CHAPTER TWO
The powder room on the main floor of the Ashford-Wale estate was larger than the entire apartment Olivia had shared with her sister back in Ohio.
It was a space designed less for utility and more for quiet intimidation, wrapped in hand-painted silk wallpaper depicting pale herons wading through silver reeds.
The fixtures were brushed gold, the sink a seamless block of carved Carrara marble, and the air smelled faintly of gardenias and expensive linen.
Standing before the sprawling, gilt-edged mirror, Olivia Winters felt like an imposter.
She stared at her reflection, tracing the delicate line of her collarbone, visible above the neckline of her pale blue dress.
She looked nice. She looked pretty. But in a house like this, surrounded by people whose families had built the very foundations of American industry, pretty felt insufficient. It felt fragile.
Resting on the cool marble counter was her phone, currently on speaker. The voices of her mother, Linda, and her older sister, Chloe, filled the quiet, opulent room, a sharp contrast of Midwest practicality cutting through the rarefied air of the Rhode Island coastline.
"I’m just saying, Olivia, you have to be smart about this," Linda’s voice crackled slightly through the speaker, with the earnest, anxious weight of a mother who had spent her entire life checking price tags.
"Grayson isn't just a boyfriend. You know that, right? He is a billionaire. He is the CEO of a company that buys and sells cities. Men like that—they hold the keys to the world. For you to be with him… honey, you’ve won the lottery. You have to secure your ticket."
Olivia leaned her weight against the counter, her stomach tightening into a familiar, anxious knot. "Mom, I love him. I’m not with him for the money. I just want a future with him."
"We know you love him, Liv," Chloe chimed in, her tone a little sharper, a little more cynical than their mother’s. "But you’re playing in the major leagues now, and you don’t even know the rules.
These people aren’t like us. They don’t think like us.
Do you think his family is just going to welcome you with open arms?
A girl with public-school education and no trust fund? You have to protect yourself."
"His parents are actually very nice," Olivia said softly, though her voice lacked conviction. She was staring at her own eyes in the mirror, looking for the confidence she so desperately wished she possessed.
"They’re nice to your face," her mother corrected quickly.
"Wealthy people, powerful people—they are dangerous, Olivia.
They smile at you while they figure out how to use you.
They don't want someone like us in their bloodline.
You have to stay ahead of it. Keep your head down.
Project purity. Don't argue with him, don't challenge him.
Let him be the man. Men like Grayson Ashford-Wale have to carry the weight of the world; they want to come home to a woman who needs them, not a woman who fights them.
You have to make him feel like your protector. "
Olivia swallowed hard, her throat painfully dry. She didn't have to try very hard to make Grayson feel like her protector; she genuinely felt like she needed protecting every time she walked into this house.
"And what about the Lockhart girl?" Chloe asked, the disdain evident in her voice. "Is she there tonight?"
"Kennedy," Olivia provided quietly. "Yes. She’s here. Her whole family is."
"Of course she is," Chloe scoffed. "Liv, you cannot take your eyes off that one. She is a snake in the grass. She’s the one they all wanted him to marry, right? The childhood sweetheart with the matching pedigree. She’s not going to just let you walk in and take the crown. She’s going to try to humiliate you.
She’s going to try to make you look like you don't belong. "
"She hasn't really done anything to me," Olivia murmured, though the defense was weak. Kennedy hadn't done anything, but Kennedy’s mere existence felt like a threat.
"She doesn't have to do anything yet," Linda warned, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial register. "It’s how these women operate. It’s a soap opera, Olivia, and you’re the target. You cannot let her get close to him. If someone threatens your peace, you cut them out. You need to make sure Grayson knows she makes you uncomfortable. Frame it around your feelings. Tell him she makes you feel unsafe. A man like him will cut off his right arm if he thinks it’s threatening the woman he loves.
You have to make him choose you. Make sure you are the only one he has eyes for. "
Olivia closed her eyes, letting the barrage of advice wash over her.
Her family meant well. She knew they did.
They were terrified for her, viewing Grayson’s world as a lion’s den where their sweet, gentle girl was bound to be devoured.
They had never met the Ashford-Wales. They had never sat across from Eleanor Ashford-Wale and seen the genuine, uncalculated warmth in the older woman’s eyes.
Their entire understanding of billionaires and high society came from tabloid scandals, movies, and a deeply ingrained, small-town survival instinct that dictated one simple rule: powerful people were inherently cruel, and wealth bred malice.
But because Olivia had no lived experience to counter their claims, she absorbed their fear like a sponge.
Every warning they issued cemented itself in her mind, calcifying into a rigid doctrine of self-protection.
She didn't trust Grayson’s world because her family had taught her it was untrustworthy.
She was primed for an attack that had yet to come.
"I have to go," Olivia said, forcing her voice to remain steady. "Dinner is starting soon."
"Stay smart, Livie," her mother said softly. "Protect yourself."
"I will. Bye."
Olivia tapped the screen, cutting the connection. The sudden silence of the powder room felt deafening. She took a deep, shuddering breath, smoothed down the skirt of her dress, and unlocked the mahogany door.
The hallway outside was a testament to generations of wealth.
Antique sconces cast a warm, golden glow over the polished hardwood floors.
Portrait oil paintings of stern-looking ancestors and breathtaking landscapes lined the walls, interspersed with vases of fresh-cut lilies that perfumed the air.
Walking through the house always made Olivia feel impossibly small, a trespasser in a museum where she wasn't permitted to touch the exhibits.
"There you are."
Olivia startled, her hand flying to her chest. Grayson emerged from the adjacent library, holding two crystal glasses of sparkling water with a twist of lime.
The evening light caught the sharp, aristocratic lines of his jaw and the deep, midnight-blue of his suit.
He was so handsome it sometimes made her chest physically ache.
"Sorry," Grayson murmured, his features softening instantly as he noticed her jump.
He stepped into her space, his towering frame casting a protective shadow over her.
He handed her one of the glasses and raised his free hand to gently tuck a stray blonde curl behind her ear.
"I didn't mean to startle you. You were gone a while. Are you feeling alright?"
Her mother’s advice echoed loudly in her mind: Let him be the man. Make him feel like your protector.
It wasn't a difficult role to play because the anxiety humming in her veins was real. "I’m okay," she lied softly, looking up through her lashes. "Just… catching my breath. This house is so big, Grayson. Sometimes I feel like I'm going to get swallowed up in it."
An instinctive tenderness flared in Grayson’s eyes.
He set his glass down on a nearby console table and wrapped both of his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against his chest. It was exactly what her family had told her to do—make him feel needed rather than challenged—and the result was instantaneous.
Grayson held her as though she were made of spun glass.
"I've got you," he said, his voice a low, reassuring rumble against her ear. "No one is going to swallow you up. You are safe here, Olivia. I promise you."
She rested her cheek against his lapel, breathing in the scent of cedar and expensive linen. "I know. As long as I'm with you."
Grayson kissed the top of her head, captivated by her sweetness, her utter lack of guile. In a world full of sharp edges and calculating minds, Olivia was a soft landing. "Come on," he said gently, guiding her back toward the terrace doors. "Dinner is being served. Stay right beside me."
The dining room of the Ashford-Wale estate was nothing short of a masterpiece.
A mahogany table, polished to a mirror shine, dominated the center of the room, set for twelve.
Heavy silver cutlery gleamed under the light of an antique crystal chandelier, and at the center of the table ran a stunning arrangement of white hydrangeas, eucalyptus, and pale pink roses.
The towering French doors were open to the terrace, allowing the rhythmic sound of the crashing ocean to score the room.
As Grayson pulled out a velvet-upholstered chair for Olivia, the rest of the family began to filter in.
Grayson’s parents, Arthur and Eleanor, took their places at the heads of the table.
They were an imposing couple by sheer virtue of their history, yet their demeanor was surprisingly relaxed.
Arthur, a man with silvering hair and a booming laugh, was already deep in conversation with Spencer Lockhart about a recent golf tournament.
Eleanor, elegant in a simple cashmere wrap, smiled warmly at Olivia as she sat down.
"Olivia, dear, I hope you have an appetite," Eleanor said, her tone carrying none of the condescension Olivia’s mother had warned her to expect. "Our chef has prepared a roasted lamb that is supposed to be spectacular."