Chapter 8 Olivia #2
Of course not. I feel the weight of it settle in my chest like a stone. Nathaniel Caldwell’s word isn’t just persuasive—it’s final. His reach extends everywhere, even here. Even into the room I’d hoped would be mine alone.
And now, I don’t know if I got here because of me…or because of him.
The rest of the interview passes in a blur of strained smiles and polished answers. I finish with dignity, thank them for their time, and leave without looking back.
In the elevator, I stare at the steel doors until my reflection sharpens into focus. The suit is perfect. The expression serene. But beneath it, I’m spiraling.
Did I ever really stand a chance on my own?
I already know who I’ll ask. And I already know he’ll have an answer.
It just might not be the one I want to hear.
Despite everything that’s happened today, I keep my promise.
I text Nathaniel when the interview ended, like I said I would.
It’s over. I’m heading to you now.
NATHANIEL
See you soon, baby.
I know him well enough to imagine the way he clutched his phone the second it lit up, the way his shoulders dropped in relief the moment he saw my name. Of course he’d be waiting. He always is.
I barely lift my hand to knock when the door opens.
He’s impeccably dressed in a black cashmere sweater and slate-gray slacks, but the tension in his posture gives him away. His eyes drag over me with an urgency that feels like he’s counting pieces, checking if I came back whole.
He doesn’t speak right away. He simply reaches out, guiding me inside with a possessive touch. The door closes behind me with a muted click, and just like that, I’m inside his world again—dim with evening light and pulsing with the reverberations of our unfinished conversation.
His hands frame my face and he looks at me like he’s not entirely sure I’m real, or that I won’t vanish if he blinks. His thumbs brush beneath my eyes, and the heat of his palms soaks through my skin, unwinding me by slow degrees.
“You’re back,” he says at last, his voice rough. “God, I missed you.”
The look in his eyes tells me he didn’t believe I’d really come until I stepped through the door. I don’t pull away. I should. The weight of everything I’m not saying presses hard against my ribs, but I can’t bring myself to step out of his hold. Not when he’s looking at me like this.
“It’s only been a few hours,” I say.
His lips curve, but there’s no humor in it. Just an unspoken yearning. “Too long.”
He presses a kiss to my temple, then one to my forehead, lingering each time like he’s trying to hold me exactly where he wants me with his lips. My breath hitches. His presence is overwhelming, but it’s the kind of weight I’ve come to crave—a pressure that says I’ve got you. You’re mine.
His hand slides to the small of my back, guiding me gently through the entryway.
“Sit,” he says softly.
I hesitate, but he’s already nudging me toward the sofa. I ease down onto the cushion, my skirt brushing against the velvet upholstery.
Nathaniel doesn’t take the seat beside me.
He kneels at my feet.
And there’s something about that—about him on his knees, unbothered by the marble beneath them—that tightens something in my throat.
His hands trail down the length of my legs, a slow caress. When he reaches my ankles, his fingers skim the straps of my heels, tracing the indent they’ve pressed into my skin. His brow furrows as if the shoes have personally offended him.
“These,” he grumbles, shaking his head, “are far too high.”
I open my mouth to respond, but he’s already unclasping the first buckle, his long fingers deft and precise.
As the heel slips off, his thumb finds the arch of my foot and presses gently.
A warm, steady pressure that melts the tension so fast it feels like my body has been waiting for his touch.
He doesn’t rush. He never does when he’s trying to make a point.
He just strokes, slow and patient, like he’s reminding my muscles who they belong to.
“You didn’t have to walk so far in these,” he murmurs. “Not when I could’ve driven you.”
His tone isn’t sharp. It’s laced with something protective and pleading.
I swallow against the knot forming in my throat.
He reaches for my other foot, removing that shoe and repeating his ministrations, strong fingers working at the ball of my foot. The pressure is perfect—just enough to ease the ache without breaking the moment.
A moan slips out of me before I can stop it. He glances up at me, eyes gleaming, and smiles like I’ve just handed him the world.
But it fades almost immediately, replaced by a quiet frustration—something tight and helpless pulling between his brows.
He shifts slightly, trailing his fingers along my ankle, his touch featherlight.
“You know I would’ve come for you in a heartbeat,” he murmurs, gaze lifting to meet mine. “No matter where you were.”
I nod because I believe him. That’s the part that terrifies me the most.
Because even when I’ve asked him for space, for freedom, for distance—he’s always chased after me anyway. And I’ve never tried that hard to outrun him.
He leans forward and presses a kiss to the top of my foot—devastating in its tenderness. When he looks up at me again, there’s something fragile behind his eyes.
“Next time,” he whispers, “let me be there.”
He lingers there for a beat longer, his fingertips still ghosting over my ankle like he can’t bring himself to break the connection.
Then, he gracefully rises and folds himself beside me on the couch. His thigh presses against mine. One arm stretches across the back of the cushions, his fingers tracing the edge of my shoulder. He doesn’t simply sit next to me—he claims the space around me, the air between us.
It should be stifling…but it isn’t.
The allure of him is inescapable, and I’m hyperaware of every breath he takes. The way his touch lingers like a promise. And he knows exactly what he’s doing. He knows I melt faster when he’s gentle. He knows that softness, on him, is more dangerous than any cruelty.
But I won’t let myself forget. Not tonight.
“They told me,” I say, voice quiet but steady. “Someone gave me a strong recommendation.”
I feel the way his body stills. Then he leans back the smallest amount, like he’s giving me room to decide how angry I want to be. His expression is inscrutable.
“And?” he says, his tone deceptively mild.
I turn fully toward him, holding his gaze. “Was it you?”
There’s no flicker of guilt. No pause. Nothing but the smooth, inevitable truth in his voice. “It was.”
“Nathaniel…” I exhale slowly, the frustration curling under my skin like smoke. “You had no right to do that. I wanted to earn this.”
“And you did.” His voice is calm, reasonable. “They wouldn’t have considered you if you weren’t an exceptional candidate. My word simply ensured they understood that.”
His matter-of-fact tone is infuriating. Perfectly controlled, as though he’s explaining a simple fact of life. As if manipulating the outcome is a form of love.
“You didn’t trust me to get there on my own?” I hate that I sound so insecure.
“I trust you,” he says immediately. His eyes are soft, almost wounded, but the conviction in his voice is steel. “But I also know how the world works. And if I have the power to tip the scales for you, even slightly, I will. Every time.”
His hand rises, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. The intimacy of the gesture softens something in me—and that makes me even more upset.
“I won’t apologize for helping you,” he says quietly. “Not when I know you deserve everything you’ve worked for. Besides…” he adds, gaze steady. “This was your last open application, and the one you wanted most. If it slipped away because someone else had an edge, I would never forgive myself.”
I force myself to hold his gaze. My heart is beating too fast. “You really think I belong there? At Castor & Wyatt?”
His answer is instant. “I know you do.”
“In Manhattan?” I ask. My voice is careful now. Threaded with intent.
His thumb, which had been moving in slow circles against my shoulder, stills.
He registers the edge in my voice. Nathaniel is far too intelligent and too attuned to me not to notice the nuance.
“Of course,” he says, but something falters behind his eyes. “That’s where you belong. With me.”
I hesitate, just long enough to watch the flicker of uncertainty take shape in his eyes. “Did they tell you that?”
His brow tightens. “Tell me what?”
I study him, but his expression gives nothing away. If he’s bluffing, I can’t tell. And if he really doesn’t know… I let the thought trail off.
“And what if…I didn’t? Belong in New York, I mean.”
The air changes.
His hand slips from my shoulder to my thigh, fingers resting just above my knee, his grip light but unmistakably possessive.
“You will,” he murmurs, eyes fixed on mine. “Because I love you and you belong next to me.”
My chest tightens. “That’s not an answer.”
Nathaniel’s jaw clenches. A ripple of tension moves through his frame. He leans in, brushing his lips over the shell of my ear.
“But it’s the truth.”
And I hate that it is. Because I do love him. Enough to crave his approval. Enough to let him interfere. Enough to lie by omission.
My throat closes around the truth I don’t say—that the role I applied for is far from Manhattan. That he used his influence to intervene in something he doesn’t fully understand. That I let him. Instead, I nod like I’ve accepted the truth he’s given me, even as the silence between us stretches.
He studies me. “Are you mad?”
“I don’t know,” I admit.
I know he means well. In Nathaniel’s mind, this is love—stepping in when he thinks I need it, protecting me before I even ask.
Maybe that’s what makes this so hard to parse, because a part of me understands the instinct…
But at the same time, I can’t deny the other part of me that’s appalled at how easily—how unapologetically—he moves through my life as if it’s already woven into his own.
He pulls me into his arms, wrapping me tight in his embrace. He buries his face in my hair, and I feel the tremble in his breath as it brushes my skin.
“I can live with that,” he whispers. “As long as you stay. Please…stay. Don’t leave again.”
The ache in his voice hits me harder than any argument could. I want to stay angry. I should be angry. But his sincerity slips past any defenses I had left. I sink into him, letting my forehead rest against his collarbone. I’m too tired to fight the gravity between us.
I’m not going anywhere tonight.
But even as I melt into his arms, his breath warm against my temple, one thought echoes louder than the rest—
Eventually, I’ll have to tell him the truth.
And when I do, this fragile peace we’ve wrapped ourselves in may not survive it.