Chapter 39 War
Chapter thirty-nine
War
Ishut down my screen at two sharp. Time to leave. Time to get her.
I stride down to Olivia’s office, push the door open. Empty. Her chair still tucked in, her laptop closed.
I frown.
Maybe the bathroom.
I check the staff restroom down the hall. Nothing.
I double back, step into my own office, push open the bathroom door.
Maybe she slipped in without me noticing.
Empty.
The unease settles deeper.
I head to the front desk. “James,” I snap. “Where’s Olivia?”
He blinks, surprised. “Uh… she left about an hour ago, Mr. Beaumont.”
The words hit like a blade sliding between my ribs.
Left? Without me?
I pull my phone, dial her. It rings, and rings.
Voicemail.
I stab at it again as I walk, long strides carrying me into the elevator. The doors close. I call again.
No ringing this time. Straight to voicemail.
My stomach drops like stone.
Her phone is off?
The elevator dings. My blood runs cold, then hot. My mind snaps to the only possibility.
Wesley working with the Amatos.
They want the Parker Building.
I storm his floor, my thumb hammering Olivia’s number again and again, each time met with the same empty voicemail.
By the time I reach his office, my blood is pounding loud enough to drown out thought. I throw the door open without knocking.
And freeze.
Evie. Blonde. Plump. In Wesley’s lap, her mouth swollen from a kiss.
I can barely register, I only see red.
“What the fuck did you do?” I snarl, voice sharp enough to slice the air.
Wesley jerks back, face flushing. “Evie, give me a minute.”
She scrambles up, cheeks flaming, and slips past me, closing the door.
Wesley snaps at me, breathless. “What the hell is wrong with you? What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about Olivia,” I bark. My hands fist at my sides. “She’s not here, and when I call, it goes straight to voicemail.”
I charge toward his desk.
“And you were working with Santo Amato. You’ve got his fucking secretary in here like what? Your paid whore—”
“Hey!” Wesley snaps, standing. “She’s not—”
“What did you do?” I roar, the words tearing out of me raw, desperate.
“Nothing!” Wesley shouts back. “I helped Amato, he was grateful. Said I could hire Evie. He has his wife as his secretary now, okay? That’s it. We may do a collaboration in some surveillance releases, but that’s all. They wouldn’t touch Olivia.”
I drag in an uneven breath, chest heaving. My fists ache from how tightly I’m holding them.
Wesley exhales, shoulders dropping. “Did you go home? See if maybe she’s there? Maybe her phone died?”
The suggestion lands like a slap.
Stupid.
Of course I didn’t check.
But I don’t let him see that.
I step in close, my shadow swallowing him whole. “Stay away from the Amatos. We don’t do business with them. Ever. Do you understand me?”
His throat bobs, but he nods. “Yeah.”
I leave without another word, my pulse still hammering, every step echoing with the same thought.
Olivia.
Where the fuck are you?
***
“Olivia!” I call the second the elevator doors slide open. My voice ricochets off glass and marble, too loud in the silence of the penthouse.
No answer.
The kitchen. Empty.
Living room. Empty.
Bedroom. Empty.
Bathroom. Empty.
Each room I check hollows me out further. I stalk through the space like a predator, but there’s nothing to catch. No sound. No movement.
My chest is tight, breath coming sharp as I throw open the closet. Her clothes are still here. Dresses lined neat, shoes in their rows. I yank open drawers, half-expecting them to be bare, but her things are folded inside.
I stumble into the bathroom. Her perfume is on the counter, cap askew like she used it this morning. Her toothbrush, her face cream, all of it waiting.
She’s not gone.
But she’s not here.
I drag my phone out, thumb shaking as I hit dial again.
She answers on the second ring.
“Why?” she whispers.
The sound hits me like a punch.
Her voice, soft, broken, the sound of something coming apart.
“Where are you?” I manage. It comes out rougher than I intend, almost a growl.
I can hear her breathing, the faint hitch like she’s trying not to cry.
“Why did you pay for my family?” she asks.
I exhale hard, drag a hand through my hair. “Olivia… baby, I had to help. I couldn’t just—”
“No,” she cuts me off, voice trembling but sharp enough to wound. “I asked you not to get involved.”
“Olivia,” I try again, softer this time, pleading. “Just meet me at home, okay? We can talk. I’ll explain.”
“No.”
The word is quiet, final.
“War, I can’t do this.”
The line clicks dead.
For a second, I just stand there, phone to my ear, listening to nothing.
Then I look down.
She hung up on me.
The floor tilts.
She wouldn’t.
Not Olivia. Not my sweet, stubborn girl who always obeys.
I hit redial anyway. The call doesn’t even try to connect.
Blocked?
My stomach turns to ice.
She wouldn’t turn her phone off.
She wouldn’t block me.
Not with me.
Not ever.
My hand fists against the marble counter, the crack of skin to stone echoing.
I press my knuckles to my mouth, breathing hard through the burn in my throat.
I will not lose her.
I cannot.
Then, an opening. A thought.
Location sharing.
I swipe hard across the screen, find the icon, log in with muscle memory.
The little circle loads.
Come on. Come on.
Her last known location populates the map.
I stare, blood pounding in my ears.
Her apartment.
Of all places.
Why the fuck would she go there?
***
I don’t even remember leaving the penthouse, just the slam of the door and the growl of the engine as I tear into the street.
My knuckles ache against the wheel, white-knuckled, every red light nothing but an insult.
Her apartment.
I’d had it decorated for her. Every detail.
Every piece of furniture chosen because I knew what she deserved.
Fresh clothes in the closet, her favorite toiletries, frames filled with her family’s photos.
If one day she chose to move out of the penthouse, I was going with her.
There was no version of reality where she lived here alone, without everything she needed.
It was supposed to be a surprise.
Maybe she saw it. Maybe she hated it.
The thought tears through me like shrapnel.
By the time I reach her building, I’m shaking with it. The elevator drags to get down to me, crawling between floors like it’s mocking me. I don’t wait. I bound the stairs, three at a time, lungs burning.
Her door is in front of me. I yank out my copy of the key and shove it into the lock, twisting hard.
“Olivia!”
The word rips out of me, harsh and desperate, echoing down the empty hall.
Silence.
I stalk inside. The air smells faintly of her perfume, a sweet trace that punches me in the chest.
Bedroom.
The sheets are rustled at the edge, like she sat there, like she thought. Like she planned.
The closet door hangs open. A few clothes are scattered on the floor.
No.
No fucking way.
I step closer, chest clenching so hard it feels like it might collapse.
Her suitcase is gone.
My throat locks. My vision blurs.
She left me.
She left me.
Without a word. On her birthday.
She just—
Something snaps.
I lunge for the closet, rip the clothes from their hangers, hurl them across the room. The dresser drawer slams against my fist, wood splintering as I tear it out and dump it. Her perfume bottle shatters against the wall, scent exploding, choking me, burning me.
I tear the sheets off the bed, the mattress skidding half off the frame. My hand slams through the mirror, glass raining down, blood streaking across the shards.
I destroy it all.
Because it’s mine.
Because she was mine.
And she walked away.
The rage is white-hot, animal. But beneath it—beneath it is something worse.
Hollow.
The kind of hollow that swallows men whole.
I drop to my knees in the wreckage, glass biting through slacks, blood dripping from my knuckles. My chest heaves. My throat burns.
“Olivia,” I rasp, the word breaking, useless.
She left me.
And I don’t know how to breathe without her.