Chapter 7
Chapter seven
War
Rage.
I’ve felt rage before.
It’s a constant companion in my world. Useful. Controlled. Directed.
But this?
Watching her?
This is something else entirely.
A raw, guttural burn that sinks deep into my bones.
Every day she’s on my floor.
Every day, she walks past my office with those soft eyes and that tight polite smile like I’m just another fucking suit.
And then she disappears into his.
Door closed.
Privacy implied.
Intimacy assumed.
Took a week of pretending not to care before I had the camera installed. One angle. Hidden. Feeding only to me. She doesn’t know yet that when she smiles, it’s mine. When she laughs, it’s mine. She just shares it with him first.
I watch her.
The way she sits, legs crossed delicately, posture straight. The way she tilts her head when she listens, really listens, to him. The way she smiles when he surprises her with more of that goddamn soup from the Amato’s Italian place she likes.
I didn’t know she liked La Serenata.
Now I know her order.
I know the way she holds the spoon.
I know that she always eats the crust of her sandwich last after peeling it away.
And I hate that he knows it too.
He gets the curve of her lips when they’re relaxed in a laugh.
All I ever get is tension.
Fear.
I lean back in my chair, eyes locked on the screen as she hands him a napkin. Her fingers brush his. He doesn’t flinch. Neither does she. That subtle touch sends a pulse of something sharp and possessive straight through me. He touches her like it’s casual. I’d make her remember my touch for days.
I could have her.
Fuck, I want her.
Not just her body—though Christ, I think about it too often.
It’s the way she walks into every room like she doesn’t take up space. The way she tries to blend in. Tries not to be seen.
But I see her.
I always see her.
And maybe that scares her.
Brody says something. Her brows lift and she laughs again, head tilting, hair falling over her shoulder like she’s in a goddamn romcom.
He mentions a project I gave him in California.
In a few months.
That’s too long.
That’s too much time.
I’ll make sure it happens sooner.
And then she does it.
The thing that turns irritation into full-blooded fury.
She asks him, “Are you friends with Mr. Beaumont?”
Mr. Beaumont.
Not War.
Not even Warren.
Mr. Fucking Beaumont.
I taste the name like ash in my mouth.
She’ll scream Mr. Beaumont until she remembers it’s War; and before I declare it on shit for brains Broderick, I pick up the phone and dial direct to Wesley’s office.
“What War,” Wesley answers clipped.
“That any way to greet your brother?”
“When you call my direct line and bypass my secretary, yes.”
“I want her.”
“My secretary?” he asks confused.
“No, Olivia Baker.”
“I told you, if you fuck her, just don’t fuck it up. I need her to stay, she’s doing excellent, she’s worth—”
“No, I want her to work for me.”
Silence.
“No, War, what the hell do you really need her for?”
“I need a personal assistant or whatever.”
“No you don’t, you literally have a floor full of men because if you hire women you fuck them all and they leave!”
“Fine, I’ll just call over to NovaRael and hire Evie Mitchell. Steal her right from under Amato”
“…How the hell do you know about her?”
“Your little secret crush? Easy. Also know you’ve been working with that bastard. I know everything.”
“He owes me now, it was an investment.”
“Clock’s ticking little brother, give me Olivia or I make your girlfriend my new conquest.”
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
“Even better, won’t get your sloppy seconds.”
“Fuck you War. Take her. I’ll tell her about the transfer end of day.”
“No.”
I cut him off. Sharp. Final.
“I’ll tell her. Tomorrow morning.”
Another pause.
Then, quieter. “She’s a nice girl, she’s not like the others, War.”
I end the call.
My nice girl now.
***
She’s late.
By four minutes.
I know because I’ve been here eight. Standing in the lobby like I don’t own the fucking building. Like I’m not the reason every suit in this place stops to breathe different.
Security nods at me. People glance, then glance away. No one speaks.
Finally.
She walks in through the front doors like she doesn’t feel me watching.
Head down. Bag clutched to her side. Not rushing, even though she’s late, but not dragging her feet either, just… existing.
Polite. Soft. Invisible.
To everyone else.
But not to me.
My jaw grinds as I watch her.
The moment her heels click against the marble, I feel it in my spine.
She’s wearing that same navy skirt. The one that hugs her like a goddamn secret. Hair still damp from the shower. She smells like sugar and warm vanilla.
Like a drug store perfume.
Cheap.
Like she tried to make herself unremarkable.
Like she tried to disappear.
But I see her.
I always fucking see her.
Her eyes lift. Find me.
A small hitch in her breath. Subtle. But not subtle enough.
“Good morning, Mr. Beaumont,” she says, smoothing her perfect voice into something professional.
It irritates me.
Not the greeting.
The distance.
Mr. Beaumont like I’m just a name on a door. Like I don’t think about her when I shouldn’t. Like I haven’t memorized the goddamn cadence of her laugh when she’s with him.
Still—I let it go.
For now.
“Good morning, Ms. Baker.”
I fall into step beside her without invitation.
She doesn’t ask why.
Doesn’t look at me.
Just walks toward the elevators with that quiet tension in her spine like she’s trying not to spook a predator.
The elevator dings.
We step inside.
She goes to press the button for WesTech.
I catch her hand midair.
Her fingers are smaller than I expected, warm. The skin soft under my palm. For a second I just hold it, the world narrowing to the quiet of the elevator and the steady beat under my thumb.
She freezes.
Gasps quietly, but I hear it. Feel it. She doesn’t realize it yet, but I’ll train her body to make that sound for me.
On command.
Would be delicious to hear having her pressed up against the elevator wall.
I shake the thought and press Beaumont Realty.
Her mouth parts, like she’s about to object, to ask why.
“I need to speak with you,” I say, voice low and final. “In my office.”
The air tightens.
I feel her heartbeat pick up. The tremor she tries to bury.
But she doesn’t argue. Doesn’t move away.
The doors slide shut.
And in the silence that follows, I swear I can hear her pulse pounding.
Loud.
Uneasy.
Beautiful.
“Mr. Beaumont, if this is about Bro—”
“War.”
She blinks. “What?”
“Call me War.”
She falls silent, her breath coming in soft shudders.
“Wa-Warren, if this is about—”
“It’s not,” I clip.
She nods.
Falls silent again.
Warren.
No one calls me that.
The elevator doors slide open and we step out together.
Lapdog Broderick is already waiting, holding my coffee like a good little mutt.
“Morning, War. I got—Liv?” he blinks, dumb and confused like someone changed the script mid-scene.
I don’t look at him.
“I have a meeting right now with Ms. Baker. Fill me in on whatever you have later.”
I snatch the coffee from his hand and place my other palm to the small of her back. Warm. Steady. Possessive.
She stiffens beneath my touch.
Good.
I guide her past him, toward my office.
The door clicks shut behind us and the silence stretches, heavy and waiting.
She lingers near it. Doesn’t step further in.
Like crossing the threshold completely would make this real.
Her hands hover at her sides. One hand clenched on the handle of her knock off purse. Frozen.
But then she moves.
Takes a few careful steps forward, her heels soft against the carpet, and stops halfway into the room like she’s unsure if she’s invited or cornered.
She lifts her head. Chin up. Eyes wide.
“Mr. Bea—Warren,” she corrects herself quickly. “Is something wrong?”
I take a slow sip of the coffee. It’s wrong. Too much cream. Broderick’s an idiot.
I set it down and walk to the other side of the desk. Lean back against it. Arms crossed. Watching her.
“No,” I say simply. “Nothing’s wrong. But things are changing.”
Her brows knit. “Changing?”
I nod. “You work for me now.”
Silence.
It lands exactly like I expected.
She blinks once. Twice. Then laughs, quiet, nervous. “I-I think there’s been a mistake. I work for WesTech. For Wesley.”
“Not anymore.”
Her smile falters. “Wesley didn’t mention any—”
“Because I told him I’d handle it.”
She crosses her arms. Defensive.
Cute.
“I wasn’t told about any transfer. No one asked me if—”
“You don’t get asked,” I say, voice flat. “Wesley doesn’t mind. And you signed an internal mobility clause when you were hired. Any exec above your current manager can request a reallocation.”
She pales. Just a little. Her lips part, but no sound comes out.
I tilt my head slightly. “You didn’t read the fine print?”
“I-I thought that was for departmental needs—”
“It is.”
Her eyes narrow. “What department needs me?”
Me.
But I don’t say it.
Instead, I move back behind my desk, open a drawer, and pull out a slim folder.
Slide it toward her like we’re just talking metrics and quarterly goals.
Not ownership.
“Beaumont Realty has a new internal initiative,” I say. “Client interfacing. Lead segmentation. Investor relations, all things you’re capable of handling. I’ve seen the way you organize Wesley’s projects. The way you follow up without being told. The way you listen.”
I pause, then add, “One of the first projects involves a flagship property, the Parker Building. It’s under renovation, but permitting and zoning have stalled the timeline.
I want a fresh set of eyes on it. You’ll be reviewing reports, investor notes, city filings.
If something jumps out, bring it to me.”
Her brows knit. “Seen?”
Caught. Brilliant girl.
“Heard. From Wesley.”
She glances at the folder but doesn’t touch it.
I wait a beat. Then:
“I had the office down the hall from mine cleared out.”
Her eyes flick up. Cautious.
Round.
Brown.
Perfect.
“It’s yours now. New furniture. Updated tech. Fresh paint.”
A flicker of suspicion crosses her face. “Why go through all this trouble? There are plenty of qualified assistants already here.”
“There are,” I admit. “But none of them are you.”
Her breath catches. Just slightly.
Good.
She doesn’t know it yet, but I’ve built her a kingdom.
One polished surface at a time.
I know from those little talks with Brody that she likes the scent of eucalyptus in the mornings.
I’ve seen which pens she uses until they run dry.
I know she prefers natural light. That she gets headaches from overhead fluorescents.
I know everything.
Watched everything.
For a month.
“Let me show you your new office,” I tell her.
Welcome to your cage.
Your kingdom.
Your place.
Mine.