Chapter 41 Olivia
Chapter forty-one
Olivia
One Month Later
The smell of peanut butter fills the kitchen, warm and thick, clinging to the air the way memories cling to me. I stand over the mixing bowl, wooden spoon in hand, fighting back the ache in my chest.
I remember the way War leaned against the counter in his shirt unbuttoned just enough to look human, watching me scoop dough onto the tray.
“I want to be the last man you ever make peanut butter cookies for,” he’d said, dead serious, like it was some blood oath instead of a batch of cookies.
I’d laughed at him then. Called him ridiculous. But I went along with it, because the way he looked at me while biting into one, like I’d given him something rare and holy, made me feel like maybe I had.
Now the memory burns. He was supposed to be the last. And here I am, back in Brokenwoods, apron dusted with flour, baking peanut butter cookies for no one.
I slide the tray into the oven, shut the door with a dull clang, and press my palms flat against the counter. My heart aches with the ridiculousness of it all.
“Smells good in here.”
Dean’s voice snaps me out of it. He saunters into the kitchen, hair damp from a shower, hoodie sleeves pushed up, worn jeans tucked into thick socks like he’s still thawing out. Before I can warn him, his hand snags a cooling cookie from the tray on the counter.
“Dean—”
Too late. He takes a huge bite, crumbs falling onto his hoodie.
The sight shouldn’t hurt. But it does. Watching him bite into it feels like he’s taking something that doesn’t belong to him, something that should have stayed War’s.
I look away, chest tight, pretending it doesn’t matter. Pretending I didn’t bake them for a ghost.
I force a smile as Dean chews, but the sting hits my eyes before I can stop it. I turn back to the counter, wiping at them quick, hoping he doesn’t notice.
“Mmm,” he says around another bite. “Haven’t had these in forever. You spoil us.”
I swallow hard. These weren’t supposed to be his.
Dean leans his hip against the counter, licking a crumb from his thumb, completely oblivious to the way my chest is unraveling.
“So,” he drawls, voice light, teasing. “When’s Mr. Moneybags rolling into Brokenwoods to apologize and whisk you away? Because I gotta say, I’d pay to see that show.”
My hands still.
Maybe never, I think.
Maybe not at all.
The words scrape my throat as I say them aloud. “Maybe never.”
And God, it hurts. Hurts more than the fight. Hurts more than leaving. Hurts because the truth is uglier than I can stand, because I unblocked his number a week after coming home. I waited. Still wait. And he hasn’t called. Hasn’t texted.
Not once.
I grip the counter tighter, holding myself together while Dean keeps talking like it’s all a joke.
Dean snorts, finishing his cookie. “Maybe I’ll just kick Mr. Moneybags’ ass for you. Guy needs it, don’t he?”
Before I can answer, boots thud in the hall.
“Kick whose ass?” Chase asks, shaking snowflakes from his flannel like he walked through a blizzard to get here. He swipes a cookie off the tray without hesitation.
My heart seizes. Watching him bite into it, War’s cookie, feels like someone’s wringing me out from the inside.
“Livvy’s ex,” Dean says with a wicked grin. “We’ll rough him up a little. Teach him a lesson.”
Chase grins back, already balling his fists. “Oh yeah? I’d get him so good—”
Dean bounces on his toes, pretending to duck a punch. “One left hook. Bam! He’d never know what hit him.”
They laugh, sparring in the kitchen like idiots, tossing fake punches and snickering about how they’d make War sorry.
I can’t breathe.
Quiet. Please.
“Stop it,” I whisper, clutching the counter.
But they don’t hear me.
“Stop it,” louder this time, my throat tight, eyes stinging. “Stop it—”
“SHUT UP!” The shout rips out of me before I can swallow it down.
The room freezes.
“Olivia Lynn Baker!” Mama’s voice scolds, sharp as she steps in with a basket of folded laundry balanced on her hip. Her eyes narrow at me, shocked.
I crumble, tears threatening again. “Sorry, Mama. Can you take my cookies out of the o-oven?” My voice cracks on the last word.
Before anyone can stop me, I dart past her, past the stunned silence of my brothers, and race up the stairs.
My old bedroom swallows me whole. Mint green walls everywhere, the same ridiculous bedspread, the same stuffed bear propped on the dresser. Frozen in time, like the girl who used to sleep here never left.
I shut the door, chest heaving. I press my back to the door. My cheeks are flushed from the sting of cold air seeping in through the old windowpanes.
I grab my phone off the nightstand.
My thumb hovers over his number. Unblocked. Waiting. Still waiting.
But I don’t press it.
I can’t.
Instead, I scroll, find Ella’s name, and hit call.
“Pick up,” I whisper, tears slipping hot and heavy. “Please, just pick up.”
“Liv?” Ella’s voice crackles through the line, softer than usual, a little sad around the edges. “What’s wrong?”
The sniffle gives me away. My throat works, and before I can stop myself, the words spill out in a rush.
I tell her everything.
All about Warren Beaumont.
How he made me work for him. Gave me an office.
Bought me everything I needed. How he made me feel loved, seen, wanted.
How he made me pick out a ring, promised forever.
How there were cameras. Secrets. How he did things without asking.
How he paid for the Inn behind my back. How I’m still hiding the truth about Ronnie.
And worst of all, how I left without seeing him.
How it’s been a month. How I unblocked his number. How he hasn’t called. Not once.
It all comes out too fast, tripping over itself, choking me, until I’m empty.
On the other end, Ella is quiet for a long moment. I can hear her breathing, steady, patient, the way she always is.
Then she sighs. “Well… why haven’t you been honest, Liv? What’s scaring you? If everything he was doing made you feel safe and seen, why wouldn’t you tell him everything?”
I roll my eyes, wiping at my wet face. “God, I forgot my best friend’s a shrink.”
Ella exhales, then says gently, “Do you want friend Ella or psych degree Ella right now?”
“Friend Ella,” I mutter, curling into my mint-green comforter like I can hide inside it.
“Okay, friend Ella says: what the hell is wrong with you? That man is a billionaire—who loves you. He designed a ring for you, Liv. Yeah, the camera in your office is creepy, but you said you liked it. He paid for the Inn… so what? You think he doesn’t already know about Ronnie and just hasn’t said anything yet? ”
“I don’t know,” I snap, then soften. “He hates the mob, Ella. They’re literally trying to steal a building that’s important to him. He doesn’t do business with them. And what? The woman he wanted to marry is tied to them? How does that even work?”
“It works with communication,” she shoots back, sigh heavy with exasperation. “God, it’s so annoying when people don’t just fucking talk.”
“Hey,” I whisper, a small protest.
She chuckles, the sound light but tired. “You asked for friend Ella, not professional Dr. Marsh.”
There’s a pause, then her voice drops, quieter. “Did you break up with him before you left?”
My stomach twists. “…No.”
“Does he know that?”
“Why?” My voice edges sharp with panic.
“Check the tabloids, Liv.”
My hands shake as I put Ella on speaker and open the browser, typing his name. Warren Beaumont.
And there it is.
War.
In a restaurant.
With a blonde.
The photo is crisp, cruel. He’s leaning in close, suit jacket off, tie loosened, looking like the man who used to come home to me.
Above it, the headline blares:
“War Beaumont’s New Mystery Woman?”
My breath catches, sharp and shallow.
The phone slides from my hand, landing facedown on the comforter.
And just like that, every cookie, every promise, every whispered forever tastes like a lie.