The Billionaire CEO's Regret
CHAPTER ONE
The tires of the Aston Martin crunched softly against the crushed white gravel of the Ashford-Wale estate, a sprawling limestone manor that sat like a crown jewel on the edge of the Rhode Island coastline.
The late afternoon sun cast long, golden shadows across the impeccably manicured lawns, illuminating the ancient trees that had stood guard over the property for more than a century.
Inside the cabin of the car, the air was cool, smelling faintly of expensive leather and the subtle cedarwood cologne that Grayson always wore. Grayson Ashford-Wale steered the vehicle with one hand resting casually on the wheel, his other hand reaching across the center console to cover Olivia’s.
"You're vibrating, Liv," Grayson murmured, his deep voice carrying a ribbon of quiet amusement. He glanced over at her, his eyes softening. At thirty-seven, Grayson possessed the kind of striking, effortless magnetism that commanded a room before he even spoke a word. He was the CEO of his family’s conglomerate, a man bred for high society and corporate warfare, yet in this enclosed space, looking at the woman beside him, he was gentle.
Olivia Winters swallowed hard, staring out the window at the imposing facade of the estate. "I'm not vibrating," she lied, though her fingers were trembling beneath his warm palm. "I'm just… preparing."
"Preparing for a Sunday family dinner?" Grayson chuckled, a rich, easy sound. He squeezed her hand, his thumb stroking her knuckles. "It’s just my parents, Ryder, and the Lockharts. You’ve met them all before. There's no need to look as though you're marching toward a firing squad."
"It doesn't feel like a normal dinner, Grayson," Olivia said quietly, turning to face him. She looked breathtakingly out of place, even in her elegant, pale blue silk dress. Sweet, open-faced, and devoid of the hardened polish that the women in his circle wore like armor, she belonged to a quieter, simpler world. "Your family’s casual dinners involve a full catering staff and a string quartet. Last time, your mother’s friend asked me about my family's philanthropic foundation.
I had to explain that my father was a high school math teacher who donated fifty dollars a year to the local animal shelter. "
Grayson’s smile widened, unbothered by the memory. "And I thought it was the most refreshing answer anyone had given in that house for three generations. You don't have to be them, Olivia. I don't want you to be them."
He parked the car near the grand entryway, where a valet was already stepping forward to open the door. Before releasing her hand, Grayson leaned in, his expression shifting from amused to fiercely protective. It was an instinct he couldn’t quite control whenever he saw her shrink into herself.
"Listen to me," Grayson said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You are with me. You don't have to prove anything to anyone in there. If it gets too much, you tell me, and we leave. Understood?"
Olivia offered a small, grateful smile, some of the tension melting from her shoulders. "Understood. Thank you."
Stepping out of the car, the salty sea breeze whipped at the hem of Olivia’s dress.
Grayson was at her side in an instant, a towering presence of tailored navy linen and confidence.
He placed a steadying hand on the small of her back, guiding her up the sweeping marble steps and through the towering mahogany double doors of the manor.
The foyer was a cavernous space of vaulted ceilings and imported Italian marble, echoing with the low hum of cultured conversation and the clinking of crystal.
As they walked toward the sprawling family den, they passed the library, where the familiar sound of boisterous laughter spilled into the hallway.
"Grayson! Finally!"
Ryder Ashford-Wale, Grayson’s younger brother, appeared in the doorway, a scotch tumbler in one hand.
He shared Grayson’s hair and sharp jawline, though his energy was decidedly looser, lacking the mantle of responsibility that Grayson wore as the family patriarch-in-waiting.
Beside Ryder stood Spencer Lockhart, tall, blond, and grinning with the easy camaraderie of a man who had practically grown up in this house.
"We were beginning to think you decided to skip the torture and take the boat out instead," Spencer teased, clapping Grayson on the shoulder as they approached.
"I considered it," Grayson replied dryly, shaking Spencer's hand before turning to his brother. "Try to keep the noise down to a dull roar today, Ryder. My head is already pounding from the quarterly projections."
Ryder rolled his eyes good-naturedly before shifting his attention to Olivia. He offered her a warm, polite smile. "Olivia. You look lovely. Have you managed to survive my brother's driving?"
"I have, thank you, Ryder," Olivia said softly, returning the smile, though it didn't quite reach her eyes.
She felt the sudden, distinct shift in the air.
Both Ryder and Spencer were perfectly cordial to her—they had never been anything but nice—yet their politeness felt like a wall.
It was the polished courtesy one offered to a guest, not the effortless banter reserved for family.
"Can I get you something to drink, Olivia?" Spencer asked, gesturing toward the bar cart in the corner of the room. "We have champagne, or I think the bartender is mixing something overly complicated with gin on the patio."
"Just sparkling water, please, if it's not too much trouble," she replied gently.
"Not at all," Spencer said, already turning away.
Grayson kept his hand firmly on Olivia’s back, sensing the slight stiffness in her posture. "Let’s head out to the terrace and find my mother before she sends a search party."
They moved through the French doors and out into the late afternoon sunlight.
The terrace was breathtaking, an expanse of stone overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, bordered by blooming hydrangeas and low hedges.
A dozen people were scattered around the space, but Olivia’s eyes were immediately drawn to the far corner, where a small group was congregated.
There, standing tall and radiant in an emerald-green slip dress that caught the sunlight with every movement, was Kennedy Lockhart.
At thirty-one, Kennedy was striking in a way that made people instinctively straighten their posture when she entered a room.
She had high, aristocratic cheekbones, piercing hazel eyes, and a cascade of glossy hair that blew effortlessly in the ocean breeze.
But it wasn’t just her beauty that made her so arresting; it was her unshakable confidence.
She was currently holding a delicate champagne flute, laughing at something Grayson’s mother, Eleanor, had just said.
Beside them stood Margaret Lockhart, Kennedy’s mother.
The two older women looked at Kennedy with a mixture of immense pride and deep, familial affection.
Olivia felt her stomach plummet. She couldn't help it. There was nothing malicious about Kennedy, but the sheer force of the woman’s presence made Olivia feel like a house sparrow caught in the updraft of an eagle.
"Grayson, darling!" Eleanor called out, waving them over.
As Grayson and Olivia approached, Kennedy turned. Her gaze swept over them, resting for a fleeting second on the way Grayson’s hand protectively gripped Olivia’s waist, before rising to meet Grayson’s eyes. A familiar, bright smile spread across her lips.
"Look who finally decided to join society," Kennedy said, her voice smooth and carrying that inherent, musical cadence of the old-money elite. She stepped forward, kissing Grayson lightly on the cheek—a greeting born of thirty years of shared history. "Hello, Grayson."
"Kennedy," Grayson replied, his tone warm but platonic. He stepped back seamlessly, making sure Olivia was pulled forward into the circle. "You look well."
"I try," Kennedy said breezily, taking a sip of her champagne. She turned her bright gaze to Olivia. "Olivia. It’s lovely to see you again. I love that dress on you. It’s very… sweet."
It was a compliment. It was meant as a compliment, but to Olivia's hypersensitive ears, the word sweet sounded like a synonym for childish. Olivia forced a smile, her hands clasping together in front of her.
"Thank you, Kennedy. You look beautiful as well."
"Oh, this old thing? Spencer bought it for me in Milan and I’ve been trying to find an excuse to wear it before the season ends," Kennedy said with a dismissive wave of her hand, unbothered.
She looked out at the ocean, taking a deep breath of the salt air.
"I was just telling Eleanor that the humidity today is absolutely dreadful.
I took the sailboat out this morning and there was barely a breeze to speak of. Do you sail, Olivia?"
Olivia blinked, caught off guard. "Oh. No. I don't. We didn't really have access to the ocean where I grew up."
"What a shame," Kennedy observed, her tone conversational, eyes still on the horizon. "It’s the only way to truly clear your head in this town. You should have Grayson take you out. Though, knowing Grayson, he’d probably turn it into a race and ruin the relaxation.
" She flashed a teasing, brilliant grin at him.
Before Olivia could figure out how to respond to the banter, Grayson’s posture went rigid. He read the hesitation in Olivia's silence, interpreting her quietness as intimidation, and his protective instinct flared immediately.
"Kennedy," Grayson said, his voice dropping an octave, carrying a subtle edge of warning. "Let it go. We just walked in. She doesn't need to be interrogated about her maritime skills."
The smile slipped from Kennedy’s face, replaced by a flicker of genuine confusion. She looked from Grayson to Olivia, her brows knitting together perfectly. "Interrogated? Grayson, I was just asking if she sails."