Page 171 of Money Reigns
Marta, the chef has laid the table like a postcard, linen that begs for elbows, silver that catches candlelight instead of scolding it. The seat beside mine holds a sprig of rosemary tucked under the napkin ring.
And to my surprise the staff sits with us.
Like a family.
Like this ishisfamily.
The conversation is easy. Thomas tells a story about a fox who keeps stealing gloves from the gardener’s shed and War pretends to be scandalized, which makes Ana, the gardener laugh hard enough to wipe her eyes. Someone mentions the firstfrost coming early this year, which segues into preserves, which segues into the time the generator failed and the entire house ate ice cream for dinner rather than let it melt. It’s ridiculous and real and I’m so full of it I could cry.
After dinner, War brings me on to the terrace, the air is colder. I tuck myself into War’s side and he tucks me tighter, like he’s been rehearsing the motion in his sleep for years. The hedges breathe. The stars blink. Somewhere inside, music plays, the soft, old kind that knows how to live in a house without disturbing it.
He kisses my hair and doesn’t speak. He just walks me through the dark by staying close.
The silence is perfect, intimate, freeing.
“Olivia,” he murmurs, fingers brushing my waist. “One day soon, I’m going to marry you.”
My breath stumbles, sharp and uneven, like his words knocked the air out of me.Marry me?It sounds absurd, impossible, something girls like me don’t dream about. Survival, yes. Scraping by, yes. But this? To a man like him?
I look up, ready to laugh it off, to shield myself with disbelief.
But his gaze doesn’t waver. It’s steady. Fierce. Certain.
And suddenly the ridiculous weight of it shifts, sinking into my chest until it feels less like a fantasy and more like a promise. Terrifying. Beautiful. A vow already carved in stone.
***
Weeks blur, fast and golden.
The kind of golden that tastes like honey and sex and warm coffee War never lets me finish.
I’m curled up on the couch, laptop balanced on my thighs, catching up on the mountain of emails he’s neglected.
The morning is still on my skin. My thighs ache from the way he wouldn’t let me up, from the hours he kept me caged under him, moving inside me like the world could burn and he’d still be buried there.
He’d ignored it all.
His meeting. His calendar. An investor call he should’ve taken.
Now he’s at the dining table, shirt sleeves rolled, the very picture of control—as if he didn’t spend half the morning fucking me senseless on that same table, ignoring the phone that lit up again and again.
He only came up for air when I started shaking. And even then, it wasn’t to stop.
Now I’m the one answering his neglected emails, my inbox window bright with tasks that should’ve been his. He can talk strategy with associates later. For now, I send polite words in his name, cleaning up his mess.
I snort quietly to myself and refocus on the inbox.
No distractions. My fingers fly over the keys, one email, then another, while the clatter of his keyboard behind me fades to background noise.
I’m dressed today. On purpose. Jeans. No skirts, no dresses, nothing soft for him to slide a hand under and distract himself with. Not after the way this morning went. I smirk at the thought, at the ridiculous lengths I have to go just to keep him contained.
I type fast, clearing out everything flagged as urgent. Drafting responses. Cleaning up the wreckage he leaves when he’s too obsessed with touching me to remember his own business empire.
The last email flies out with a soft chime just as a shadow cuts across the screen.
I jolt, glancing up.
He’s standing over me.
