Chapter 24 #3
Tables arc outward from the small stage at the far end, arranged in discreet rings of power.
The first holds the Caldwells—Renée radiant and poised, Charles beside her, Nathaniel at my right, and a circle of patrons who could underwrite entire orchestras without blinking.
Beyond them, concentric circles of donors and critics shimmer in their own constellations of wealth.
No one puts a name to the hierarchy, but everyone knows their place.
I take my seat beside Nathaniel, conscious of every movement. For the first few minutes, I’m all nerves and posture—aware of eyes, of etiquette, of the weight of the silverware. But the warmth at the table surprises me.
Renée leans across often, asking my thoughts on an arts-education program she’s championing.
Her interest feels genuine, her smile never forced.
Charles offers stories about past galas, dry and affectionate, the kind that make people laugh without needing to try.
I realize, somewhere between the amuse-bouche and the first pour of wine, that they’ve grown comfortable with me.
I can feel it in the ease of their glances, the lack of hesitation when they speak my name.
Nathaniel mirrors that ease—relaxed, luminous beneath the golden light. His arm rests behind me with the casual certainty of a man who knows exactly where he belongs in this pecking order and has no need to prove it.
Whenever the conversation tilts toward something I can’t quite follow—a new gallery in Tribeca, an avant-garde performance that sold out in minutes—he draws me back in with a subtle prompt, a question that opens the door again.
His presence makes me brave. I start laughing more easily, even teasing back once or twice.
The look in his eyes when I do—unmistakable pride, unabashed affection—feels like sunlight on skin.
Courses appear and disappear like a well-rehearsed play: a single scallop dressed in saffron foam, lamb crusted with herbs, a citrus sorbet sent out in curls of dry ice that spill across the table like fog.
Conversation slows to a pleasant hum. Under the linen, Nathaniel’s hand finds mine, his thumb tracing a slow, grounding line across my palm.
For a breath, I think—this must be what belonging feels like.
Dessert plates are cleared. The lights dim by a shade, and the music recedes until only the faint whisper of bows on strings remains. A ripple of expectation passes through the room.
A man steps onto the small stage—tall, tanned, the kind of charisma that can hush a hall without raising his voice. The auctioneer. His smile flashes as he greets the crowd.
Servers move quietly between tables, topping glasses, collecting stray napkins.
Guests remain seated, paddles ready. The first lot—a Picasso sketch—sparks an easy rhythm of bids.
Bids echo across the room, each one delivered with the confidence of people accustomed to proving they can afford to care.
I watch, transfixed. It’s my first live auction, and the choreography fascinates me—the tilt of a paddle, the subtle nod that signals another ten thousand.
I lean closer to Nathaniel. “This still feels surreal to me.”
“Hmm?” He hums against my temple, the vibration of his voice brushing through my hair before he presses a kiss there.
“I keep thinking someone’s going to tap me on the shoulder and ask what I’m doing here.” I look down at my hands in my lap. “Every moment feels like some kind of test.”
“Hey.” His fingers slip beneath my chin, coaxing my gaze back to his. “It’s not. But if it were, you’d have passed it long ago.” His anchors me with his eyes. “You never have to feel out of place, Olivia. Wherever I am—you belong.”
I can only nod in response.
The next lot draws murmurs—antique jewelry glittering under a narrow beam of light. Guests drift toward the displays between bids, admiring, pretending to debate. The room buzzes with conversation, the tempo languid but charged.
Nathaniel excuses himself—something about checking in with the event coordinator—and presses a quick kiss to my temple before stepping away from the table.
Before he’s even out of sight, a flicker of ivory catches my eye, cutting through the sea of black tuxedos and sequins.
She drifts along the perimeter, posture elegant, movements calibrated for notice.
No glass in her hand this time—just a clutch of silk and confidence.
She pauses beside the display near our table, pretending to admire the diamonds under the spotlight.
Her laughter carries a little too easily, polished to perfection, yet hollow at the edges.
She glides over and slides into Nathaniel’s vacated seat with grace.
And I know before a word is spoken: Anne Vanderhoof is back for a rematch.
“You know,” she starts without preamble, “it just dawned on me why Nathaniel never reached out when he got back to the city.” Her smile is feline and predatory. “I half expected him to show up at my door the way he used to—impatient, already half undressed.” A giggle follows. It turns my stomach.
She leans one elbow against the table, eyes glinting. “He must still be upset with me about last Christmas. I suppose I deserve that. I vanished without saying a word, after all. Monaco will do that to a girl. With a prince, no less.”
She offers me a conciliatory grin. “He was charming, generous…but even royal stamina has its limits. Nathaniel always did set an impossible standard. And so insatiable!”
Anne laughs softly, the sound intimate enough to feel indecent. “I still remember how he left a board dinner early—” She breaks off, feigning discretion. “He barely made it through the appetizer, more eager to get his head between my legs.”
The image hits before I can stop it—her body, his mouth—and the thought alone makes me recoil.
Anne drinks it in, victorious. She leans closer, voice lowering to a whisper that’s meant to sound private but carries easily.
“He always gets this look,” she breathes. “Right before he loses control… The way he—”
Something hot and sharp unfurls inside me, a pulse of jealousy twisted with possession, startling in its clarity.
“Sounds like you should circle back to that prince, Anne,” I interrupt, my tone cool enough to frost glass. “Maybe make some new memories. Because while you’re stuck in Nathaniel’s past, I’m his future.”
I hit my mark. Anne’s smile falters just enough to satisfy me.
I rise slowly, smoothing the silk at my hip. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need a change of scenery.”
Nathaniel appears at my side, concern tightening his features when he sees my face. “What’s wrong?” he asks quietly.
“There’s just this…sickening smell of gardenias,” I say, eyes still on Anne. “It’s starting to make my head spin.”
His hand finds the small of my back before I can take a step. “Then we’ll go,” he says simply.
Anne opens her mouth—a stammer between protest and plea—but the words fall uselessly as we turn away. The crowd yields instinctively, parting around us. Nathaniel’s hand never leaves me, his body angled protectively close, his composure absolute.
We slip through a side arch of the Forum. The corridor stretches ahead, washed in amber light that pools across the floor. Every sound is amplified—the whisper of my gown, the echo of his measured steps, the uneven rhythm of my breath.
He doesn’t let go, guiding me with the quiet insistence of his touch. I can feel him willing me to look at him, but I keep my gaze forward. Facing him now would shatter the composure that I’m clinging to.
His silence vibrates with intent. I can almost sense the words he’s weighing and discarding—he’s desperate to speak but already certain that anything he says will only make things worse.
“Olivia, what—”
“Not now.”
Silence descends again, denser than before. The corridor seems to lengthen with every step.
The scenes Anne conjured won’t leave me. They loop in my mind—too vivid, designed to humiliate. She wanted me to imagine her with Nathaniel and to suffer for it.
Yet what rises now isn’t fury, it’s recognition of the same need that has always fueled Nathaniel. For the first time, I can understand it—this desire to belong to him and to make him belong to me.
The emotions curling through me feel dangerous, but not wrong. Jealousy burns differently than I expected: clear, hot, oddly exhilarating.
At the base of the grand stairwell, Nathaniel turns left instead of heading toward the exit. He doesn’t explain, and I don’t ask. My heels strike the stone in steady rhythm as I follow. His need for privacy is reflex; my willingness to follow, the same.
We pass beneath another arch and the McGraw Rotunda unfolds—vaulted, luminous, painted with history. Saints and scholars watch from the ceiling, their gold-leaf halos flickering in the filtered light. The gala’s laughter is distant now, muffled through stone.
Along the edges, roses mass on narrow tables—Renée’s signature—petals glistening as if they’ve just been cut. The scent hangs thick and sweet until it turns claustrophobic.
Our footsteps echo across marble—my heels betray my nerves, the sound uneven, sharp.
We stop beneath the mural Story of the Recorded Word.
A long oak table waits there, strewn with stray champagne flutes left from earlier service.
I steady myself against it. Nathaniel faces me, hands hovering between apology and fear.
“Baby, please listen to me… Whatever she said back there, I need you to know that nobody else matters—”
He sounds cautious, gentle—the voice of someone diffusing a crisis. I know him well enough to read the panic behind it. He’s already spiraling toward damage control for fear of me leaving. He doesn’t realize that running from him hasn’t even crossed my mind.
“My love…” I interrupt, voice soft but sure. “I know.”
He goes still.