Chapter Eight.

Chapter Eight 

Olivia’s POV

The bar’s a total shithole, all sticky floors and neon signs flickering like they’re begging to die. I’m three tequilas deep, maybe four, I lost count after the second one burned my throat—and the world’s got this fuzzy, glittery edge, like someone smeared Vaseline on my eyeballs.

The thing about tequila is it doesn’t ask questions. It doesn’t care that your heart won’t stop tripping over itself every time you replay the words You’re mine. Tequila doesn’t judge. 

It doesn’t care about how you spent last night pressed against an elevator wall with your boss breathing fire into your skin.

My girls—Blair, Sam, and Tara, are screaming over the music, some cheesy pop song about love and heartbreak blasting so loud it rattles my bones. 

I’m laughing, doubled over, my sides aching, but it’s not just the tequila. It’s the freedom, the chaos, the feeling of being me for once, not the screwed up personal assistant to Fabian freaking Stone. 

Except, of course, my brain is a traitor, and his face, those sharp green eyes, that stupidly perfect jaw—keeps crashing into my thoughts like a wrecking ball.

“Livvy, you’re zoning out!” Blair yelled, shoving another shot in my hand. Her hair swinging as she danced, her grin all trouble and glitter. 

“Drink up, babe. You’re way too sober for this vibe.”

“Sober? Me?” I snorted, sloshing tequila over my fingers. The glass is sticky, and I’m pretty sure I’ve got lime juice on my dress, but whatever. 

“I’m a walking disaster, Blair. This is peak chaos.” I threw the shot back, and it burned like hell, warming the knot in my chest that’s been there since I walked into Fabian’s office last week, asking, more like begging for a job. 

His eyes, all intense and knowing, like he saw right through my patched together résumé and straight into my soul.

God, I need to stop thinking about him.

Tara leans over, her glittery eyeshadow catching the neon light. “You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?” she said, all smug, like she cracked some secret code. 

“Mr. Billionaire Hottie. Fabian, right?” I groaned, slamming my empty shot glass on the bar so hard it wobbles. 

What is with these girls tonight?

“Can you not? I’m trying to have a night, okay? No work talk. No Fabian talk.” I said, but my face is hot, and I know they see it, because Sam’s cackling like a hyena, her red curls bouncing like they’re in on the joke.

“Oh, come on, Liv,” Sam says, poking my arm. “You’re blushing so hard you’re practically a tomato. Spill. What’s he like? The tabloids say he’s, like, intense as fuck.”

“Intense is an understatement,” I muttered, because what else can I say? 

That Fabian’s got this way of looking at me that makes my knees buckle? 

That he kept one of my old drawings, framed like it’s some priceless artifact, from when he was a kid and I was his babysitter?

That I’m terrified of how much I want to lean into him, even when he’s all commanding and scary hot, like he could own me with a single word? Nope, not going there. 

“He’s just... my boss,” I say, but my voice cracks, and they all laugh harder.

“Boss, my ass,” Blair says, her eyes glinting like she’s plotting something. 

“You’re into him. Sexy intense or creepy intense? Give us the tea.”

“Both,” I blurted out, then placed a hand over my mouth, because tequila’s a goddamn traitor. 

They’re howling now, and I’m laughing too, but it’s shaky, because I couldn't stop thinking about how my body had betrayed me the second he touched me. The ache in my chest hadn’t faded since the elevator.

It was like he’d branded me with his silence.

His hand on my waist.

His thumb brushing my lip.

His mouth close enough to undo me in a single breath.

I slid the tray back to our table, nearly knocking over the salt shaker. Clara grinned and raised her glass. “To surviving rich people galas without throwing a punch!”

“Yes” I screamed, because I know I’m a mess—lost jobs, wrecked relationships, a car that’s more duct tape than metal. And he’s... him. All polished suits, billion dollar empire, and those eyes that see right through my bullshit.

“Girl, you’re so screwed,” Tara says, sipping her vodka soda, her lips all glossy and smirking. “You’re working for a guy who’s basically in love with you. That’s straight up romance novel shit.”

“He’s not in love with me,” I snap, but my heart was doing this stupid fluttery thing, and I hated it. 

“He’s just... I don’t know. Fabian. He was a kid, okay? I babysat him. He used to draw me hearts with crayons and beg for extra cookies. Now he’s all...” I wave my hand, trying to sum up his whole deal—the suits, the jawline, the way he fills a room like he owns the air itself. “It’s weird.”

“Weirdly-hot,” Sam corrected, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “Admit it, Livvy. You’re into him.”

I rolled my eyes, grabbing another shot from the tray. 

“I’m not into him. I’m into not being broke. There’s a difference.” But that’s a lie, and they know it. I’m not just here for the paycheck. 

I’m here because Fabian makes me feel... seen. Like I’m not just the girl who spills coffee and forgets deadlines. Like I’m the girl he drew lopsided hearts for, not the screw up who left him crying when I moved away at 19 to “find myself.” 

God, I’m such a disaster.

“Whatever you say,” Blair singsongs, dragging me to the dance floor. 

The music’s pounding, all bass and heartbreak, and I let it pull me under, swaying with my girls, laughing, spilling my drink on my shoes. 

For a second, I let myself think I'm free—free from Fabian’s gaze, from the guilt of breaking that pinky promise, from the fear that I’m too broken for his perfect world. 

But then my phone buzzed in my purse, and I knew it was him. 

Don’t ask me how. I just know.

I fumble for it, nearly dropping it in a puddle of beer, and there’s his name on the screen, Fabian freaking Stone, just like how I had saved it. 

My heart stumbles, and I’m blaming the tequila, but it’s not just that. It’s him. Always him. I opened the text, and it’s short, too short, 

“Where are you?” I snorted, because who does he think he is? My dad? My boyfriend? But my fingers are already typing, because apparently, drunk Olivia is a reckless idiot. 

“Out. Having fun. Unlike you, Mr. Boring Billionaire.” I hit send, then immediately regret it, because what the hell am I doing? 

Flirting with my boss? The kid I used to babysit? I need another shot, asap.

“Livvy, who are you texting?” Tara peers over my shoulder, and I yankee the phone away, but not before she sees it. 

“Oh my God, you’re texting him? What did you say?”

“Nothing,” I lied, shoving the phone back in my purse. “Just... work stuff.” Total bullshit, and they know it, because Blair’s grinning like she just won the lottery, and Sam’s literally bouncing.

“Work stuff, my ass,” Sam said, stealing a sip of my drink. “You’re texting your hot billionaire boss about his face, aren’t you?”

“Shut up,” I muttered, but my face is on fire, and I’m trying not to check my phone, because I know he’s gonna reply, and I’m not ready for it. 

Probably something intense, like, “Come to my office now,” or, “I’m watching you, Liv.” Okay, maybe not that creepy, but close. 

He’s got this way of making everything sound like a command, like he’s already decided I’m his, and it’s equal parts terrifying and... hot. 

God, I hate myself.

“Let’s dance!” I yelled, dragging Blair and Sam back to the floor, because if I keep moving, I won’t think about him. 

The music’s louder now, some sultry beat that makes my hips sway, and I’m laughing, spinning, losing myself in the chaos. 

Tara’s flirting with some guy at the bar, Sam’s belting out lyrics like she’s auditioning for a musical, and Blair’s doing this ridiculous twerk that has me doubled over, tequila sloshing in my hand. 

This is my life—messy, loud, and mine. Not Fabian’s polished Office or his intense green eyes or his stupidly hot face that I can’t stop picturing.

But my phone buzzes again, and I can’t ignore it this time. 

I pulled it out, swaying a little, and there’s another text, “You’re not answering. Tell me where you are, Liv.” My stomach flipped, and I’m typing before I could stop myself, because drunk Olivia is a goddamn fool. 

“Dive bar. Somewhere you’d hate. Why do you care?” I’m baiting him, and I know it, but the tequila’s got me feeling bold, like I can take on the world—or at least Fabian Stone.

His reply came fast, and it’s like a punch to the gut, “I care. Stay there.” 

Oh, hell no. 

He’s not coming here, is he? My heart’s pounding, and I shove the phone away, grabbing another shot from the bar. “To chaos!” I yelled, and my girls cheered, clinking glasses, but my head is spinning, and it’s not just the alcohol. 

It’s him. Always him.

Flashback, 13 Years Ago.

I was 19, sprawled on the Stones’ lumpy couch, a pizza box open on the coffee table, grease stains on my jeans. Fabian was thirteen, acting less of a teenager, all messy brown hair and big green eyes, bouncing around the living room like he was powered by sugar. 

The TV was showing some cartoon about superheroes, but I was barely watching, my nose in a beat up romance novel. He ran over, holding a crumpled piece of paper, his latest masterpiece. 

“Liv! Liv! Look!” he said, shoving it at me, a stick figure girl with wild brown hair and a guy in a cape, holding hands. 

“That’s you and me. We’re gonna get married someday.” I laughed, ruffling his hair, because he’s so damn cute it hurts. 

“Sure, kiddo. You gotta grow up first, though. And stop stealing my pizza.” I yanked the slice from his sneaky little hands, and he giggled, diving into the couch next to me, his warmth pressing against my side. 

My life was a mess—flunking community college, fighting with Mom, my car coughing like it’s got pneumonia—but Fabian looked at me like I was a superhero, too.

“You’re my favorite,” he said, all serious, those green eyes locking on mine like I was the only thing that mattered. “Promise you’ll always be around?” my heart did this twisty thing, because no one has ever looked at me like that. 

Not Mom, not my ex, not anyone. 

I stuck out my pinky, because it was easier than saying no. “Promise,” I said, and he hooks his tiny one around mine, grinning like he had just won the lottery. 

But promises like that are fragile, aren’t they? A year later, I was gone, chasing some dumb dream of “finding myself” across the country, leaving him behind with his crayon hearts and his tears. 

I didn’t know then how much it had haunted me.

***

The bar was getting louder, and I’m definitely drunker, if that's possible. 

My phone was buzzing like a pissed off hornet, but I’m ignoring it, dancing with Blair, my arms in the air, my dress riding up my thighs. 

Some guy was eyeing me from across the room, all tattoos and cocky grin, and I’m feeling reckless, so I winked at him, just to see what happens. 

He starts heading over, and I’m laughing, because this is me—Olivia Wilde, queen of bad decisions, flirting with trouble in a dive bar. But then the air shifts, like someone flipped a switch, and the music felt distant, even though it was still pounding.

I turned, and there he was. Fabian freaking Stone, standing in the doorway of this grimy ass bar, looking like he stepped out of a goddamn cologne ad. 

His suit’s dark, tailored to every inch of his stupidly perfect body, but his jaw’s tight, and those green eyes are locked on me like a predators. 

My heart stumbles, and I’m frozen, the tequila not enough to dull the way he makes me feel—seen, wanted, claimed.

The guy heading my way takes one look at Fabian and backs off, because yeah, Fabian’s got that vibe, like he owns the room and everyone in it. Including me.

“Livvy!” Sam hisses, grabbing my arm, her red curls bouncing. “Is that him? Holy shit, he’s hotter than the tabloids said.”

“Shut up,” I muttered, but my face is burning, and I’m trying not to trip over my own feet as Fabian cuts through the crowd like a knife. 

The bar was packed, but people part for him, because of course they do. He’s a billionaire, a king, and I’m just... me, with tequila on my dress and a heart that won’t stop racing.

“Olivia,” he says, and my name in his voice is like a shot of something stronger than tequila, low, rough, with an edge that makes my skin tingle. 

Not Liv, but Olivia.  

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Having fun,” I replied, lifting my chin, trying to sound defiant, but my voice cracks, and I’m pretty sure I’m slurring. 

“You should try it sometime, Mr. Billionaire.” I tried to be sassy, but it came out shaky, because he was so close, and his smell, something expensive and spicy—was messing with my head.

“You’re drunk,” he said, not a question, and I hated how he can read me like that, like he has always known me better than I know myself. 

His eyes flickered over me, taking in my messy hair, my stained dress, and I felt exposed, like he could see every crack in my armor.

“So what?” I snapped, swaying a little, my hand gripping the bar for balance. “I’m allowed to have a life, Fabian. I’m not your employee 24/7.” My words are bold, but my heart was pounding, because he stepping closer, and the air between us is electric, like a storm about to break.

“You’re not just my employee,” he says, his voice low, almost a growl, and my breath catches, because holy hell. “You’re mine.” His words hit me like a punch, and I’m reeling, blaming the tequila, but it’s not just that. 

It’s him, standing there like he would burn the world down for me, his eyes dark and unyielding.

“You can’t just say shit like that,” I mumbled, but my voice is weak, and I’m not moving away, am I? 

My girls are watching, wide eyed, and Blair’s whispering something to Tara, but I could not hear it over the pounding in my chest. 

 

“I’m with my friends,” I said, trying to hold my ground, but it’s like arguing with a hurricane.

“They’ll survive,” he said, a hint of smirk on his lips, but his eyes don’t soften. 

“You’re not staying here like this.” His hand brushes my arm, steadying me as I swayed, and it’s like a spark, lighting up every nerve in my body. 

I’m trembling, and I hate it, because I’m supposed to be in control, but I’m not. Not with him.

“Bossy much?” I muttered, but I was already grabbing my purse, because apparently, I’m a sucker for his voice. 

My girls are giggling, and Sam’s yelling, “Go get it, Livvy!” as Fabian steered me toward the door, his hand on the small of my back, firm and possessive. 

It was not a request—it was a claim, and I was too drunk, too caught up in him, to fight it.

Outside, the cool air hit me, slicing through the tequila haze, and I’m shivering in my thin dress. Fabian’s close, his warmth cutting through the chill, and I’m hyper aware of his hand, still on my back, guiding me to his car—a sleek black thing that screams money. He opened the door, and I flopped into the passenger seat, my head spinning, my dress riding up my thighs. He slides in beside me, not the driver’s seat, because of course he’s got a driver. 

Billionaires, right?

“You didn’t have to come,” I said, staring out the window, because looking at him is too much. 

His profile’s sharp in the streetlights, all angles and intensity, and I’m trying not to notice how good he looks. “I was fine.”

“You weren’t,” he said, his voice quieter now, but still heavy, like he was holding back something big. “You texted me, Liv. You wanted me here.”

I snorted, crossing my arms, but my face was burning, because yeah, I did text him.

Stupid, drunk me, going on about his “stupidly hot face.” 

God, I’m an idiot. 

“I was joking,” I lied, my voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to play hero.”

“I’m not,” he said, and his hand lands on my thigh, just below my knee, warm and steady. 

My breath hitches, and I froze, because holy hell, that touch is like lightning, shooting straight to my core. His fingers didn’t move, but they don’t have to, every inch of my skin is alive, buzzing, and I’m trying not to squirm. 

“I’m here because I can’t stay away from you.” he added.

I swallowed hard, trying to laugh it off, but my voice is gone, and all I can feel is his hand, firm but gentle, like he’s claiming me without saying a word. 

The car kept moving, the city lights blurring outside, but inside, it’s just us, the air thick with tension. 

I risked a glance at him, and his eyes are on me, dark and unreadable, but there’s something raw there, something that makes my heart ache. Like he’s been waiting for me his whole life, and I’m just now catching up.

“Fabian,” I whispered, because I didn't know what else to say, and I’m scared—not of him, but of how much I want this, how much I want him.

The kid I babysat, the one who drew me hearts, is gone, replaced by this man who looks at me like I’m his entire world, and I’m terrified I’ll ruin it, like I ruin everything. 

My past is a graveyard of screw ups—jobs I lost, boyfriends I pushed away, promises I broke. Like the one I made to him, all those years ago, when I pinky swore I would always be there.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice low, almost a growl, and his hand tightens on my thigh, just enough to make me gasp. 

“Don’t push me away, Liv. Not tonight.” His fingers shift, barely, but it’s enough to send a jolt through me, and I’m trembling, caught between running and diving headfirst into whatever this is. 

My dress is bunched up, and I’m hyper aware of his touch, of the heat radiating from him, of the way my body was betraying me, leaning toward him like he’s a magnet.

The car pulls up to my shitty apartment building, all peeling paint and flickering streetlights, and I’m half expecting him to follow me inside, to keep this going, whatever this is. But he doesn’t. He just looks at me, his hand still on my thigh, and says, “You make me crazy, Liv.”

His other hand travelling to my jaw.

I stilled.

He tilted my chin up.

My heart skipped a beat, then another.

“Not because you’re messy. Not because you text me drunk or wear borrowed dresses to galas. But because I feel you. In my skin. In my bones.”

His thumb traced the line of my cheek.

“And I don’t know how to stop.”

Then he turned to me fully.

I should’ve said something. Anything.

Instead, I let silence fall.

He exhaled, like he was holding himself together by the thinnest thread.

“I’m not going to kiss you,” he said, almost to himself.

I blinked. “Okay.”

His eyes dropped to my lips. “Because if I do, I won’t stop.”

The car felt too small. Too loud. Too intimate.

And still, his hand didn’t leave my skin.

I nodded, but didn’t move.

His forehead touched mine.

“I’d burn this world down for you,” he whispered.

Then, slowly, he let go.

“Get some sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.” His voice calm, but his eyes are anything but—dark, hungry, promising things I’m not sure I’m ready for.

I stumble out of the car, my legs shaking, my head spinning, and he watches me until I’m inside, his gaze like a weight on my back.

I fumbled with my keys, my heart pounding, and when I finally got inside, I collapsed against the door, my breath ragged.

I’m drunk, yeah, but not just on tequila.

I’m drunk on him, on his voice, his touch, his stupidly intense eyes. And that’s the most dangerous thing of all, because I’m Olivia Wilde, queen of chaos, and Fabian Stone might just be the one thing I can’t ruin, or maybe he’ll ruin me first.