Chapter 32 War
Chapter thirty-two
War
The gates swing open at the press of my thumbprint.
Iron. Stone. Legacy.
The estate rises ahead like something carved out of another century; miles of manicured hedges, columns built to intimidate, glass that gleams like the whole place is watching you.
I’ve never brought a woman here. Not once.
Not for dates. Not for flings. Not even for the long weekends when I hosted charity events just to prove I could play the part of Beaumont heir.
This house is a cage dressed in gold.
And yet, tonight, it feels like something else.
Because she’s beside me.
Olivia.
Her hand rests in mine across the console, warm, steady. She doesn’t see the ghosts in the walls, the history pressed into stone. But I do.
And I’ve decided it’s hers now.
Just like everything else.
My chest tightens as we roll up the circular drive. Staff are already waiting—security at the perimeter, house manager by the door, even the chef in her whites. Their faces are polite masks, but I can feel the shift in the air.
They know.
They know she’s not just another guest.
I bring women to the yacht, to hotel suites with blacked-out windows and plush bedding. I fuck them. Use them. Toss them a gift and order them a ride share.
But I never bring them here.
This is the endgame.
And Olivia?
She’s the one.
I step out first, buttoning my jacket, covering nerves I shouldn’t have. I’ve done deals with men who could kill me with a word. Stared down my father across tables sharper than knives. Never flinched.
But bringing Olivia here?
That makes my pulse hammer in a way nothing else does.
I circle to her side, open the door myself, and hold out my hand. “Olivia.”
She takes it, slipping out in that soft dress that clings in all the places I want to keep my hands. Her eyes go wide as she tilts her head back, taking in the mansion. “War… this is… wow.”
Her awe makes something break open in my chest.
“Welcome home,” I murmur.
Her gaze darts to me, startled. She laughs lightly, like she thinks I’m joking. But I’m not. Not even a little.
The staff line up as we enter the grand foyer. The marble gleams. The chandelier drips light like fire. Normally I hate it—too perfect, too cold.
But tonight, with her hand in mine, it feels right.
Like this place was waiting for her.
I lean down, voice low against her ear. “This house has been empty for years. Never meant anything to me. Until now.”
Her lips part, eyes wide, like she hears what I’m not saying.
I squeeze her hand, anchoring myself. “Let me show you what will one day be yours.”
The staff here, my chef, my groundskeeper, my house manager, even the night security, aren’t faceless names on a payroll. They’ve been with me for years. They know my tells, my moods, my silences. They’re the closest thing I’ve ever had to a real family.
And tonight, I’m bringing Olivia into that circle.
Which makes me more nervous than any Paris dinner ever could.
Her fingers tighten on mine as we walk though the doors. She looks up at the vaulted ceiling, wide-eyed, her lips parting in wonder. She probably thinks I’m watching the marble or the chandeliers. I’m not.
I’m watching her.
The house manager, Margaret, steps forward first. Gray hair, sharp eyes, the kind of woman who once barked at me to eat more vegetables when I was twenty and living on whiskey and spite.
“Mr. Beaumont,” she says, formal as always. Then her gaze softens. “And this must be Olivia.”
Olivia blinks, surprised. “Yes… hi.”
Margaret actually smiles. “Welcome, dear. Dinner’s nearly ready. We’ve all been looking forward to meeting you.”
We.
Not I.
We.
Olivia glances at me, startled, and I can already see it in her eyes—the difference. Paris had been ice and metal. This… this is warmth.
One by one, the others greet her. My chef insists she’ll have her favorite dessert ready “next time.” The gardener offers her a tour of the rose beds. Even old Thomas, the night guard, gives her a rare nod that means more than any bow.
And Olivia?
She glows.
Her glow floods the shadows of this house like sunlight pouring into a mausoleum, chasing out ghosts I thought I’d live with forever.
The flush in her cheeks. The soft curve of her smile. The way her shoulders relax, like for the first time since Paris she isn’t bracing for judgment.
They treat her exactly as she deserves.
Better than my family ever could.
And standing there, watching the only people I trust welcome the only woman I’ll ever love—
I know I was right.
This is the next step.
This is her home now.
Ours.
She takes it all in with wide eyes, and for a moment I don’t move. I just…watch.
Her hand brushes along the polished banister, fingertips tracing the carved wood like she’s afraid it will vanish. She pauses to admire the chandelier, then laughs softly when Margaret fusses over her like she’s already part of the family.
It hits me all at once.
This house; cold, cavernous, silent for years, has never looked more alive.
Because she’s in it.
I walk her down the hall, past the portraits I’ve avoided since I was old enough to hate the faces in them. She doesn’t flinch at them. Doesn’t tense. She looks at me, not them, and suddenly those shadows don’t matter anymore.
When I unlock the gallery—the collection I’ve never let anyone linger in—she goes still. Her eyes roam the canvases, the sculptures, the chaos I’ve surrounded myself with over the years. Pieces chosen for their sharpness, their violence, their edge.
She takes her time, quiet, moving from frame to frame until finally she turns to me. Her voice is steady but soft.
“War… it’s beautiful. But it feels lonely, like you’ve been waiting for something that never came.”
I almost laugh, except my chest is too tight.
Because she’s right.
Then she says the thing that guts me.
“I can understand it though. I’ve been in survival mode for so long, I don’t know what to do with myself now that I can breathe.”
The words sink into me like a blade.
Because it’s my truth too.
I’ve spent my whole life clawing through shadows, fighting my name, chasing redemption, drowning in ghosts. And here she is. The first clear breath I’ve ever taken.
I pull her in, kiss her slow, reverent. She tastes like everything I’ll never deserve but will never stop keeping.
And in that kiss, my mind steadies—finally letting me see everything I’ve never dared to want.
Her in white, walking toward me.
A ring on her hand, my name tied to hers forever.
Her belly rounded with our child, those wide brown eyes passed down, paired with my sharp grin.
Little footsteps echoing in these halls that have only ever known silence.
Her laughter would burn itself into the walls, softening every sharp edge this place was built on.
I want it.
All of it.
Sooner than she could ever guess.
When I finally pull back, her smile wrecks me. She doesn’t even know. Doesn’t know she’s already burned herself into every wall, every room, every part of me.
This estate isn’t mine anymore.
It’s hers.
And one day soon… I’ll make sure the world knows it.
I cup her face, my thumbs brushing her cheeks, and watch her eyes melt.
“What’s one thing you’ve always wanted, Olivia?” I murmur. “If money wasn’t an issue… what would you choose?”