
I take a slow sip of champagne, hoping the bubbles will settle the coil of guilt twisting in my stomach.
My secrets.
My lies.
At least now I know Warren’s not working with them.
But when I glance back at him, he’s already watching me. Eyes sharp. Curious. Dangerous.
“Why are you asking me this, Olivia?” His voice drops low. Like silk stretched tight.
My pulse skips. “No reason.”
He leans in, so close I feel the heat of him. His breath brushes my cheek, but it’s his voice that pins me in place.
“Don’t lie to me.” His words are quiet. Lethal. “I’m very close to figuring it all out. And I will.”
It isn’t a threat.
It’s a promise.
A warning wrapped in devotion.
The worst part?
I want to tell him.
Everything.
***
The car slows in front of a quiet, lamp-lit street tucked behind the Seine. All the shops are dark. Except one.
A soft golden glow spills from its windows, catching on beaded fabric and crystal cases. There’s no sign on the glass. No crowd. Just the hush of silence and the hum of my heartbeat.
“They’re closed,” I murmur.
“Not tonight,” Warren says, already moving to open the door. He doesn’t wait. Just holds out his hand like it’s a formality.
I take it anyway.
Inside, the air smells like silk and secrets, like champagne and the kind of wealth people pretend doesn’t exist. Spotlights float above curated mannequins.
A string of chandeliers drip from the ceiling like frozen fire.
Racks of couture line the walls in gentle curves, guarded by velvet ropes and glass panels.
The place is empty.
Not a salesperson in sight.
“I had them clear the appointments,” he says, like it’s nothing. “Didn’t want anyone else breathing the same air as you while you tried things on.”
I laugh, nervous. “That’s dramatic.”
“No,” he says, voice low. “It’s not.”
He watches me drift toward a row of gowns in gold and cream and blood red. My fingers skim the fabric. Each dress is a universe. Hand-beaded, laced, feathered. They look like they belong on a red carpet or in a museum.
“I don’t even know what to try,” I breathe. “They’re all—”
“Exquisite,” he finishes. “Just like you.”
I glance at him, heat blooming low in my belly.
“Pick one.”
“War—”
“Pick three,” he amends.
Then he pauses.
“No. Hell, pick them all.”
A disbelieving laugh escapes me. “You can’t be serious.”
But when I look up, his expression doesn’t waver.
“I am,” he says. “We’ll find a reason for you to wear them. Let’s ship them all.”
He steps closer, eyes burning through me.
“But I want to see you in something now.”
I look around for a dressing room, already fumbling with a protest, when his hand brushes mine and stills me.
“Here,” he says.
I blink. “You want me to change here?”
He gestures to a velvet couch, sleek and deep blue. “I’ll wait.”
I glance up, scanning the space for a camera. “Warren. There are probably a dozen—”
“They’re off,” he says smoothly.
I raise an eyebrow. “And how exactly do you know that?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just smirks, lazy and smug.
“You own this place,” I whisper.
He shrugs, unapologetic. “Didn’t want to wait on someone else’s rules.”
My pulse stutters.
The room feels suddenly warmer.
My fingers tremble. Slowly I peel off my dress. I should feel exposed. Should be shy. But his gaze intense stays on my form, heating me.
Watching me.
Devouring me.
His eyes don’t leer.
They see.
Heat and love, want and reverence, all tangled together.
When I step into the midnight-blue gown, it’s heavier than I expected. Soft. Liquid against my skin. I struggle with the zipper until his hands are suddenly there, brushing my bare back.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, fingers grazing my spine as he slowly zips the dress closed.
The moment stretches, quiet and intimate, before he steps back.
His voice cuts through the silence, firm and low. A command wrapped in praise.
“See?” he says. “You’re a vision.”
I turn.
The mirror steals my breath.
It’s me. But it isn’t.
The dress clings like it was born on my skin. The color, midnight and starlight, makes my eyes darker; my curves bolder. I don’t look out of place.
I look like I belong.
Like I was meant for this life.
War steps closer, slow and sure, until I feel the heat of him behind me. His hands settle at my hips—firm, grounding.
Then he leans in and presses a soft kiss to the back of my neck.
I shiver.
Our eyes meet in the mirror.
His locked on mine, steady and dark.
“You see it,” he says, voice velvet and steel. “You see what I see. Finally.”
Another kiss, this time to my shoulder, warm and reverent.
My heart flutters. Hard.
“You see why I’m never letting you go,” he says, his mouth brushing skin, his gaze still holding mine in the glass. “You’re made for me, Olivia Baker.”
And he right. I am made for him.
Finally.
I believe him.
***
I wake up tangled in his sheets, wishing we were still in Paris.
The sunlight here isn’t soft like it was there. It’s bolder, whiter, too real. The city sounds different too; no bells, no water lapping against bridges. Just the hum of traffic several stories down and the low murmur of Warren’s voice somewhere in the penthouse.
His bed smells like him. Clean. Expensive. A little bit like the cologne. I run my hand over the empty space beside me, still warm.
We’re not in Paris anymore.
But I wish we were.
I sit up slowly, the silk sheets slipping down my bare skin. The lingerie I’m wearing, the pale mint green set he surprised me with when we landed. It clings to me like second skin. Soft. Barely there. Just the way he likes.
He walks in just as I stretch, two coffees in hand. His eyes dip to the curve of my thighs, linger, then lift to meet mine with a look that says he already knows exactly what I’m thinking.
“Keep that on,” he says, voice rough with sleep and satisfaction. “We’re working from home today.”
I arch a brow. “We are?”
He hands me my coffee, then leans down to press a kiss to my shoulder. “Jet lag. And I want to look at you in that all day.”
My stomach flips, heat crawling up my spine.
Breakfast arrives.
Croissants, fruit, and the soft scrambled eggs he knows I love. He nods at the delivery guy, barely cracking the door.
We eat at the long marble kitchen island, both barefoot, both quiet. He answers calls, his tone shifting depending on who’s on the other end. Sharp and short with one. Warm and commanding with another. His voice is low but firm. Everything about him feels in control. Untouchable.
And then there’s me. Sitting across from him in lace and silk, pretending I can keep my own secrets when I’m in the middle of falling in love with him.
So in love.
I said I loved him and I meant it.
But damn am I still falling.
I open my laptop and transfer the money I’ve been putting off sending. My brother’s text flashes across the screen, short, a little goofy, and grateful. I close the window quickly.
War looks up from his phone. “You okay?”
I smile, small and practiced. “Yeah. Just paying bills.”