Chapter 47 War
Chapter forty-seven
War
The suitcase handle cuts into my palm, but the real weight is in my pocket. A ring box. Heavy. Hopeful. Useless.
If she won’t take it.
I keep walking. Across the street.
Every step feels like bleeding. Like I’m leaving parts of myself behind on the cracked pavement; and I don’t think I’ll get them back. The Inn rises in front of me, worn wood and peeling paint, but alive in a way my glass towers never were.
Inside, behind the front desk, she’s waiting. An older version of Olivia, same bone structure, same smile, only green eyes where Olivia’s are brown.
“Did my boys behave themselves?” she asks, voice soft, teasing.
I nod. “They did.”
Then, without warning, she rounds the counter and wraps her arms around me. I freeze. For a second, I don’t even remember how to return it.
But I do. Slowly. Stiffly.
I let this woman, her mother, hold me. Anchor me.
And I hate how much it breaks me open. It’s so warm it aches. The kind of mother I might have had, if mine hadn’t been taught to chase dollars instead of children.
When she pulls back, her gaze sharpens. “Are you staying?”
I clear my throat. “I don’t want to leave without her. But she—”
“Needs time,” she finishes gently.
I nod once, jaw tight.
She studies me for a long beat, then her voice lowers. “Thank you. Ronnie stopped by before you did, said he was leaving. That’s… a freedom I didn’t think we’d ever get.”
Bittersweet coils in my chest. I incline my head. “You’re welcome, Mrs. Baker.”
Her lips curve. “Jillian. Call me Jillian.”
“You’re welcome, Jillian.” My voice comes out rougher than I intend. “May I have a room?”
Her brows lift slightly, then she turns and pulls an honest-to-God brass key from the board behind the counter. “Of course. You can have the biggest one—Room 10.”
The key drops into my hand, cold and solid. I close my fist around it, nod once, and head for the stairs.
I mutter a thank you, and turn for the stairs. My steps are slow, quiet, creaking with age beneath my shoes.
The hall is narrow, carpet worn thin. Every detail screams of a life lived, not designed. And still… it feels more honest than anything I’ve built.
When I reach the end, I pause at the brass number on the door. Room 10.
I don’t know what I expect behind it.
But it’s not this.
Room 10 is bigger than I expected, but it carries the weight of years.
The wallpaper’s peeling in one corner, a radiator coughs when I set my bag down, and the bed creaks with a protest when I sit.
My eyes skim the space automatically, logging what I’ll tell the crew to fix; floorboards uneven near the dresser, window frame warped, bathroom tile cracked. Easy repairs.
I stand, cross to the window, and part the curtain.
And I still.
Across the street, her house. Olivia’s house. From here, Room 10 looks directly into her bedroom. Curtains wide open, no defenses. She’s there, perched on her bed, shoulders bowed, face buried in her hands.
The sight knocks the air out of me. Pain slices clean through my chest.
A thought slips through, slow and certain.
Jillian knew.
She gave me this room on purpose.
This room.
This view.
She knew I’d be able to see Olivia.
To watch.
To wait.
For one reckless moment, I want to storm across the street, to break past the brothers, to lift her chin and force her to see me. To remind her that she’s mine, that nothing can cut that truth clean away.
Not even the words I said.
But I don’t.
I let the curtain fall back into place. Just enough to remind myself: privacy, not distance. My fists clench, then release.
She needs time.
So I’ll wait.
Five days. That’s all I can give her.
Five days to hope she loves me enough to not want to be free of me.
And if she doesn’t…
I’ll let her go.
Even if it kills me.
***
By morning, the place looks like an anthill. Trucks lined along the curb, tools unloading, men hauling lumber and tile. The air smells like sawdust and new beginnings.
I stand on the porch steps, giving Greg the head contractor, my rundown. “Tiles replaced. Fresh paint inside and out. Rotted wood gone. New fixtures. Nothing cheap.”
He nods, scribbling notes, barking orders over his shoulder as I talk.
Through the newly installed frosted glass doors, Logan sits at the front desk. He isn’t glaring anymore. Just watching. Weighing.
Out front, Chase leads the crew on the ground already with a hammer in hand, grinning like the chaos is a game. He catches my eye. “We’ll run short on supplies. The local hardware store will have what we need”
I pull out my wallet, slide a black card free, and hold it out. “Get everything. No limits. Whatever this place needs.”
Chase whistles low, pockets the card. “Guess money does grow on Beaumont trees.“ He hops into his truck still smirking.
I turn back to Greg. “The playground down the block, it’s a mess. Can you come back here in a couple months?”
Greg scratches his chin. “We can, but that park needs new everything. Slides, swings, benches. Hell, the mulch under that snow is moldy.”
“I’ve already spoken with Parks and Rec,” I tell him. “Deliveries start when the snow thaws. I’ll cover labor if you can spare it.”
His brows rise, then he extends a hand. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Beaumont.”
We shake.
Firm, solid.
I step back inside, the air warmer after the noise of hammers outside.
At the counter, a woman with red hair pulled neat stands. She’s dressed well, clean lines, not flashy, not cheap. Middle of the road. Intentional. Hazel eyes catch mine, though there’s a sadness tucked behind them, even as her blush gives away that Logan said something she liked.
Logan stiffens the moment he notices me watching.
Noted.
Ella steps forward; poised, careful.
But not afraid.
“Mr. Beaumont,” she says, tone dry but not unkind. “The man. The myth.”
I smirk, slow. “Dr. Marsh.”
Her lips twitch, but her gaze doesn’t drop. “You’re not scary, you know.”
She leans in, voice dimmed to a private whisper: “I can see the crushed little boy beneath you.”
A dark chuckle rumbles out of me. “And I can see the sad little girl in you. What are you hiding, Ella?”
She falters, just for a beat, before she folds her arms.
I tilt my head. “Where are you going today?”
Her brows lift. “What makes you think I’m going anywhere?”
I take a breath, play along with her obvious banter. “You’re protective of her. I get that. So am I. Which means you’re going somewhere with her. Where?”
She studies me, like she wants to measure how much truth I deserve. “Why?”
“Because I love her.”
I don’t blink.
“I need to know she has someone with her who makes her feel good. So… Dr. Marsh. Will you be with her today?”
Ella exhales, then nods once. “Yes. Just at her house. Call it a therapy session.” She chuckles, light but not careless.
I step aside. “Well. Don’t let me keep you.”
She slips past, Logan’s eyes following her until she’s out the door.
I turn to him. “How long?”
He blinks, irritation quick and shallow. “What are you talking about?”
“You and the good doctor.”
Logan’s jaw tightens. “There’s nothing going on.”
“Doesn’t mean there won’t be.” I lift my chin toward the door. “She’s carrying something behind those eyes. Find it. Fix it. That’s your way in.”
Logan doesn’t answer, just glances toward the door Ella slipped through.
I follow his line of sight, the corner of my mouth tugging. I know that look, like a man already lost, already hers.
Same look I wear for Olivia.
I leave him to it.
I have my own woman to watch.