Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Natalie
Two months into being "Vegas's Mystery Nightingale," I'd learned one thing for sure—being a masked singer beat the hell out of playing Mrs. Winston.
"Look, Emma, we had a deal." I tucked the phone between my shoulder and ear, crossing another item off my shopping list. "The only reason I signed with Harbor Records was that this mask never comes off.
I gave up higher percentages, took harsher terms, all for absolute privacy behind this thing. Showing my face? Not happening."
On the other end, Emma kept pushing. "Baby, I know, but the label wants to capitalize on this heat.
God, we're talking unimaginable money here, sweetie.
Do you have any idea how many people are trying to guess who you are?
Everything from bankrupt socialites to runaway princesses!
This is free traffic gold! Just a little peek, a tiny bit of profile, or maybe—"
"No." I cut her off. "Emma, it's the mask, or I walk. Contract says so. And last month's single got you the highest bonus at the company. You even got promoted because of it. Seems like you could throw me a bone with the higher-ups, considering."
Emma sighed on the other end. "Sweetheart, I'm just passing along the company's wishful thinking. You're my cash cow—of course I'm on your side. Mask it is, then. Mystery sells, too. But I need the demo for the next single this week. Heat doesn't wait."
"You'll have it by Friday." I hung up and tossed my phone onto the couch, which was buried under sheet music and snack wrappers.
My Vegas apartment wasn't big, but it had good light. One corner of the living room was my mini workstation—keyboard, guitar, sticky notes covered in scribbled lyrics, colored pencils scattered everywhere. The other corner held freshly opened delivery boxes, all baby stuff.
I walked over and picked up a light blue onesie printed with little dinosaurs. Couldn't help but smile.
Who would've thought? Two months ago, I'd dragged a suitcase out of LA with nothing but a one-way ticket.
Now I was Harbor Records' hottest masked artist, "Nightingale," with three songs in the top fifty on streaming platforms—one even cracked the top ten.
More importantly, my account had enough in it to get me through this pregnancy without panic.
My phone buzzed—bank notification. Last month's royalty payment, final installment. I stared at those numbers, feeling steadier. Good. Enough for the next few months of rent, prenatal checkups, plus a little more for my tiny "baby fund."
Humming an off-key melody, I returned to my workstation to work on lyrics for Emma's precious new single. Inspiration came and went. My trick for catching it was sketching. I grabbed a charcoal pencil and started making random marks on a blank sketchpad.
At first, just messy lines, then gradually forming the outline of shoulders, the crisp edge of a suit... then the jawline, sharp and cold. I froze like I'd been burned, but my fingers had a mind of their own, continuing upward, tracing tight lips, a strong nose, then the outline of those eyes.
Even as just a sketch, that penetrating gaze seemed to pierce right through the paper...
Richard.
I dropped the pencil, heart hammering in my chest.
I stared at the rapidly taking shape profile sketch on my pad, the likeness sickeningly accurate.
What the hell, Natalie? What are you drawing?
I grabbed the page, marched to the corner shredder, fed it in, and hit the button. The machine ground away, cutting that profile into meaningless strips.
Had to be from staying up late writing songs, plus pregnancy hormones messing with me.
Yeah. That had to be it.
I forced myself to splash cold water on my face and went to bed early.
But my dreams weren't peaceful. In bizarre fragments, I was back in LA, at a fancy ballroom where everyone danced in masks.
Then Richard appeared, no mask, walking straight toward me, ripping mine off in front of everyone.
His face was handsome and furious under the swaying crystal chandeliers, his voice ice.
"Where did you think you could run, Natalie?
Come home with me. Be my obedient wife again. "
I woke up gasping in the dark, forehead covered in cold sweat. Outside, the Vegas sky was still dark. I curled up, hand over my belly, until my heartbeat slowed.
Just a dream. I told myself. Richard probably forgot Natalie Green even existed.
The next afternoon, Emma called again.
"Baby! Massive news!" Emma's voice was lottery-winner excited.
"You know the Golden Coast Music Festival in California?
They want indie musicians and brands to do crossover collabs.
One of the California wine brands we work with—their heir, apparently a die-hard fan of yours, specifically requested to collaborate with you on a promo track! "
California. The word triggered instant rejection.
"Emma, we agreed—no gigs that need long-distance travel. You know my situation."
My pregnancy was one reason I'd insisted on mostly local work when negotiating my contract.
Only Emma knew. No one else.
"I know, I know, honey." Emma's tone was soothing, but she smelled blood in the water.
"But this is different! The money they're offering is—" She named a figure that made my eyelids twitch.
"And you only need to be there three days!
Two days are just travel. The actual event is just one afternoon creative meeting and one evening brand dinner.
The dinner's private, very small—just partners and brand reps.
You wear your mask, show your face for a bit, sing one song, take a photo with that rich heir fan, and the money's yours!
Enough for six months' maternity leave! God, for money like this, don't fight it, honey. "
That number was tempting. Tempting enough to ignore the alarm bells screaming in my head.
With that money, I could move to a bigger, quieter place after the baby came. Maybe hire a decent nanny. I had to think about the kid, right?
"They agree I stay masked the whole time?"
"Absolutely! It'll be in the contract."
I took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. "Fine. I'll go. But everything stays exactly as agreed. Soon as the event's over, I'm out."
"Perfect! I knew you were the smartest baby! I'll book first class and a five-star hotel right away! You don't have to worry about anything! Just relax, baby, you're going to shine!"
That night, I dreamed of Richard again.
I dreamed I was lying in that big bed at Blackwood Manor.
Richard pinned me underneath him, kissing slowly down from my lips, teeth catching my nipple.
My body trembled involuntarily, moans escaping my mouth.
Finally, Richard's lips stopped between my legs, his fingers rubbing against my soaked panties, his low voice calling my name. "Natalie, do you want this?"
Of course I wanted it. I wanted Richard to drive into me hard like he used to. He pulled off my panties, guiding his thick length against me, and then—
I woke up.
Damn it, why now? Dreaming about Richard was bad enough, but this kind of half-finished wet dream... hell, not even half.
I reached down. God, even wetter than in the dream.
I pushed aside my panties, slipped a finger inside, my other hand kneading my breast, but it wasn't nearly enough.
I imagined if that dream had continued, how Richard would work me over, what filthy things he'd whisper in my ear.
As much as I hated admitting it—maybe because of the pregnancy—I really did miss how sex with Richard felt.
Even in that failed marriage, I'd loved his powerful body.
The night before leaving for California, I checked my luggage again. Mask, performance outfit, loose maternity clothes, vitamins, all important documents... I read Emma's event schedule over and over, trying to use detailed planning to push down the unease.
This was just a private brand dinner, at a winery, small scale, low-key. Someone like Richard would never show up at something like this.
I kept telling myself that, right up until the plane touched down on California's sunny soil.
The afternoon creative meeting went smoothly.
The brand people were professional. That young heir who was supposedly my fan—a guy named Ryan—really was like Emma said, just genuinely into the music, kept a polite distance, at most looking entranced when I hummed improvised melodies, saying "Yes!
That's it! Perfect!" I relaxed a little.
That evening, the private dinner was set in an elegant open-air courtyard at the winery, decorated with climbing roses.
White tablecloths covered the long table, silver utensils and crystal glasses glinting in candlelight.
Not many guests, maybe a dozen—brand people, festival organizers, plus some local artists and critics.
I still wore my signature silver mask and a low-key forest green velvet gown.
Ryan was enthusiastic, introducing me to key partners. I just smiled and nodded the whole time, occasionally offering thoughts on music.
Then at seating, I noticed an empty chair next to the head of the table. A beautiful place card and settings sat in front of it, but the chair was empty.
"Oh, that's for a VIP we really hoped to have," Ryan explained when he saw me looking, his tone carrying barely detectable nerves and excitement. "We sent an invitation, but someone at that level... schedules are always hard to pin down. He said he'd try to stop by, though."
"Who's the VIP?" Emma asked beside me, always interested in expanding her network.
Ryan started to answer when the heavy wooden door at the courtyard entrance was pushed open from outside by a server.
Evening wind swept in, carrying the scent of night roses and a hint of chill, lifting a corner of the tablecloth and making the candles flicker.
A tall figure, nearly filling the entire doorframe, walked in backlit by the hallway lights.
He stood over six-foot-two, broad shoulders and solid chest filling out a perfectly tailored charcoal suit into clean, powerful lines.
His hair was slicked back impeccably, revealing a high forehead and sharply defined features.
Every detail screamed control and precision—pure black silk tie tied tight and straight, white shirt buttoned all the way to the top, cuffs showing an exquisite handcrafted watch.
When he entered, he radiated an almost physical sense of pressure. The light followed him, gradually illuminating that expressionless face and a pair of eyes that froze my blood instantly.
Even in the dim, flickering candlelight, those gray-blue eyes blazed bright. His gaze cut across the noisy, shifting crowd in the courtyard and locked directly onto my face, like a predator spotting prey.
"This is the VIP I mentioned, the Winston family heir, Mr. Winston."
In that moment, my heart stopped beating.