Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Natalie
What's the difference between this and imprisonment?
The moment the car pulled into Blackwood Manor, I knew exactly what I'd become again. A canary in a gilded cage.
First day back, the security had doubled. Black-suited guards everywhere—at the gate, along the drive, in the courtyard. If I wanted to leave, I needed Richard's permission. Every trip required a driver, bodyguards, and a strict curfew.
Christ, who treats a pregnant woman like this? Unbelievable.
And that wasn't all. Richard had my entire life micromanaged.
A top-tier prenatal team came every three days.
Blood draws, blood pressure checks, ultrasounds—ten times more thorough than anything I'd gotten in Vegas.
The nutritionist measured my meals down to the gram.
Even my snacks were calibrated to my daily stats.
They'd even brought in some soft-spoken therapist to monitor my emotional state.
I kept reminding myself not to be moved by any of this. Richard only cared because he wanted a healthy baby.
But he did more than that.
After he noticed my leg cramps at night, a pregnancy massage chair appeared in the bedroom the next day.
When I couldn't stand the lily diffusers anymore, every scent in the house was replaced with unscented humidifiers by that afternoon.
I mentioned craving a specific brand of pickles once. Next day, there they were in the fridge—air-shipped from Europe because they weren't sold in the States.
These things were too small to matter, and too big for me to ignore.
"Ma'am, your tea." Joseph appeared at the living room door with a silver tray, setting down lavender tea and a plate of whole-grain nut cookies. "Mr. Winston called. The board meeting's running late. He won't make dinner. No need to wait for him."
I picked up the warm cup and nodded. That faint hope I'd been nurturing for dinner—hope I didn't even want to admit to—deflated like a punctured balloon. First time Richard had missed dinner since we got back to LA. God, was it the pregnancy hormones? My chest felt oddly tight.
Then I heard movement in the foyer.
"Hey! This place is still scary huge! Where's my girl Natalie?"
I turned, startled, and there was Gina with a gift bag, red hair sharp as ever, power shirt and skirt, blowing through the door like a ray of sunlight cutting through the house's oppressive quiet.
"Gina!" My voice came out more eager than I'd expected.
Gina's eyes lit up when she saw me. She threw her arms around me. "God, you've gotten fat! Wait—honey, you finally look pregnant!"
"How'd you get in here?" I glanced behind her. No Richard. No one trying to stop her.
"Your ex-husband called me himself." Gina raised an eyebrow. "Said you've been down lately, needed company, asked if I could come for dinner. Even sent a car. Natalie, you know how weird that is? Richard actually said 'please' to me."
I froze.
He'd invited Gina? Was this Richard's version of thoughtful?
"Stop spacing out," Gina grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the dining room. "I'm starving. And I brought contraband—chips, chocolate, those gummy candies you used to love." My nutritionist would probably resign if she knew.
We sat down. Gina plopped herself in Richard's usual seat and started unpacking her bag of forbidden treats. Candlelight caught her bold red hair, and suddenly the dining room didn't feel so empty.
"So," she tore open a bag of chips and tossed one in her mouth, talking around it, "how's it going? That look on your face—you suffocating yet?"
I didn't deny it. "I feel imprisoned." I sighed. "But Richard's been arranging everything so perfectly lately, I don't know how to deal with him."
Gina stopped chewing and looked at me, her tone turning serious. "Do you still love him?"
The question left me blank.
"I don't know." I was being honest. "I hate how he's treating me—locking me up here, making all my decisions, handling me like I'm fragile.
But I have to admit, I've softened toward Richard.
I can't be as cold to him as I was before.
Gina, you know what? Richard's learning how to be a new dad.
I think he's changing. But I can't just pretend the past never happened. "
I stopped. My voice was shaking.
"Gina, I'm a mess inside."
Gina reached over and took my hand.
"Natalie, you know why I helped you get that fake miscarriage certificate?"
I blinked. "I thought it was just a favor between friends."
"It was. But more than that. Because the Richard back then didn't deserve you staying," Gina said.
"A man who made you wear another woman's hand-me-down dress to a gala, who ditched you when you needed him to take another woman shopping, who treated you like decor, like a tool, like a nice piece of furniture he could take or leave—he didn't deserve to be a father.
And he sure as hell didn't deserve to be your husband. "
She paused, squeezing my hand.
"But this Richard? I'm not sure. When he called me, the worry in his voice—that wasn't the old Richard. He asked what you like to eat now, what you like to watch, and what you like talking about. Natalie, you're right. Richard is changing."
I opened my mouth. "You think I should forgive him?"
"Honey, you don't have to decide right now whether to forgive him or remarry him.
" Gina let go of my hand, broke a chocolate bar in half, and handed me a piece.
"Maybe give Richard a trial period. See if he can be a good husband and a good father.
" She shrugged, her tone turning playful.
"Besides, you can't exactly run away right now, can you? "
When Gina left, it was dark. She hugged me and whispered in my ear. "Honey, follow your heart. Whatever you decide, I'm on your side. Remember, you're not alone."
I stood in the doorway watching her car disappear down the tree-lined drive. The night air was cool. I hugged my arms instinctively.
Back in the bedroom, I sat on the couch. Gina's words echoed in my ears. Follow your heart.
But my heart was already a tangled mess.
Half of it fighting back, telling me not to turn around. The other half desperately craving, hoping Richard really would change.
Around nine, I was getting ready for bed when I passed the hallway and heard Joseph's voice downstairs. "Sir, you're back. Would you like a late snack?"
He was home? My heart jumped. I heated up some milk in the kitchen, then headed to Richard's study. The door was cracked, light spilling out. He was definitely in there.
I knocked.
"Come in."
I pushed the door open. Richard sat at his desk, jacket off, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing strong forearms. His back was to the door, a notebook open in front of him, writing something. His laptop was on, but it clearly wasn't a financial report—the screen was too colorful.
He looked up and saw me, surprise flashing briefly in his gray-blue eyes.
"What brings you here?" His voice was softer than usual.
"Brought you some milk." I set it beside him, but my eyes drifted uncontrollably to his laptop screen.
The next second, I froze.
The screen wasn't showing corporate reports, meeting documents, or acquisition proposals.
It was packed with text, the titles glaring enough to make my chest tighten—
Third Trimester Precautions
Complete Guide to Newborn Care
Essential Skills for New Dads
Postpartum Emotional Support and Care
Pregnancy Nutrition Chart
How to Handle Abnormal Fetal Movement
Page after page—all about caring for pregnant women, newborns, and postpartum wives.
He'd highlighted sections in different colors. Meticulous.
I stood there, stunned, my mind blank.
This man, who stood at the top of the business world, who commanded billion-dollar deals with a gesture, who was cold, autocratic, who never bothered with trivial matters, was sitting in his study researching all of this.
He'd even taken notes by hand in the notebook beside him.
This was so unlike Richard.
Richard followed my gaze to the screen, then spoke matter-of-factly. "You're due in five months. Plenty of time for me to learn how to be a good father."
Richard had the ability. Whatever he wanted to master, he succeeded at.
God, I was done for.
Richard was just doing what he should have been doing all along, but my heart was burning out of control.
I looked at Richard—his brow softened by concentration, his expression unexpectedly tender—and said nothing. I turned and fled the study.
I was afraid if I stayed any longer, I'd kiss him without meaning to.
The next afternoon, passing the study, I heard Richard's voice through the cracked door, low and threatening like a gathering storm.
"I'm asking one more time. Where exactly is that equipment stuck? I don't care how you do it. Air freight, chartered plane, fly there yourself and carry it back. I want that specialized pregnancy sleep monitor at the manor by tomorrow. If there's one more screw-up, don't bother coming to work."
My sleep had been terrible since I got pregnant.
I'd wake up at night and couldn't fall back asleep.
At last week's checkup, the doctor mentioned a new monitoring device that could track a pregnant woman's sleep patterns and the baby's nighttime activity in real time.
But it wasn't available in the States yet, and even in Europe, it was in limited supply.
I hadn't thought much of it.
But Richard had heard.
Not only heard—he'd ordered one. And was about to fire someone over a shipping delay.
Logic said this was just another expression of Richard's control, his need to arrange everything to perfection. But the warmth and emotion rising in me wouldn't go away.
After dinner, Richard didn't go to his study. He sat on the bedroom couch with his files.
I leaned against the headboard, flipping through a magazine without reading a word.
Almost six months pregnant now, my belly was unmistakably round, impossible to hide.
Sometimes I'd wake at night, touching my swollen stomach, and think this all felt unreal—months ago I was singing on a Vegas stage, and now I was back in LA, being cared for meticulously by a man I'd sworn to leave.
Suddenly, a strong, distinct kick came from inside. I could feel a tiny bulge pressing against my palm.
"Oh!" I gasped.
Richard's head snapped up from his files. "What's wrong? You okay?"
"No, I'm fine." I shook my head, watching the little bump slowly flatten under my hand. A strange joy washed over me—that visceral sense of life connected to mine. Without thinking, I blurted out, "He's moving... want to feel?"
The words were out before I could stop them. I regretted it immediately. I shouldn't share this with him. It was too intimate. Like reaching out first.
But Richard had already set down his report. He stood and walked toward me. Was it my imagination, or was he moving slower than usual? He knelt in front of the couch—this man who was used to towering over people, giving orders—dropped to one knee before me, eye level with my rounded belly.
Richard reached out, hesitant and awkward, and gently placed his hand on my stomach. His palm was large, warm, dry.
The baby kicked right then, as if sensing him.
Richard's hand trembled. His gray-blue eyes widened, filled with astonishment and pure joy.
It was real, unguarded delight and tenderness.
"He moved." Richard's gaze was focused and soft, fixed on my belly like he was looking at the most precious treasure in the world.
Moonlight spilled over him, softening his sharp features.
I watched his profile, watched his earnest expression, watched the tenderness that appeared because of one little kick.
The wall inside me crumbled completely in that moment.
I hated Richard's control, his domineering ways, his refusal to give me freedom, his past coldness and betrayal.
I was still afraid, still anxious, still couldn't fully trust he'd changed for good.
But I had to admit—I craved this warmth, craved Richard's clumsy devotion.
I told myself not to fall for him again, not to let my heart soften, not to sink back in.
But my heart had stopped listening long ago.
Maybe Gina was right. Maybe I should give Richard a chance. Right?