Chapter 10
TEN
olivia
Castor & Wyatt got back to me last week. Waitlisted. A kind rejection wrapped in admiration—they told me they were impressed, that if someone withdrew from the overseas offices, I’d be the first call. It was flattering. And final.
A year ago, it would have gutted me. I’ve built so much of my ambition around that firm, around what it would mean to get in, to be chosen. Now, all I feel is a strange, hollow kind of relief. Not because I didn’t want it. I did. Maybe I still do. But it means I don’t have to choose.
And I hate how grateful I am for that, to be spared the impossible decision of whether I could really leave him—or worse, stay and wonder what I’d given up.
It resolves a dilemma I haven’t had the courage to look at head-on—that I still haven’t told Nathaniel the job was abroad, and I don’t know what I would have done if it had been offered.
I never figured out how to explain it to him—why I wanted it, and why I didn’t.
Why his interference had unsettled me more than I was willing to admit.
In his mind, this was his way of loving me.
But in mine, it was something else. A line crossed too easily.
However, with Castor & Wyatt off the table, that conversation can stay buried.
And now, as if the universe had been waiting for the signal, the other offers have started to come in.
One from Baxter & Company’s New York office—prestigious, coveted, entirely on my own merit.
No hidden levers pulled. No invisible fingerprints.
It wasn’t the dream I once had, but it was still a dream.
One I could step into without hesitation or guilt.
However, I haven’t told Nathaniel about this either. I guess I just want to keep it for myself a little longer.
He may already know—it wouldn’t surprise me. But if he does, he hasn’t said anything. And I haven’t asked.
For now, it appears as if we’ve both reached an understanding. The tension no longer coils quite so tightly beneath every glance, every touch. There’s space to breathe again.
But just as one weight lifts, another replaces it—and this burden is one that I am all too familiar with.
My mother’s been calling again. Not often—just enough to let me know she’s thinking of me, and not in a way that feels comforting. First it was a casual check-in. Then a pointed question about whether I plan on coming home for spring break.
Such is the dynamic of our relationship.
My parents don’t expect so much as they demand, and I’ve always delivered.
I’m the eldest daughter with her head down and sleeves rolled up.
I’ve known how to carry responsibility since I was old enough to reach the register, and even now—after everything—I still feel the reflex to step back into that role the second they ask.
Or more accurately, the second they assume I will.
Last winter was the first time I didn’t return to Ashby.
Instead, I spent the break in New York, immersed in Nathaniel’s world.
That time exposed more than either of us were ready for—his secrets, his fault lines, the new depths of feeling between us…
But even amid the unraveling, there were stretches of stillness where I felt, maybe for the first time, what it was like to be unburdened.
There were no family obligations to attend to, or reminders that I’m not doing enough.
I got to experience long mornings, peaceful evenings, and the unfamiliar permission to simply rest.
But of course, my mother made sure I knew exactly what she thought about that decision. Her disapproval doesn’t need to be loud to be heard. It lives in the silences between her words, in the carefully chosen pauses, in the way she never fails to remind me of everything they’ve done for me.
“You know we wouldn’t ask if there were anyone else.”
“Your father’s back is acting up again. I’ve been taking double shifts.”
“Your brothers are only fourteen and should spend time with their friends, we can’t expect them to help out.”
“It’s just hard, Olivia.”
When Nathaniel asked me about spring break, I knew instantly what I wanted.
Him. This. The warmth I feel when we share a bed, the peace I get when I don’t have to anticipate someone else’s needs before my own.
I want to spend it by his side. But instead of saying that, I deflected.
I just didn’t want to see the look on his face when I admitted I’m not sure I can choose him.
Not because I don’t want to—but because something in me still believes I don’t have the right to.
After all, they raised me to be useful. And I’ve always been. I folded napkins and cleaned grease traps and picked up my brothers from school. I filled in the gaps so seamlessly that no one ever stopped to ask what it cost me.
I can’t seem to quell the anxiety it all stirs in me.
The truth is, I don’t know how to not feel responsible.
Even when I hate it. Even when I know it’s broken me in ways I’m still recovering from.
Even when the person I want most is standing right in front of me, willing to shoulder everything I’ve spent my life carrying alone.
That’s exactly why I’ve started spending all my nights with Nathaniel again. When I am with him, he makes it feel possible that I could be something more than a resource. He looks at me like I matter—not for what I can do, not for what I offer—but simply because of who I am.
When I’m with him, I don’t feel like I’m failing anyone.
The smell of garlic and basil fills the kitchen as jazz plays softly through the speakers—Laufey, one of her newer tracks that Nathaniel added to our playlist.
I’m barefoot, standing at the stove in one of his old sweatshirts, sleeves pushed up to my elbows. The pot of sauce simmers while I stir with one hand, phone in the other.
MOM
We’re short-staffed. I hope you’re not planning another vacation.
I stare at it for a second, long enough for the meaning to sink in, then lock the phone and turn it face-down.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Nathaniel glance over. A mere flicker of attention, a pause in the rhythm of his slicing—but then he looks away and says nothing.
He’s at the island beside me, dicing tomatoes with a level of precision that would make a professional chef jealous. The blade glides through each one without resistance. There isn’t a piece of pulp out of place.
I watch him, trying not to look too impressed.
“Are you trying to earn a Michelin star or something?” I tease, nudging his hip. “It’s just dinner.”
He doesn’t look up. “You’re the one who wanted to cook tonight.”
“Yeah, but you’re the reason it’ll actually taste good.”
He finally glances over, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “Well, your sauce smells amazing.” A pause. “Maybe just a little less garlic next time, though, unless you’re trying to keep me at bay.”
I laugh, swatting his forearm with the spoon.
“This is me taking care of you for a change, just so we’re clear.”
“I know,” he says simply, cobalt eyes still on me. “That’s why I’m letting you.”
The words settle between us like steam from the stovetop—warm, slow-rising, impossible to ignore.
Nathaniel is good at everything. The kind of good that looks effortless but never arrogant. But this—the way he slices with intention, cleans as he goes, lines everything up just so—this is different. It’s domestic. Intimate. It makes something flutter in my chest.
“Okay, but seriously,” I say, my tone softening, “How are you this good at cooking? Didn’t you have a fleet of private chefs growing up?”
He chuckles, shaking his head as he wipes down the cutting board. “We did. But I moved out when I was eighteen. Spent two weeks eating like a frat boy before I decided I’d rather learn than live off frozen pizza.”
“And you just…got good at it?”
He shrugs. “I like knowing what to expect. With cooking, if you follow the rules, things turn out well. That’s always made sense to me.”
He tips the bowl of chopped tomatoes into the pan. The sizzle flares between us.
I watch him, quieter now. “And do you know what to expect tonight?”
He leans in, brushing his lips over my temple. “I already know it’ll turn out all right.”
That’s him. Always thinking ahead. Always angling for control. But tonight, he’s handing it to me. Just enough to let me feel like I have something to offer.
But I don’t. I swallow it down and pivot to something lighter, lifting the spoon to offer him a taste.
“Careful,” I say, a teasing lilt to my voice. “It’s been vetted by exactly one very biased chef.”
He tastes it without comment, deliberating for a moment before looking at me with that knowing smile of his. “Biased, maybe,” he says. “But still talented.”
That earns him a grin and a kiss to his cheek. The moment doesn’t fix anything, but it cracks open a window of ease—just wide enough to step through.
The rest of the cooking session passes in the same rhythm we’ve fallen into all week—banter traded like warm bread, laughter echoing against the tile, touches that linger.
I plate the pasta while he lights the candles on the dining table.
It’s a small thing, but it makes dinner feel like more than a meal.
I lean back against the island, watching him move—fitted black tee clinging to his frame as he places cutlery with the kind of effortless precision that makes even setting a table look like an art form.
There’s something breathtaking about the contrast between his grace and the sheer physicality of him that always leaves me a little breathless.
My admiration is interrupted when my phone buzzes again beside me. I pick it up without thinking.
MOM
If you still care about this family, I’d think you’d want to step up. But maybe you’re too good for us now.