Chapter 25 #2
In the mirror, the bruise at my neck blooms darker than I expected. Olivia’s gaze snags on it instantly.
“It’s bruising quite badly…” she remarks, guilt threading through her voice as she bites her lip.
I trail my fingers over the mark. “That’s the point.” A smile tugs at my lips when I see her brows pull together.
She reaches up, fingertips grazing the tender skin as if she can undo it.
“Does it hurt?” she asks.
“Only when you stop touching me.”
That earns me a flustered look. Before she can pull her hand back, I take it gently and turn her wrist toward my mouth. My lips find the soft skin there, dragging a slow kiss over her pulse.
She inhales sharply and her knees shift under the water.
“Don’t feel bad,” I tell her, stroking her knuckles. “You only gave me what I asked for.”
She hums, eyes darting away, and I release her wrist—if only to offer her some reprieve, even as a part of me savors the effect I still have on her up to now.
She scoops warm water over my shoulders, letting it run down my chest before smoothing lather along my collarbone. I mirror her motions, running suds down her arms, over the curve of her shoulder. The rhythm settles us, as if we’re easing ourselves back from the intensity that carried us here.
My thumb glides over the delicate ridge of her collarbone, clearing the last of the soap. She softens under the touch, and something inside me does the same. God, how she steadies me in ways I could never manage on my own.
And she deserves that from me too.
I’d wanted to tell her about Anne from the moment I got her alone at the gala, but she wasn’t ready to hear it then, and I didn’t want to force it.
Still, it’s not something I want shadowing us.
Not when she chose to trust me in a moment that would’ve rattled anyone else.
She gave me that grace. I need to prove I’m worthy of it.
My hand stills, and she notices immediately.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks, sweeping damp hair behind her ear as she studies my face.
Here we go. “Anne.”
Olivia stills, but she doesn’t pull away. She simply waits, giving me room to speak.
“Anne’s mother,” I begin, drawing a slow breath, “was my mother’s closest friend growing up.
Practically a sister.” I slide my hand from Olivia’s shoulder to her forearm, tracing the line of water there.
“She died when Anne was a kid. And my mother…stepped in. Tried to fill the gaps the best she could.”
Olivia nods once, encouraging without crowding me.
“So, growing up, Anne was always part of the family orbit. Always invited, always included. And from the moment we were old enough to understand what it meant, she was transparently enamored with Alex.”
Anne liked Alex so much for so long, it practically became a part of her personality. “But it wasn’t surprising. Alex was…Alex.” Charming. Bright. Effortless. Even now, I can still picture the way Anne’s gaze always slid right past me to him. She couldn’t help herself.
“And did he ever…?” Olivia starts.
“No.” I shake my head. “He always had other romantic pursuits. Never reciprocated.”
She absorbs that, eyes narrowing slightly—not at me, but at the implications.
“And then,” I say, exhaling, “one day, she made her move on me.”
Olivia’s reaction is instant—visceral. She sits up a little straighter, water shifting around her. “Like you were some kind of substitute?” The edge in her voice is unmistakable.
I can’t help it—I smile, helplessly fond. Her anger on my behalf hits me harder than any explanation I could offer.
“No,” I say gently. “She wasn’t thinking of me at all.”
Her brows pull together.
“She slept with me to get Alex’s attention,” I explain. “She thought…being with his twin would finally make him notice her. She was very pragmatic about it.”
Olivia’s mouth parts in disbelief before twisting into a scowl. “As if I needed any more reasons to hate her,” she mutters.
I brush a wet strand of hair from her cheek. “I went along with it because it didn’t matter,” I admit quietly. “Anne was beautiful, familiar, uncomplicated. She didn’t want me—not really—and I didn’t care. It was easy to let her use me because I was using her right back.”
Olivia’s gaze flicks to mine, searching.
“I’d already learned where I stood,” I say. “Alex was the one people chose. I was the spare.”
Her jaw tightens at that, fury igniting behind her eyes.
“After Alex died,” I continue, adjusting in the water so my knee brushes hers. “Anne fell apart. She didn’t know what to do with her grief, so she reached for whatever reminded her of him.” I gestured to my face. “Sometimes that was me.”
Olivia shifts a little closer, her knee nudging mine back.
“I wasn’t drawn to her,” I add, firmer now, leaving no room for doubt.
“There was never a part of me that wanted her. No pull, no desire—nothing like what people assume. It wasn’t about wanting her at all.
It was two grieving kids holding onto whatever felt familiar because everything else had been blown apart. ”
She reaches for my hand.
“I wasn’t in the right frame of mind to push her away.” I entwine our fingers together. “I was numb. Lost. And she fit into the shape of what my life had been before everything went wrong.”
In hindsight, it was a mistake. Anne’s attachment to Alex was its own grief, but letting myself become the outlet for it was like death by a thousand cuts.
Every time we hooked up, it reinforced my worst insecurity—that I was the stand-in, the consolation prize, the twin people settled for when they couldn’t have him.
I exhale. “It tapered off in college. She went to Cambridge, I went to Halford. An ocean between us helped me gain some perspective.” A rueful tilt of my mouth.
I scrub a hand through my hair, the memory sour. “I didn’t try hard enough to stop it completely, though,” I admit. “When we were both home for the holidays, it was easy to fall back into familiar patterns. And every time, I hated myself a little more for letting it happen.”
I glance at Olivia, afraid of what I’ll see. To my relief, her expression is void of judgment.
“When she moved back to New York after graduation, she made it very clear that she wanted more. And on paper, it made perfect sense. But I didn’t want that.
Not with her.” I shake my head, water sliding down my temples.
“Letting it continue would have been dishonest and unfair to both of us. So I finally ended it. For good.”
I meet Olivia’s eyes. “That was well over a year ago.”
Silence stretches. Warm water laps at the edge of the tub. I can hear my own heartbeat—too loud, too hopeful.
I don’t know what I expect her to say. I’m bracing for hesitation. Doubt. Disappointment.
“I should’ve told you sooner,” I manage, my throat tightening. “I wasn’t hiding anything. I just—”
“Nathaniel.” Her voice is soft, but it stops me cold.
She moves closer in the water, and then she’s easing herself onto my lap. Her knees bracket my hips, her thighs warm against mine. She cups my face in both hands, fingertips slipping into my hair, tilting my forehead down until it rests against hers.
“I understand,” she murmurs.
It’s just two words but the impact is staggering.
“I know it’s not easy to talk about,” she continues. “I can see how it comes from a tender place. A bruise that’s faded but still hurts when pressed.” Her thumb strokes my cheekbone, gentle as breath. “Thank you for telling me. I just… I wish I could take away some of that pain for you.”
My hands rise without thinking, covering hers, holding them there. “Baby…” My voice breaks. “You already have. You’ve taken more pain from me than you know.”
She shakes her head.
“No—listen.” I swallow. “It hurts less every day I’m with you. You can’t imagine how much you’ve healed me.”
The words spill out before I can stop them—fear, need, gratitude tangled together. I can feel the slide toward saying too much, the way I do when it’s her, and the stakes feel too high.
“Shh.” She smooths a wet lock of hair from my forehead. “I’m right here, my love. I’m with you.”
I go still.
She leans in and presses a kiss to my brow. “I see you.”
Another kiss, soft, to my left cheek. “I choose you.”
Then she draws back just enough to meet my eyes—fully, unwaveringly—and her mouth curves with the most heartbreaking smile before she whispers: “And I love you, Nathaniel Anthony Caldwell.”
In that moment, I can’t do anything but gather her closer, holding her as if that might help me understand how someone like me could ever be loved this completely by someone like her.
But she’s warm against my chest and it hits me all over again that this is real. She’s mine—just as fully as I am hers.
I wake to find Olivia’s side of the bed empty.
For a split second, my body reacts before my mind does—an instinctive jolt of fear. Then I feel the lingering warmth on her pillow and the tension loosens.
I sit up and find her sitting cross-legged in the armchair by the window, scrolling through her phone intently.
“What are you doing?” I ask, voice still rough with sleep.
She looks up, eyes bright. “I found a florist a few blocks away. I’d like to stop by before brunch.”
It’s my mother’s actual birthday today, and she’s hosting a celebration for close friends and family. By Caldwell standards, it’s intimate—fifty guests, maybe sixty. Just family and old friends.
I’ve told Olivia a dozen times there is no need to bring anything, but she insists. That steadfast conscientiousness of hers—always thinking of how to show care, how to be good—is something I’ll never stop admiring.
I would much rather spend the morning in bed, coaxing her back beneath the covers, maybe drawing a few pleasured moans from her before the day begins. But there is no version of events where I’d let her wander the city alone, so I go with her.