Chapter 2
TWO
olivia
Nathaniel was right—New York feels different in the days leading up to Christmas. The city glitters, its streets alive with an effortless magic, but none of it compares to the world I’ve been drawn into since arriving here.
Despite Nathaniel’s reservations, I find myself at a luncheon hosted by Renée Caldwell.
The intimate affair is held in the private dining room of an exclusive restaurant—the kind of place where even the air feels expensive.
The guest list consists of only a few of Renée’s closest friends—women of wealth and influence whose names carry weight in philanthropic circles and society pages.
I sit amongst them, acutely aware of the scrutiny behind their polite smiles, the unspoken questions in their eyes.
I keep my expression pleasant and my posture composed, every inch the polite guest I’m expected to be, even as nerves prickle just beneath the surface.
It isn't just the unfamiliarity of the setting and the people. It’s the awareness that, for the first time since we arrived in New York, I will be apart from Nathaniel. And after everything that just transpired, I’m not sure how he will fare without me, even for an afternoon.
But I know this is important.
Renée extended the invitation herself, and no matter how much Nathaniel loathes family obligations, I’m not going to dismiss his mother’s attempts at connection and risk adding more strain to their already fragile relationship.
And beyond that, I know Nathaniel needs time to himself.
Although he won't admit it, or even recognize it, I sense that he needs a moment to process everything he’s shared with me, without my presence acting as a salve to soothe the wounds he’s only just exposed.
So, I go.
The outing is mostly pleasant. The women in attendance are neither cruel nor unkind, but I know what they’re looking for—as does Renée.
She’s warm, making sure I feel included, but she doesn’t shield me from their curiosity.
She steers conversations with the effortless grace of someone who has spent a lifetime navigating high society, subtly guiding certain topics away from dangerous waters while letting others play out—watching, waiting.
I catch her studying me at times, her gaze contemplative, as if she’s trying to decipher something.
It’s an odd thing, realizing that Renée Caldwell—elegant, untouchable, a woman who commands rooms with her very presence—is looking at me with such careful consideration.
I like to think that I am handling myself well. I answer questions politely, engage in discussions with sincerity, and try to sound natural. Still, I feel every word being weighed, every reaction quietly assessed.
However, the moment I truly feel the shift is when Renée makes an offhand remark, her tone casual, but her meaning unmistakable.
“Nathaniel has always been reserved,” she muses, taking a slow sip of her mimosa, her blue eyes steady on me. “But he seems…lighter these days. You must be a good influence, Olivia.”
Later, as the afternoon continues, she says, almost absently, “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him so at ease with someone.”
I don’t miss the implication. Renée is fully aware of how inextricably entwined my presence has become with Nathaniel’s emotional well-being.
When I leave the luncheon, my feelings are mixed but mostly positive.
I don’t have long to ponder over it before Nathaniel returns from his own meeting with his father, his mood stormy, his patience worn thinner than before.
I don’t need to ask how the meeting went.
I can see it in the sharpness of his movements, the way his jaw tenses, his fingers flexing at his sides like he’s barely resisting the urge to shatter something.
“I take it things with your father didn’t go well?” I ask.
Nathaniel barely looks up as he pours himself a drink. “It was exactly what you’d expect from an afternoon with Charles Caldwell.”
A clipped response. I smile, trying to brighten his spirits. “And what did you talk about?”
He sighs, setting down the glass with a little more force than necessary. “He wanted to discuss my future. I let him pretend he still has a say in my life.”
It’s clear that Nathaniel doesn’t want to talk, and I don’t want to push him if it makes him uncomfortable. So, I simply reply, “Well, I’m happy that you got to spend some time with him.”
He walks over and pulls me into his arms.
“Please don’t make me do it again, baby.” He nuzzles into my neck and takes a deep inhale, breathing me in. “It was time that could have been far better spent with you. Now, you’re going to have to make up for it.”
Sure enough, he barely lets me out of his sight all week.
He refuses every invitation from his parents to see him again, choosing instead to hole us up in his apartment.
“We’re busy,” he tells them, his arm tightening around my waist, his body angled protectively toward me, as if even the thought of seeing them poses a threat to the fragile world he’s built around us. “They’ll survive without us for a few more days.”
I waver at first, especially whenever Renée’s phone calls came. She’s been kind to me, and I don’t want her to think I’m ignoring her on purpose. But no matter how I try to reason with him, Nathaniel can’t be convinced.
“I want you to myself,” he says, voice firm.
He won’t let me break the spell.
So, I stay in the bubble he created, where only two of us exist.
But the longer we stay this way, the more our closeness feels comforting and constricting at the same time.
Every waking moment, he is wrapped around me. It doesn't matter where we are or what we’re doing—Nathaniel refuses distance.
In bed, he always holds me so tightly, legs tangled with mine, breath warm against the crook of my neck. I wake up with his entire body molded to mine, his face buried in my shoulder, his grip unrelenting. He’ll whisper against my skin, his voice low and raw, “Stay. Just a little longer.”
I never have the heart to say no.
His hands are never idle. Even when I’m reading, his fingers trace the inside of my wrist, play with the hem of my sweater, brush stray strands of hair behind my ear.
He watches me with that simmering intensity, his eyes dark and focused, his mouth curving into a soft, vulnerable smile whenever our gazes meet.
He grows restless whenever I’m right beside him, his shoulders tensing, his jaw tightening as his eyes follow me around the room. I know his anxiety is because I haven’t given him an answer yet. But how can I, when I’m still making sense of the question?
It isn't that I’m uncertain about how I feel—I love him. And I have no doubt that Nathaniel wants to keep me.
But it’s clear to me that he proposed out of fear.
Nathaniel was overwhelmed by his emotions, raw from his confessions.
He felt safe with me, and it terrified him to think of losing that sense of security.
He thus reached for permanence in that moment of weakness.
However, is that the right reason to get married?
If I say yes, I know what will happen. He’ll sweep in and make every aspect of my life easier, he’ll take care of me, protect me, and love me fiercely, without restraint.
He can offer a kind of stability I’ll never be able to match, not with the resources he has at his disposal.
And it makes me wonder: what am I bringing to the table?
It’s hard not to feel the imbalance of it, the gap between what he’s able to give and what I can.
Furthermore, I don’t want to feel like I’m taking advantage of his vulnerability. This conversation is one to be had when we are both thinking clearly.
But with each passing day, I can see how the waiting is tearing him apart. He watches me constantly with a silent desperation that breaks my heart a little more each day. He doesn't ask me again—not outright. And I don’t feel ready to broach the topic just yet.
Instead, I let him take as much comfort as he needs, because that’s all that I can offer him right now.
It’s a dangerous kind of intimacy—one that makes me feel secure, but also deeply aware of how much Nathaniel relies on me now. He’s threading himself into every part of me, tying himself to me so tightly that I wonder if either of us can ever untangle ourselves from each other again.
To my relief, Nathaniel seems to be in a better state of mind by the time Christmas Eve arrives.
It appears as if this self-imposed quarantine together has restored him, softening his sharp edges. Though nothing about Nathaniel’s possessiveness, his need for constant reassurance, has truly disappeared, it has settled into something less volatile.
Even this morning, when he woke up draped all over me as he always does, he was already in unusually high spirits.
There was no trace of the brooding restlessness that’s lingered in his expression for days, no hint of the dread that usually overtakes him at the prospect of spending time with his family.
He’s at peace—or as close to it as he ever gets.
Although, I suspect that his chipper mood might also have something to do with the dress I decided to wear tonight.
It’s an elegant midnight-blue number, the fabric clinging just so to my curves, accentuating them in the most flattering way. A slit runs high enough to tease but not reveal—sophisticated, with just enough edge to make him look twice.
It’s no coincidence that I chose this dress. When I first tried it on the night Nathaniel took me shopping at Bergdorf’s, his reaction had been instant, visceral.
As he helps me into it now, his fingers drag the zipper up my back at an agonizingly slow pace, his fingertips barely skimming my skin as he savors the moment. When he finally spins me around to take me in fully, his eyes are blue flames, burning as they rake over me.
“My goddess,” he murmurs, his voice reverent before he pulls me against him, pressing a drugging kiss to my lips.