Chapter 9
NINE
nathaniel
The bench outside Olivia’s dorm is nothing remarkable—faded wood, creaking slightly when she shifts beside me—but it holds her. That makes it sacred.
Lunch was a compromise. One she allowed.
I took her to the diner near campus, the one where we had our first date, and pretended it was enough.
I smiled when she smiled. Laughed when she laughed.
Held her hand across the booth and ignored the knot tightening in my chest with every passing minute.
I used to fantasize about monopolizing her every night, every morning.
Now I ration myself in hours and pretend it’s progress.
We’ve come so far since that first date—closer, in every way. More entangled, for sure. But lately, I can’t shake the feeling that we’re…out of sync. Not drifting apart, exactly. Just not quite in step. Like I’m trying to follow a rhythm only she can hear.
We walk the short path to her building, the air crisp, her hair catching in the wind like silk ribbons.
She talks about her meeting with Professor De Vries, something about rescheduling their next session, and I nod at all the right times, though I barely register a word.
All I can think about is that we’ll be apart tonight.
Again.
When we reach the steps, I force the corners of my mouth to lift. I’ve mastered this performance—just enough curve to seem soft, just enough softness in my eyes to hide the storm.
“Text me goodnight,” I say, brushing a thumb along her wrist.
“I will,” she promises.
Then she does something cruel.
Her hand lifts, brushes along my jaw, slow and warm. The gesture is so gentle it almost undoes me. A thumb skimming across the edge of my mouth, like she’s soothing a wound she inflicted.
I close my eyes for a second too long. Breathe her in.
Then she takes a step back.
And she’s gone.
The doorway swallows her, and I’m left standing there with nothing but the ghost of her touch and the hollow echo of my own restraint. Her absence feels like withdrawal, like the oxygen leaving the room with her. But I don’t call out. Don’t follow.
She’s testing me. I know it.
She wants to see if I can handle it—if I can stand on my own two feet without anchoring myself to her shadow. And maybe that’s fair. Perhaps she needs to believe I won’t fall apart just because she’s not within reach.
So I let her go.
I walk to the parking lot alone, my hands in my coat pockets, the spring chill biting at my skin. I tell myself that passing this test means proving my love in silence, in patience. That if I hold steady now, she’ll see that I’m safe to love without apprehension.
But even as I repeat this lie, the truth surfaces beneath it.
We’ve been living inside a tentative truce since that day in the lecture hall. Since I touched her beneath a flickering screen and reminded her—and myself—that she’s mine. Since the interview that she didn’t tell me about, and I pretended not to be hurt by it.
I found out, of course. It wasn’t hard. I still had access to her phone and glance at her calendar told me exactly who she was meeting. I rationalized that the end would justify the means. It was for her sake and I would do anything to secure the best outcome for her.
Caldwell Ventures is a major client of Castor & Wyatt. One call. One name-drop. That’s all it took.
I don’t even feel bad.
Why should I? Loving her doesn’t mean stepping aside—it means paving the road for her with whatever power I have.
She’s already shown me what she wants—maybe not in words, but in ways that matter.
When she started adjusting her location preferences to New York, I understood it for what it was: a decisive shift toward a life built together, not apart.
So when it came to Castor & Wyatt, I assumed the same held true and Manhattan was her goal.
I never doubted she’d have options—offers from half the firms she interviewed with, if not more.
But knowing this was the last application still pending and hearing the way she spoke about it, I knew it carried more weight.
She never broadcasts her ambitions, but I see her clearly.
And if a few words from me could get her across the line, I’m not going to stand by and do nothing.
She may not like it. But she deserves to win. And I’ll make sure she does.
By the time I reach the car, my hands are steady. My expression is resolute in the rearview mirror. But inside, I’m slowly unspooling, thread by silent thread.
I’ll wait for her goodnight text.
And, again, I’ll pretend that it’s enough.
My office is quiet, save for the soft rustle of paper beneath my fingertips and the muted hum of the city beyond the windows. The lamps cast a low light, enough to keep the shadows at bay without disrupting the stillness. It’s early evening, and I’ve been at this for hours.
My desk is a disaster—covered in loose sketches, stone certifications, artisan profiles, and mock-ups from the custom jeweler I’ve hired. In any other context, I’d be irritated by the disorder. But this chaos has purpose. It’s for her. No, it’s for us.
Designing the perfect engagement ring is a meticulous process. But it’s more than a distraction from Olivia’s absence—it’s a lifeline. Every hour she has chosen to spend apart has been poured into this project. It’s the only thing that dulls the ache. A reminder that she’s still coming back to me.
And it’s one that I desperately need.
I sift through a folder of design notes, flipping to the page where I’ve taped a tiny photograph of a ruby—deep, vivid red, glowing like a drop of molten heart. Untreated. Four carats. Emerald cut. Burmese origin.
I didn’t understand most of it when my mother first said it. All I saw was its fire. Its clarity. The sheer conviction of it. It felt…honest. Like it didn’t need embellishment to be extraordinary.
It reminded me of Olivia.
Weeks ago, I noticed her wearing pearl earrings more often. A simple pair, elegant. Classic. It had been a gift from my mother. A Caldwell heirloom, passed down from grandmother to daughter-in-law, now passed to Olivia.
She wears them like a promise. That’s what made the idea take root.
I didn’t want to give her something store-bought. It wouldn’t move her the way I needed it to. I wanted something that meant more. That was more. Something that would stay on her finger the way she stays under my skin.
So, I did something I never thought I would.
I called my mother.
Now, the sharp trill of my phone cuts through my thoughts. My mother’s name flashes across the screen.
I answer on the second ring.
“Hello, Mother.”
“Oh, darling. You’re working late again, aren’t you?”
Her voice is warm, amused, and oddly maternal in a way that still catches me off guard.
“I’m finalizing notes for the jeweler,” I admit. “I wanted everything settled before the end of the week.”
“You’re as meticulous as your father,” she says, but there’s affection beneath the comparison. “Have you decided which gem you’re going with?”
“Yes,” I say. “The ruby.”
She hums, pleased. “Good. I had a feeling you’d choose that one. It’s bold and timeless. Uncommon, in the best way. Like her.”
I pause, letting the silence stretch between us. I’m not used to this—this easy rhythm between us. This soft side of her.
“She’s going to love it,” she adds.
“I want it to be something she never wants to take off,” I say quietly. “Not because I told her to. Because she chooses to.”
There’s a beat of silence before she says, “That’s lovely, Nathaniel. You’ve always been thoughtful, but I can tell how much this means to you.”
I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “It means everything to me.”
When she speaks again, her tone has shifted slightly—gentler now, almost hesitant. “I know there were—and still are—many things that I could have done better. I think we both know that. But helping you with this…it’s meant something to me. Thank you for letting me be part of it.”
It knocks something loose in me. A memory. A younger version of myself, watching them pour everything into Alexander—so much sharper, brighter, easier to love—while I existed in the periphery and learned to live off what scraps were left.
And yet here I am, asking her for help with the one thing I want to get right more than anything I’ve ever done.
I wouldn’t be here if this weren’t for Olivia.
The desire to create something worthy of her has forced open a door I thought I’d sealed years ago, and my mother has stepped through it without wounding me this time.
For once, the past doesn’t feel like the only thing in the room.
“I’m glad it’s you,” I say. “Helping me. With her.”
My mother’s breath catches. “You really love her, don’t you?”
“I don’t remember anymore what it was like not to.”
She’s quiet again, then says softly, “You’re different with her.”
“I know.”
“Well,” she says, slipping back into lightness, “I’ve pulled a few personal diamonds from my own collection. Smaller stones. They’d be beautiful flanking the ruby, if you’d like. Consider it a gift.”
I’m not surprised, but I am…moved.
“Thank you,” I say simply. “For everything.”
“Of course, darling. By the way, I do hope you’ll make time for my birthday gala.”
I roll my eyes, and the teasing comes easier than I expect. “You’re turning fifty, not being knighted.”
She laughs, and for a second, I almost don’t recognize us—this easy camaraderie, this lack of caution. “Let me have my moment. It’s not every year I get to be celebrated in diamonds and donations. Cartier’s underwriting the cocktail hour, and Moet’s sending custom bottles.”
“Of course they are.”
“It’s not just a birthday party,” she adds. “The foundation’s marking a milestone this year—larger grants, new scholarship partnerships. We’re making real headway. And I want the evening to reflect that.”
I hear it then, beneath the polish—something genuine. More than branding or performance. Something that matters to her.
“I’ll be there,” I say.