Chapter 46 Olivia
Chapter forty-six
Olivia
Ipace my room. My heart hammers, my hands shake, and I can’t stop seeing him at that table.
War.
My War.
God, my heart still loves him. I should have expected it, but not like this, not so sharp and sudden. One look and I was back under, drowning in everything I’ve tried to erase by being here.
But all I can see is her. The woman in the photos. The gossip columns. Him with someone else. The bile rises, sharp and bitter. I have to ask him. I need to ask him.
I reach for the door, ready to demand answers, when a sharp knock rattles it first. My breath hitches. Probably Dean, checking on me.
I pull it open.
Not Dean.
War.
He doesn’t speak. Just looks at me. Three months, and all that heat is still in his eyes. The kind that knows me. Owns me.
Before I can breathe a word, his hands bracket my face, mouth crushing against mine.
He tastes like mint and the faint smoke of his cologne, the scent I used to fall asleep breathing in.
The kiss is hard, desperate, breaking me open in an instant.
He pushes me back into the room, the door slamming shut behind us.
And I melt.
All the fury, all the questions dissolve under the heat of him; his smell, clean and dark and familiar.
His touch, rough but sure. His lips, claiming mine like they never lost the right.
A low sound rumbles in his chest, part growl, part plea, and it shreds what little defense I have.
My arms fly up around his neck, clinging to him, greedy for more.
My heart. My stupid, treacherous heart.
It’s still his.
I should shove him away. I should slap him, scream at him.
Instead, I moan.
He turns us, pressing me hard against the door, mouth still on mine, all fire and demand, and for one reckless second I melt into it, into him, until my fury tears through.
“No.” The word rips from my throat as I shove hard at his chest. My back hits the door. My palms sting with the effort of pushing him away.
His eyes flash, voice low and brutal. “You left me.”
My chest caves, but I throw it back. “You paid for the inn without telling me.”
He surges closer, fists braced against the wood on either side of my head, caging me in. “You made them my cookies.”
The accusation slices, but rage spikes hotter. “You were with her! With that blonde woman, in every photo. I saw it, War, everyone did.”
That stops him cold. His hands drop, he exhales “Olivia—”
“I saw it online,” I spit, tears burning my eyes. “In almost every gossip rag.”
His brows knit. “That was Miranda?”
I falter, the name cutting deep. “That’s her name?” My voice cracks.
His head tilts, sharp and disbelieving. “Yes. That’s my sister. She isn’t blonde—it was a wig to throw off the paparazzi. She hates them.”
I blink, the ground tilting beneath me. Sister.
“Your sister?”
“Yes, Olivia. My sister.”
Shame and confusion crash over me. My legs give, and I sink onto the floor, heart still galloping. He follows, sitting close, close enough that his presence burns.
We sit in silence, the space between us thick with everything unsaid.
“Why didn’t you tell me you felt trapped?” he asks, finally.
I stare at the wall across from us, blinking fast.
“Because…” My throat aches. “You take over everything, War. You walk into a room, and it stops breathing until you decide it’s allowed to again.”
He doesn’t argue. Just watches me.
“I didn’t even realize how trapped I felt until it all piled up. First working for you… then the apartment, the clothes, the gifts, it was all meant to make me feel seen, and it did... too seen.”
I shake my head, the words catching. “You made me feel important. But then I remembered where I came from. Who I was. What my family was. And I told you not to pay for the Inn. I begged you. And you didn’t even try to talk to me about it. You just did it.”
I pause, breath shaky. “And I couldn’t find my way back after that.”
He’s quiet for a beat too long. Then, with a breath that sounds more like a growl:
“You didn’t want to tell me about Ronnie?”
I nod. “Because I didn’t know how. I didn’t know how to explain that I came from something messy. That someone had power over my family. That I wasn’t the polished, collected girl you make me feel like I am when I’m with you.”
Finally, I turn to look at him.
And he’s already staring at me. Those sharp, wild blue eyes I’ve memorized and missed and mourned all at once.
“I ran,” I whisper. “Because I was scared.”
His hand finds mine. Warm. Familiar. His thumb brushes over my knuckles like muscle memory.
“Olivia,” he says softly, “I come from something messy too. In my life money reigns. You’ve seen it. It’s just… a far cry from what you have.”
I blink, confused. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He exhales through his nose. Not sharp. Just tired. Tired in a way I feel all the way down to my bones.
“It means I had silver spoons and silk cribs and boarding schools.” His lips curl into something bitter. “You had dinners that didn’t require backlash and defenses. You had real pictures. Not oil paintings in marble hallways.”
His eyes sweep the room, my room. The slightly crooked bookshelf. The old quilt. The taped-up edges of posters from high school that I never bothered to take down.
“Your family… your home…” he trails off, shaking his head like he can’t find the words. “It’s lived in. It’s loved.”
I nod, throat tightening. Because it’s true. Even under the crushing weight of debt, of desperation, we stick together.
“That’s what I saw the first time I looked at you,” he says.
“My family?” I ask, surprised.
He shakes his head. “No. You. A woman who deserved more.”
His voice dips lower. Honest. Bare. “And now I understand why I saw that. It wasn’t that you were lacking it here. You were lacking it in the city.”
I swallow, a lump forming that I can’t push down.
“I thought giving you everything I believed you deserved was enough,” he says quietly. “The job. The apartment. The wardrobe. The stupid fucking hair products I kept stocking the bathroom with.”
His tone wavers. The kind of tone you only use when you’re about to ask for forgiveness. I brace for it.
But instead…
“But you had everything you needed here, didn’t you?”
I frown. This doesn’t sound like a makeup speech.
“War—”
“I don’t want you to feel trapped, Olivia.
” His voice cracks just a little, and I hear it—the edge of goodbye.
“You’re a diamond in the middle of this small town.
And I was trying to rip you out of it. To put you on display in the city.
The galas. The commissions. The wardrobe.
I kept trying to dress you in glass when you were already carved from stone. ”
He laughs bitterly, self-directed. “I used money to fill the space between what I felt for you and what I didn’t know how to say.”
And my heart drops.
No. No. It’s breaking. I feel it. Splintering from the inside out.
He doesn’t see it. Or maybe he does, and that’s why he looks like he’s falling apart, too.
He exhales. “The Inn belongs to your family again. I spoke to the Amatos. They’ve released it.”
My breath catches.
“I have a crew coming Monday to renovate. And for the sake of full honesty…” he stands, reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded paper, laying it gently on the nightstand. “I set up an account in your name. Ten million. It’s yours. No strings.”
I scramble to stand, I can’t speak.
His hand cups my cheek, gentle. Reverent.
“You’re free, Olivia.” His thumb brushes my jaw. “Your family is free from the Amatos.”
Then, softer.
“And you… you’re free from me.”