Chapter 38 Olivia
Chapter thirty-eight
Olivia
My phone doesn’t stop buzzing on my desk. Between Mama and Daddy, my brothers, and Ella, my best friend, it’s been a steady stream of birthday wishes.
Dean even sent me a picture of my favorite strawberry cake Mama baked in my honor.
He plans on eating it.
I roll my eyes, but the ache slips in anyway.
I miss them.
I want War to meet them. To see the people who made me. To know I had a life before him.
But with Ronnie always hovering at the inn, I can’t risk it. If War knew, he’d get involved. And I can’t let him shoulder that weight for me.
I fire off another email, try to refocus, but my mind drifts to tonight. What War has planned. He’s been restless all day, that sharp glint in his eye like he’s holding a secret in his fist.
I should be excited.
Instead, I stare at the clock and think about the box of things I left behind at my old apartment. The clothes Mama bought me. My album of family photos. My grandmother’s heirloom necklace tucked in the top drawer.
I told myself I didn’t need them when I moved into War’s penthouse. That I wouldn’t be at his place long. I had no idea that we would become so much more.
But on my birthday, the weight of it presses down harder.
I want something that’s mine on my birthday
Just a piece of home.
I get up before I can stop myself, before War whisks me away on whatever plan he’s plotting.
I grab my keys and head out.
Just a quick trip.
***
This was not a quick trip.
I don’t know how War does it. We always make it back to the penthouse in like five minutes, this rideshare took forever to get me home.
Well, my old home.
I should probably get rid of this place.
I look over at Brody’s door.
So weird that that apartment is empty.
I shake off the thought and unlock the door
The lock clicks, the door swings open.
And I freeze.
This… isn’t my apartment.
It’s the same layout. The same walls. But nothing else belongs to me anymore.
The sagging couch is gone, replaced by a brand-new sectional in soft gray, pillows plump and perfect. A coffee table gleams in the center, glass so clean it looks untouched. Matching end tables. A rug that actually matches the curtains.
Even the kitchen catches my eye from here, new stainless-steel appliances humming quiet, a toaster so sleek it looks like it could toast a slice of bread without charring it black.
My throat tightens as I step inside, my shoes whispering against the rug I never bought.
Down the hall, the frames I left empty are filled.
I stop, my hand catching on the wall for balance.
Photos.
From Mama’s albums. My brothers laughing on the porch. Daddy covered in flour at the inn kitchen. Ella grinning with a braid half undone.
My family. My life. Hung up in frames I never filled.
I stumble into the bathroom, my chest tight.
Everything is different.
The counter lined with bottles, my favorite shampoo, the perfume I thought I’d run out of, the exact face wash I used to hoard because it was too expensive to buy twice. Fresh towels, fluffy and white.
“War,” I whisper, my voice catching.
I rush to the bedroom.
And stop dead.
The bed is new. Larger. Covered in fresh linens. A dresser stands where my chipped secondhand one used to lean crooked against the wall.
The closet door is cracked, just enough for me to glimpse inside. Fabric in colors and textures I don’t recognize—silk, cashmere, lace. New clothes hanging neatly, tags glinting in the dark.
My breath hitches, jagged.
Why?
Why would War do this?
Was he planning on letting me go?
Was this some kind of birthday surprise?
Or did he want this place furnished, waiting, just in case I decided to leave him?
The thought twists sharp in my chest, too heavy, too much.
I sit down on the edge of the brand-new bed, staring at the life he built for me here, in secret.
At first, it feels like too much to hold in my chest.
Something soft.
My fingers press into the comforter, plush and new, and I let my eyes drift to the closet door again. New clothes. New life.
Maybe he wanted this for me.
My heart flutters. Maybe War meant this place to be ours too, another nest. Somewhere closer to my favorite food haunts, the places I’ve forced him to order from a hundred times. Maybe this was his way of saying, I see you. I know what you love.
For a dizzy second, I let myself believe it.
My phone rings. The sound breaking my thoughts
I fumble it out of my purse, heart still fluttering, until I see the name on the screen.
Mama.
I swipe, breathless. “Hey, Mama.”
“Hey, my Liv bug,” she coos, warm as sunlight. “Happy birthday, baby girl. Is Warren around?”
I freeze.
“…Warren?”
My phone vibrates. War’s name flashes. I decline it.
“Yes, Liv bug,“ she answers teasingly. “We all know about Warren Beaumont.”
From the background, I hear my brother making obnoxious kissing noises.
My stomach plummets. “How?”
“Because he called,” Mama says, matter-of-fact. “And we want to thank him, Liv… he paid for the Inn for the rest of the year! He—”
Her voice is bubbling with joy, but my heart drops so fast it hurts. I don’t hear her anymore.
My phone vibrating in my hand, his name flashing as my mother sings his praises.
No.
No, no, no.
He wouldn’t.
He wouldn’t go behind my back after I asked him not to. He wouldn’t snoop.
“Did you… did you tell him about Ronnie?” My voice splinters on the name.
Silence.
Then Mama, quietly answers. “No, Liv bug. I figured that’s something you should do.”
My chest tightens. The edges of the room blur.
“Mama, I-I have to go,” I choke, and hang up before she can say more.
My phone slips from my hand onto the comforter. I press both palms to my face, breathing sharp and erratic.
There’s no way War hasn’t figured it out.
No way.
That’s why he did this. Why the apartment is redone. Why every inch feels like a replacement life waiting for me.
My chest feels tight.
Too small for my ribs.
For my breath.
For the ache clawing its way up my throat.
This isn’t freedom.
It’s fallout.
That’s why he did this.
Why every inch of this apartment feels curated, clean, safe.
Perfect.
Because it isn’t mine.
It’s his.
A replacement life waiting for me to step into it.
Not a gift.
A cage.
Brody was right.
And I was too blind to see it.
Too lost in War’s voice, his hands, the way he said my name like a prayer he owned.
My breaths come faster.
I can’t be here.
I shove to my feet and rip the closet door open. My suitcase is still there, mercifully untouched, waiting in the corner.
I drag the suitcase out of the closet and start throwing clothes inside, shaking so hard I can barely hold onto anything.
My vision tunnels, corners blackening.
I have to go.
Before I lose the nerve.
Before he finds and talks me into forgiving him.
The thought alone cracks something open inside me. Because part of me—
God, part of me wants to go to him.
The phone buzzes on the bed.
War.
My body stills.
The sound is soft, but it detonates through me.
I just stare at it, frozen, watching his name flash over and over.
My pulse hammers so hard it shakes the air.
My heart is a traitor, pounding faster, louder, like it still believes he’s the safe place it remembers.
My throat burns.
Tears sting my eyes, hot and stupid.
He can’t fix this with that voice.
He can’t make this better with a word.
I shouldn’t.
I know what happens when I do.
He’ll say my name, and I’ll fold.
He’ll sound sorry, and I’ll forget what he took from me.
But the silence is worse.
It presses against my chest, heavy and endless.
My hand trembles as I reach for the phone.
I shouldn’t.
But I do.
I swipe the screen, breath hitching.
My voice comes out small, cracked, betraying everything I wanted to hide.
“Why?”