Page 168 of Money Reigns
Her fingers tighten on mine as we walk though the doors. She looks up at the vaulted ceiling, wide-eyed, her lips parting in wonder. She probably thinks I’m watching the marble or the chandeliers. I’m not.
I’m watching her.
The house manager, Margaret, steps forward first. Gray hair, sharp eyes, the kind of woman who once barked at me to eat more vegetables when I was twenty and living on whiskey and spite.
“Mr. Beaumont,” she says, formal as always. Then her gaze softens. “And this must be Olivia.”
Olivia blinks, surprised. “Yes… hi.”
Margaret actually smiles. “Welcome, dear. Dinner’s nearly ready. We’ve all been looking forward to meeting you.”
We.
Not I.
We.
Olivia glances at me, startled, and I can already see it in her eyes—the difference. Paris had been ice and metal. This… this iswarmth.
One by one, the others greet her. My chef insists she’ll have her favorite dessert ready “next time.” The gardener offers her a tour of the rose beds. Even old Thomas, the night guard, gives her a rare nod that means more than any bow.
And Olivia?
She glows.
Her glow floods the shadows of this house like sunlight pouring into a mausoleum, chasing out ghosts I thought I’d live with forever.
The flush in her cheeks. The soft curve of her smile. The way her shoulders relax, like for the first time since Paris she isn’t bracing for judgment.
They treat her exactly as she deserves.
Better than my family ever could.
And standing there, watching the only people I trust welcome the only woman I’ll ever love—
I know I was right.
This is the next step.
This is her home now.
Ours.
She takes it all in with wide eyes, and for a moment I don’t move. I just…watch.
Her hand brushes along the polished banister, fingertips tracing the carved wood like she’s afraid it will vanish. She pauses to admire the chandelier, then laughs softly when Margaret fusses over her like she’s already part of the family.
It hits me all at once.
This house; cold, cavernous, silent for years, has never looked more alive.
Because she’s in it.
I walk her down the hall, past the portraits I’ve avoided since I was old enough to hate the faces in them. She doesn’t flinch at them. Doesn’t tense. She looks at me, not them, and suddenly those shadows don’t matter anymore.
When I unlock the gallery—the collection I’ve never let anyone linger in—she goes still. Her eyes roam the canvases, the sculptures, the chaos I’ve surrounded myself with over the years. Pieces chosen for their sharpness, their violence, their edge.
She takes her time, quiet, moving from frame to frame until finally she turns to me. Her voice is steady but soft.
