Chapter Three.

Chapter Three

Olivia’s POV

Fabian as a kid would always draw me hearts.

Not the kind you'd hang on Valentine's Day cards or scribble next to a name in a diary. No. These were crooked, childlike things. Jagged around the edges, ink too dark in some places and too faint in others. The kind only a kid with undersized hands.

And I had kept none of them.

Or at least, I thought I hadn't.

Until today.

It was my fourth hour into day five of pretending not to notice Fabian Stone watching me like I was his next acquisition, his next business deal.

Not a person. Not a woman. A memory in motion.

And I was failing, miserably.

The framed heart sat on the edge of his glass desk, leaned just slightly, as though it belonged but still dared anyone to question it. My eyes skimmed it during a meeting he dragged me into about the Westview merger, another useless display of his power and calculated brilliance, that made me want to doubt myself again.

The sketch was small. Tucked beside a marble pen holder and a platinum business card case. But it was unmistakable.

The lopsided heart. My old handwriting in the corner, “Thanks for being quiet past bedtime, Sweetheart.”

I blinked once, then twice, praying for the ground to open up and swallow me.

The floor didn’t open and swallow me.

So, I swallowed my own saliva instead.

“You kept this?” I said, not meaning to. It just slipped out, almost like a whisper.

He didn’t even look at the heart. He looked at me.

His stare was a dark thing. That made me feel exposed. Unreadable. A slow drawl that pulled everything out of me without touching a single nerve.

“I kept you,” he said, voice low, hot and sexy.

My heart did a mini flip and I thought I felt it at the back of my throat.

So, ladies and gentlemen, Let me take you back, to the beginning. To that one summer when I was nineteen and desperate to escape my mother’s house. To that cramped townhouse on Oakridge Lane where I first met thirteen years old Fabian Stone. His name that fit better than it had any right to.

I was hired by his parents to babysit while they pretended not to hate each other in therapy. A summer job. A temporary escape. I spent hours reading dog eared paperbacks on their leather sofa while Fabian sat across from me, drawing in silence. He wasn’t loud like most boys. He was still. Reserved. Always quiet.

And he liked cookies.

So I snuck them to him.

“Don’t tell your mom,” I had whispered. 

He had grinned, all crooked teeth and too much heart.

One night, he left me a drawing on the counter. A lopsided heart, just like the one framed on his desk now.

“Do you think I’ll ever be good?” he had asked me back then, wide-eyed.

“Fabian, you’re already good,” I had said, patting his too long hair.

He blushed.

Now, years later, that same boy was a man who owned floors of glass and steel and a piece of me I wasn’t ready to name.

I left the meeting with trembling fingers and more questions than answers.

In the elevator, I texted Blair, my best friend.

Me: I think my boss is trying to unravel my soul with his eyes.

Blair: That’s hot.

Me: Not hot. Disturbing. He’s the kid I babysat, when I was nineteen.

Blair: Is he still a kid?

Me: No. He’s six foot three and smells like Bergamot sin and inherited trauma.

Blair: So he’s hot.

Ugh.

I shoved the phone in my coat pocket and tried not to scream into my coffee.

That afternoon, Fabian passed behind my chair, leaning too close.

My screen froze. My breath did too.

“Need help with the numbers, Liv?” he whispered, just barely grazing my ear with his words.

That nickname again.

My name. Not Olivia. Not Miss Wilde.

“Liv.”

I stared at the spreadsheet like it held the secrets of the world. “I’m good.”

“You always said that. Even when you weren’t.”

I turned slowly. “You were a child, Fabian. You don’t remember what I said.”

He smiled. “I remember everything.”

Then,

His eyes dropped to my mouth. And for one terrifying, beautiful second, I thought he’d kiss me. Right there. In the open plan office filled with overpriced art and weirdly organized workers.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he stepped back. Like a predator with patience.

And I couldn’t breathe.

That night, I called Blair again.

“You need to calm down,” she said between bites of her pizza. “Maybe he’s just being nostalgic.”

“He framed a heart I gave him fifteen years ago.”

Nostalgic she says.

“Okay, that’s not nostalgic. That’s... a little unhinged. But still, it’s not like he’s licking your coffee cup or—”

“He stared at my lips, Blair.”

“Oh.”

Silence.

Then she sighed. “Do not fall for him. You’re vulnerable. He’s clearly working through something.”

“You think?”

“I know. This isn’t love, Livvy. This is a trauma tango.”

Of course, trauma tango wrapped in delusion and heartbreak.

I dropped my head on the pillow and groaned.

But part of me, the broken, hungry part, wanted to dance anyway.

The next morning, I arrived early. Earlier than usual.

And of course, he was already there.

He stood by the window, coffee in hand, staring out at the skyline like he owned it. 

“You’re early,” he said without turning.

“So are you.”

“I never sleep much.”

“Nightmares?” my palm flew to my lips, regretting asking the moment the word left my mouth.

His jaw ticked. “Memories.”

I hovered by the door, unsure whether to step in or stay out. Then, against all better judgment, I stepped in.

“You remember a lot, don’t you?” I said.

He nodded. “Every second. Every look. Every cookie.”

I smiled, despite myself.

“Why did you keep the heart?” I asked.

“Because you were the only person who ever saw me.”

My throat tightened. “I was just being nice.”

“No,” he said. “You were being you. And it mattered.”

The silence stretched.

Then he turned. Closed the space between us in three slow, deliberate steps.

His hand hovered beside mine. His breath fanning my cheek.

And my heart, traitorous, desperate thing, thundered like war drums.

But he didn’t kiss me.

He just looked.

Like I was a memory he couldn’t let go.

And maybe I didn’t want him to.

Oh God!

I walked faster than necessary toward the copy room, heart banging, throat dry. The door creaked when I pulled it open, and the soft hum of the machine greeted me with a weird sort of comfort. I needed normal. Boring. Paper jams and toner.

Not him.

Not memories pressed into my skin like fresh bruises.

I leaned against the counter, fingers trembling as I fed a document into the copier. The smell of paper and ink filled the space. Neutral things. Safe things.

But not safe enough.

The door opened behind me.

I didn’t turn. I knew that scent.

Musk wood. Clean cotton. The faintest trace of cedar and something darker. Expensive. Masculine. Entirely him.

Fabian.

His steps were slow, deliberate. Predatory.

"You’re avoiding me again," he said softly, his voice right behind me, heat crawling up my spine.

My lips parted. “I’m doing my job.”

He moved to stand beside me, his frame towering me but not crowding, yet the air shifted. Denser. Tighter.

“You always baked oatmeal cookies. You said they were healthier.”

I blinked.

“Fabian…” I whispered.

He pointed toward the paper in my hand, then traced his finger over the side of the copier.

“You used to sneak me extras when my mother wasn't looking.”

I swallowed, hard. “You remember that?”

His eyes cut to me, green, unreadable, sharp as broken glass.

“I remember everything about you.”

The paper finished printing. I snatched it with more force than necessary.

“You don’t have to do this,” I said, clutching the document like it could shield me. 

“Play these games.” I continued.

His smirked. It wasn’t cruel. It was… sad. As if I had disappointed him.

“I’m not playing.”

I turned. Too fast. My chest nearly collided with his. His hand caught my elbow, steadying me.

My breath hitched.

His lips were close. So close I could see the faint scar on the left side of his mouth, like he had once bitten down too hard.

“I kept you,” he whispered again, like it meant something deeper, something dangerous.

My heart did summersalts.

His eyes dropped to my lips.

No. Not again.

I stepped back.

Not yet. Not this. Not when my world was still made of glass.

“I should go,” I whispered.

He didn’t stop me. Just stared like he was letting me win a battle we both knew I’d eventually lose.

That night, I sat curled on my couch, knees to chest, phone pressed to my ear.

“I think I’m losing my mind,” I whispered.

“Because of your boss?” Blair’s voice was warm, annoyed. “The rich one who keeps staring at your lips?” I winced. “He’s not just rich. He’s…”

“Hot? Obsessive? Into you?”

“Blair!  ”

“Livvy, I love you. But you can’t be surprised he kept that weird lopsided heart you drew him when you were a teenager. That man sounds like he’s been waiting for the world to drop you back into his orbit.”

I groaned. “It’s not that simple. I’m me. And he’s… him.”

“He’s a man with taste. And clearly unresolved issues.”

“He looks at me like he’s starving.”

“Good.”

“No, not good. Terrifying.”

She sighed. “Then don’t give him a bite.”

Silence.

I rubbed my chest. “It’s not that easy.”

“I know,” she said softly. “But remember, Livvy, you’ve survived worse. Don’t let a man with bedroom eyes and childhood memories knock you off your balance.”

I tried to smile. But I Failed. Woefully.

Because balance was already gone.

Fabian Stone had upended gravity, and I was barely learning how to stand again.

The next morning, I went to work early, hoping to beat him to the office. The framed heart still sat on his desk, untouched. The paper had yellowed at the edges, the lines of the crayon fading, but the affection in the strokes, childish, genuine, was painfully real.

I ran my finger over the glass before I could stop myself.

“He’s sentimental,” a voice said behind me.

I jumped.

It was Marla, his executive director. Forty-five, sharp as an owl, always wearing black.

“He never lets anyone touch that thing,” she added, arching a brow.

I stepped away from the desk like it burned.

“I wasn’t—”

“It’s none of my business,” she said, her mouth curving just slightly. “But he’s different when you’re around. Focused. Quieter.”

She walked off before I could respond.

Fabian walked in fifteen minutes later, coffee in hand, eyes on me the moment he stepped in.

I dropped mine.

Paperwork.

Pens.

Not the coffee.

He crouched to help pick it up. Our hands brushed. Heat burned up my wrist.

“You didn’t call me Liv yesterday,” I blurted.

Olivia! No, why stupid mouth?

His gaze sharpened. “Did you miss it?”

I shook my head.

He smiled.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

And I was.

Especially with him.

Especially now.

Because somewhere between those old oatmeal cookies and his new cold smiles, I had no idea who I was anymore.

But I was starting to remember who I used to be.

And worse—

I was starting to think he remembered too.