Chapter 3
THREE
nathaniel
The study smells of aged oak and whiskey, the air laced with the scent of smoke that curls from the fireplace. The glow from the flames casts flickering shadows across the polished wood paneling, giving the room the same air of authority it’s always held—unwavering, immutable, suffocating.
My father moves behind his desk, his fingers poised around a glass tumbler, as composed as ever.
I step forward, my posture rigid, my guard locked into place. I’ve spent my whole life bracing for my father’s expectations and inevitable confrontation, the disappointment that has become second nature between us. I’m prepared for more of the same.
Instead, he surprises me.
“I was too hard on you at lunch.”
I freeze, my body tensing at the words. Charles Caldwell does not apologize. He corrects. He criticizes. He sets expectations and dismisses emotions as irrelevant. But now—now, he stands there, swirling whiskey in his glass, meeting my gaze with something that’s almost…reflective.
I narrow my eyes, waiting. There will be a follow-up. There always is. The sharp edge of his words will come eventually, slicing through any pretense of softness.
“I don’t expect you to say anything to that,” he continues smoothly. “I just wanted you to know that I’ll be more mindful of it.”
I study him, my pulse steady, my expression impassive. Is this a trick? A test? But his voice holds no bite, no condescension.
“All right,” I reply at last, my tone deliberately neutral. I don’t acknowledge the implied apology, but I also don’t reject it. I simply let it sit in the space between us.
He leans against the desk, watching me in that way that makes my skin itch, like I’m under a microscope.
Then, he says, “I’ve spent my whole life trying to expand this empire.
Preserving our legacy has always been my top priority—making sure that what was passed down to me would thrive long after I was gone.
In pursuit of that…” he pauses thoughtfully, “I pushed Alexander onto the path I’d set for him. ”
The mention of Alexander sends a sharp pang through my chest. I clench my jaw but remain silent.
“And when we lost Alexander,” my father continues, “I forced you into his place.”
A bitter taste coats the back of my throat. Forced. The word is too clean, too simple for what it was. He reshaped me, stripped me down, bent me into something that would fit the space my brother left behind.
“You were never meant to be a second choice,” my father goes on, his voice measured. “But I treated you like one, didn’t I?”
I swallow once. The admission should feel like vindication, but instead, it unsettles me.
“You gave me a role and expected me to step into it without question,” I say, my voice steady, my control absolute. “Alas, I could never be him.”
“Indeed. You are not Alexander.”
The words should sting, another reminder of my insufficiency. But then, my father continues—words I never expected to hear.
“But that is not a bad thing.”
My pulse stills.
He lets the silence stretch, allowing the weight of his statement to settle before adding, “I made you believe that you had to force yourself into a mold that wasn’t meant for you. And I see now that it was wrong to expect it of you.”
He exhales, quieter. “Your mother always said as much. I should’ve listened sooner.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. For years, I tried to be what he wanted. I twisted myself into something I couldn’t recognize only to find that no matter what I did, I would never measure up to the golden boy who had been taken too soon.
But now, for the first time in my life, my father is admitting fault.
A long pause stretches between us before he finally breaks it.
“You seem different these days.”
Tension coils in my shoulders. “And what does that mean?”
He watches me carefully, as if studying the shifts in my demeanor. “You’ve stopped pretending,” he remarks. “You seem more comfortable with yourself.” He lifts his glass to his lips, taking a slow sip, before adding, “And I suspect that has something to do with the woman currently waiting for you.”
My fingers twitch at my sides. My father hardly acknowledges my personal life.
“And what are you implying?” I ask, my voice deceptively calm.
He tilts his head slightly. “A good woman can change everything.”
I go completely still.
“Your mother did that for me,” he continues, his tone uncharacteristically sentimental.
“I was a different man before Renée. She softened things in me I didn’t know could be softened.
She brought something into my life that I didn’t know I needed, and that is why she has been my strength and stay all these years.
” His gaze sharpens slightly. “I think Olivia is that for you.”
I still. I don’t want to see humanity in my father or acknowledge that he understands something about love that I do not.
“Even in my life, there were times when it truly felt unbearable,” he goes on, “but knowing that I was coming home to Renée gave me purpose. I would die for that woman, and having someone for whom I felt that strongly about kept me going even on my worst days.”
My confusion sharpens into suspicion. “What are you trying to tell me?”
He meets my gaze, steady and unflinching.
“That I’m seeing now how hard things have been for you, and I’m happy you have someone who eases those burdens for you. What I’m trying to say,” he pauses, letting the weight of it settle, “is that if you want to be with Olivia, and if that’s what she wants too, I support it. I support you.”
My chest tightens.
“Despite how it might seem to you,” he continues, his voice lower, “there are things I’ve done that I actually regret…forgetting that I’m your father is one of them. I want to try to do better by you, Nathaniel.”
I have no idea how to respond.
It’s the closest thing to an apology my father has ever given me. And I have no fucking clue what to do with it.
He straightens then, smoothing down the cuff of his sleeve, resetting the balance between us as if nothing has changed. “I won’t keep you from your evening.”
I hesitate. My body feels strange—weighted, uncertain. Something fundamental has shifted, and I’m not sure what to do with the space it has left behind.
I reach for the door handle but pause.
“Merry Christmas, Father.” The words are quieter than I intend.
His reply is steady, practiced. But there’s something real beneath it this time. “Merry Christmas, Son.”
I walk back toward Olivia, my mind racing, my heart unsettled. My father didn’t change overnight. But tonight, he showed me a glimpse of something I didn’t think possible.
It has left me disoriented, as if the foundation of something I had always relied on has shifted beneath my feet.
I don’t know what to do with it.
But I do know one thing: I need to get back to Olivia.
She’s my gravity. If I can just see her, touch her, the world will make sense again.
Yet, when I step back into the grand foyer, where I left her, she’s nowhere in sight.
A sharp spike of unease lances through my chest. My rational mind tells me she’s fine—she has to be. She’s still in this house, safe within these walls. But my instincts scream otherwise. She wouldn’t leave without saying anything…would she?
The thought sends my pulse thrumming with something that feels dangerously close to panic. I have to find her. Now.
I move through the hallways with purpose, my eyes scanning every open doorway, every passing shadow. My mind flickers through the possibilities, my breath growing sharper with every second she remains unseen.
Then—voices.
Familiar. Feminine.
I follow the sound until I reach the entrance of my grandmother’s sitting room. My fingers curl against the doorframe as I take in the scene before me.
Olivia sits next to my mother on the antique loveseat. Their postures are relaxed, but their faces… It’s clear they’ve just shared an emotional moment. I can see it in Olivia’s eyes.
Although it was inevitable, the sight of them together sets me on edge.
My mother is my blood, my past. Olivia is my love, my future. I would have preferred to spend the rest of my life keeping them in separate corners of my existence, and yet, here they are, sharing something private.
Something about me, no doubt.
The mere notion of it is deeply unpalatable to me.
Not because I don’t trust Olivia, but because I have no knowledge of what passed between them.
What’s been shared in my absence. What conclusions have been drawn.
Just then, Roger announces the arrival of the guests, forcing me to suspend my curiosity for now.
The grand foyer is already buzzing with the arrival of family, the low hum of conversation swelling as more guests trickle in, coats whisked away by the staff with quiet efficiency.
The Caldwell estate has always been a stage for grandeur—flawless, polished gatherings where everything gleams just enough to remind everyone of the storied legacy that the family name carries.
The laughter and polite conversation of my extended family fill the space, as waitstaff in crisp uniforms move seamlessly through the room, balancing trays of champagne flutes and signature holiday cocktails.
But tonight, I’m not focused on the gilded surroundings or the murmurs of status-laden pleasantries.
No. Tonight, my focus is entirely on Olivia.
She stands beside me, stunning in the midnight-blue dress I zipped onto her body earlier, allowing my fingers to trail slowly up her spine as I memorized every dip and curve it accentuated.
Now, as she greets my family with poise, I watch with a mixture of pride and something darker—a heat that flares in my chest every time I catch one of my relatives looking at her for a moment too long.
Introductions are tedious, as expected.