Chapter 62 Olivia
Chapter sixty-two
Olivia
Ilove waking up at the estate.
The penthouse is beautiful, sure, sleek and towering and unapologetically War. But the estate?
It’s grand.
Quiet. Expansive. Wrapped in warm light and old stone.
Everything I need is here.
Margaret always has everything in perfect order.
Ana even cut fresh peonies for our room this morning; white and blush and soft as a sigh. I set them by the window where the breeze can catch their scent.
War kissed my forehead before he left. Said he had “a few things to take care of” and that he’d be back soon.
I have a sneaking suspicion about what that means.
But I didn’t ask.
Didn’t press.
Just smiled.
Because I trust him.
There’s a knock on the bedroom door.
“Ms. Baker?” Margaret’s voice is warm and formal as always. “You have a visitor downstairs.”
A visitor?
I tug on a soft robe and head down the curved staircase. My bare feet whisper against the cool marble.
And then I see her.
“Ella!”
She spins toward me, smiling wide, dressed in a rose-colored sun dress that flutters around her legs like something out of a spring catalog.
She’s holding a small black box wrapped with a gold bow and an envelope tucked neatly on top.
I nearly crush both as I hug her.
“What are you doing here? I thought you were still in Brokenwoods!”
She laughs, holding the box up like a fragile artifact. “Careful! That’s probably important.”
I step back, eyes wide. “Wait. Did he fly you in?”
Ella smirks. “War called last night. Booked my flight. Got me this dress.” She twirls, the skirt flaring. “Apparently he had a whole plan.”
I stare at the box. Then at the envelope.
“Today’s the day, isn’t it?”
She shrugs, all faux nonchalance. “I’m just the messenger. I’m supposed to give you this box… and tell you to read the note.”
My hands shake just a little as I take the envelope. I slide my finger under the seal, unfold the heavy card inside.
No surprises. Just like you asked.
But don’t think for a second I didn’t plan every detail.
Enjoy your day.
I’ll see you soon.
Today’s the day.
—W
I press the note to my chest, heart leaping. A squeal escapes before I can stop it.
Ella chuckles. “Okay, that reaction was definitely worth the flight.”
“What are we doing?” I ask breathless.
“We,” she grins, “are apparently hitting all your favorite spots. Hair, nails, professional makeup, and a full day with moi.”
I laugh, eyes stinging. “He really did all this?”
Ella nods toward the box. “Open it.”
I lift the lid slowly.
Inside, folded like a dream, is a white dress.
Short, but not too short. Fitted until it flares softly at the hips. Elegant. Playful. Effortlessly me.
I gasp. “Oh my God, it’s perfect.”
Ella grins. “Right? You should’ve seen the sales girl’s face when he asked for ‘something short, white, and impossible to say no to.’”
I laugh, holding the dress up to my chest and twirling. It sways just enough to feel flirty, feminine, and like something out of a dream.
A War Beaumont dream, at that.
Before I can get lost staring at it, Ella claps her hands together. “Alright, no time to waste. The man made an itinerary.”
***
A sleek black car is waiting out front. Inside—cold sparkling water, champagne bottles on ice, even a personal playlist War made me queued and ready.
I can’t help squealing, and Ella keeps smirking every time I do.
“What’s the full plan?”
Ella sips her champagne smug. “You’ll see”
The studio we pull up to is already humming when we arrive, mirrors lit like halos, the air perfumed with powder and hairspray, trays of brushes and palettes gleaming under soft light.
“Olivia!” Isabella sweeps over, all warm smile and long, graceful hands. She’s dressed in black from head to toe, sleek as always. “I was hoping today would finally be the day you landed in my chair again.”
I laugh, hugging her. “You make me sound overdue for service.”
“Darling, you are.” She snaps her fingers, and an assistant steps forward to guide Ella into the next chair. “This one will take care of your friend’s hair and makeup. And I’ve got someone on nails waiting for you too. Full pampering. Nothing less.”
I sink into the chair, already feeling my nerves settle.
“You know,” Isabella says as she clips back my hair, “I always knew you two would turn into more.”
I blink at her reflection in the mirror. “Oh yeah? Guess you’re good at predicting the future.”
She shakes her head with a smile. “Not at all. But I know Mr. Beaumont. He’s only ever hired me as a gift for coworkers or family friends, people he wants to impress. Never once for a girlfriend.”
My heart races. Heat pools low in my chest.
So that night, the first gala… I wasn’t just a date. I was different.
I swallow, trying to play it off, but my cheeks are already pink.
Isabella’s fingers move deftly through my hair, curling and pinning with practiced ease. Loose waves, soft volume, pearl pins glinting against the light. Then her brushes sweep across my face—primer, powder, a whisper of rose along my lips until I look like the very best version of myself.
Across the room, Ella’s getting her eyeliner perfected, gossiping easily with the assistant. A nail tech files my nails into soft ovals, brushing pale blush polish over them until they shine.
It’s indulgent. Luxurious. The kind of day I never let myself dream about because dreaming hurt too much.
And now? It’s real.
When Isabella finishes, she leans in with a conspiratorial grin and slips a black envelope into my hand.
“This is from him.”
My breath catches. I open it carefully, recognizing the sharp, deliberate strokes of War’s handwriting instantly.
Beautiful doesn’t even begin to cover how amazing you look.
Today is yours; every stop, every detail.
First hint: something sweet.
Head to the place that always smelled like sugar on your skin.
Maybe I’ll be watching.
—W
I press the note to my chest, heart racing, lips splitting into a smile I can’t hold back.
Ella chuckles from her chair, watching me. “Oh, you’re gone. Completely gone.”
I laugh, but my voice is shaky. “And happy about it.”
The car hums softly as it winds through the city. Ella taps through playlists on her phone, humming under her breath, while I can’t stop running my thumb over the edge of War’s note.
Something sweet.
The answer hits me like a rush of sugar. “Smash and Sugar.”
Ella grins, already in on the secret. “You got it.”
By the time the car pulls to the curb, I’m practically buzzing. My favorite bakery. My spot. The place I used to sneak pastries from when War was too wrapped up in board meetings to notice I’d disappeared.
I step out, ready to bolt for the glass door—then freeze.
Because he’s standing there.
Vaska.
Leaning against the window, twirling a knife between his fingers like it’s a coin. Casual, dangerous, sharp grin playing at the corner of his mouth.
My heart stutters, but I force myself forward. Ella stiffens beside me, but Vaska just chuckles low in his chest and extends a small paper bag.
“Sweet tooth, krasavitsa,” he drawls, the Russian lilt thick around the word. “Your man asked me to play delivery boy today.”
I take the bag carefully, the knife catching light as he flips it into his palm again. Inside, neat rows of macarons in every color of blush and cream. Resting on top is another black envelope.
Vaska smirks as I slip it free. “Don’t worry, little dove. I didn’t read it.”
I narrow my eyes, but my fingers are already tearing at the seal. War’s handwriting floods my vision.
Sweetheart,
This one isn’t about sugar. It’s about you.
Think back to where I once put you on display, where every eye was on you, even when you didn’t know it.
That’s your next stop.
—W
I frown, confused at first. On display?
Ella leans over my shoulder. “What does he mean?”
“I thought you knew everything?”
She shakes her head. “I stopped listening after bakery.”
Then it hits me. The art gallery.
My throat tightens. The gallery where War had that painting of me commissioned, hung under the lights for everyone to see. The first time I realized he didn’t just see me… he wanted the world to.
I clutch the note to my chest, breathless.
“The gallery,” I whisper.
Ella smiles. “Guess we’re headed to see your portrait, future Mrs. Beaumont.”
The car pulls away from Smash and Sugar, and Ella immediately tears open the bag of macarons.
“Pass the pistachio,” I laugh, nudging her as I peek into the envelope again just to reread War’s handwriting.
She hands me one, biting into a raspberry with a sigh. “Okay, I know he was terrifying, but… that Vaska guy? Kind of hot.”
I choke on a crumb. “Ella!”
“What?!” She grins, brushing sugar from her sundress. “Dangerous, yes. But hot. The knife twirling? Very bad boy aesthetic.”
I shake my head, laughing so hard I nearly drop my macaron. “You’ve officially lost it.”
The car slows as we pull up to the grand glass facade of the gallery. My laughter fades into something softer, chest tight as memories roll in. The last time I was here, I stood in a gallery, staring up at my own face on canvas, larger than life. War’s gift. His declaration.
The driver opens our doors, and as we step onto the marble steps, a sharply dressed woman is waiting for us. She’s elegant, clipboard tucked to her side, smile polished.
“Miss Baker,” she says warmly, pressing a black envelope into my hand. “On behalf of the gallery, congratulations.”
“Thank you.” I answer, bewildered.
But she’s already stepping back, leaving me with the note.
I open it, pulse quickening.
Your art deserves more than a gallery.
It deserves to be free.
Today, your piece will be hung where it belongs: amongst your family.
—W
My brows knit. “Amongst my family? What does that even mean? He wants me to go back to Brokenwoods?”
Ella tilts her head, thinking. “Hung. Amongst your family. Obviously photos are hung. Where do you have pictures of your family?”
The realization hits me like a thunderclap. My old apartment.