Chapter 29 - Nathaniel
TWENTY-NINE
nathaniel
She hid it well.
I see that now, as I dissect every glance and shift in her expression the way others study surveillance footage.
The hesitation before she answered, as if calibrating a response.
The unmistakable exhale of relief when I provided a convenient explanation, and she took it.
Her lie fit so neatly inside mine it almost felt rehearsed.
If it had been her mother, I would have known how to respond. Claudia is predictable, and I’d know exactly how to neutralize the chaos she stirs in Olivia. But this—this nameless variable she felt the need to hide—is far more unsettling.
At dinner she tried too hard to seem at ease. She smiled in all the right places, laughed when I teased her—but the timing was off, just enough to give her away. Her hand stayed in mine but her eyes, occasionally, did not.
Later, as we lay in bed, I was the one who reached for her first. She softened under my touch—as she always does when words fail between us—but there was something in the way she moved that made me hold her tighter, as if closeness could steady whatever had shifted.
I took my time with her, tracing the edges of her ribs, her throat, the soft part of her hips until her breath stuttered against my skin.
When I finally pushed into her, the need in me was near feral—a plea for confirmation, for connection, for her.
She met me perfectly, every movement pulling me closer until we came undone together.
For a while, it felt like peace—her body limp in my arms, her hands still tracing lazy shapes down my spine. She whispered something that sounded like love, and I believed her.
Sleep came quickly. I must have drifted, because the next time I opened my eyes, the room was washed in the blue light of her phone.
She’d slipped from my arms and was sitting half-turned away, wearing one of my shirts.
I kept my breathing steady, watching through half-closed lids.
The screen glowed against her skin, her thumb moving in small, intentional gestures.
Whatever she was reading held her completely still.
A dozen questions pressed against the back of my throat, but I stayed silent.
I told myself it was nothing. That she was scrolling to distract herself.
That trust, if it meant anything, had to look like this—me lying still while every instinct in me wanted to reach for her, to see what she was seeing.
When she finally set the phone aside and lay back down, I closed my eyes before she turned. Her head settled against my shoulder, her breathing evening out. I waited until it matched mine before letting my hand find her waist again.
I could have looked. I almost did. But I’d promised her, and I keep my promises—even the ones that cost me sleep.
I decided then I’d give her a day. One day to come to me, to prove that the honesty she promised wasn’t conditional. And if she didn’t—well, she’d said I could always ask.
And I will.
By the time the following evening arrives, I’m ready to break my promise.
The question sits on my tongue, heavy and insistent. I plan the moment I’ll ask her—on the drive, maybe, or after dinner. But when I see her waiting in the lobby, everything inside me unclenches.
She’s radiant. Hair loose, face open, a kind of softness I haven’t seen in weeks. When she looks up, the entire floor seems to tilt toward her. Whatever I thought I needed to say dissolves.
We end up in Greenwich Village, where the air smells of warm bread and rain-washed brick.
Dinner is simple—pasta, wine, the kind of table where elbows touch.
It’s a far cry from the dinner we had last night.
She talks easily, her laughter spilling over mine, and each time she looks at me I forget that I came here with an agenda.
Afterward, we go on a walk. The streets are narrow, lanterns glow through the trees.
Townhouses line both sides, elegant without pretense—red brick, brass knockers, ivy reaching toward high windows.
She slows in front of one with a black-lacquered door and iron railings.
The kind of house that costs more than reason allows.
“It’s beautiful,” she murmurs. “Could you imagine living somewhere like this?”
“Maybe someday,” I tell her, smiling softly. “If that’s what you want.”
What I don’t say is that I’d buy her any house she looked at twice—that I’d buy the whole street if it meant she’d stay. Because without her, no house would ever feel like home.
She studies the building a moment longer, then says, “I wonder if there’s a garden out back. It looks like the kind of place that should have one—for a dog to run around. Or kids.”
The word lodges in me like a hook. Kids. The thought flares bright, dangerous, too soon.
So I rein it in, turn it toward safer ground. “Have you ever had a dog?”
She smiles. “My parents wouldn’t let me. Always wanted one. You?”
“Never,” I admit. “But I wanted one too.”
“Then maybe someday we should get one,” she says, and the word we lands deep. It’s small, almost playful, but it rewrites everything inside me.
I let myself lean into it, just a little. “What kind?”
She pretends to consider. “Something small. Something that snores.”
“A French Bulldog,” I say, already seeing it—her laughing as it waddles behind her in the kitchen.
Her lips curve. “Perfect.”
We keep walking, her arm brushing mine. I hold on to the ease of the moment, yet the thought won’t leave me. The word kids keeps circling in my mind, stubborn as a refrain. I tell myself to let it go, to play it cool… I last all of a minute before the question slips out. “Do you want children?”
She glances at me, considering. “I used to think I didn’t. After raising my brothers, I wanted to focus on my career first—have my own life before taking care of anyone else. But someday, yes. I’d want a family. A different kind from what I grew up with. Warm. Loving.”
Her words pull something from me I can’t hide.
“Then that’s what I want too,” I say. She smiles at the simplicity of it, unaware of how completely I mean it. The truth is, I want her in every version of a life she dreams of. However she wants it, whatever she wants, I’ll give it to her.
But if she wants children, then she’ll have them with me. I can already see her in that house behind the ivy, laughter in the hallways, a baby in her arms—and me, somewhere in every frame of it.
She tilts her head toward the townhouse again. “I’d want to raise our kids somewhere like this. A place that feels like home.”
Our kids. The phrase flares through me like light catching glass. I swallow it down, memorizing the sound of her voice, the movement of her hand as she points toward the window boxes.
For the first time in days, my mind goes still. Whatever she’s hiding can wait. Her happiness eclipses everything. The questions that once burned now seem trivial beside the image of her standing beneath these trees, dreaming of a life she might share with me.
Later, I’ll ask. Later, I’ll know.
Tonight, I only want her joy.
The corridors of the Caldwell estate stretch ahead like something half-remembered.
I know every turn, every portrait, yet they feel altered—less like a museum of ghosts, more like a home again.
My steps echo lightly against the parquet as I make my way toward the west wing, where my mother keeps her office.
I can’t remember when I’ve last spent this much time with her.
It must have been before Alex’s death, when laughter still traveled freely down these halls. This rekindling has surprised me. It’s cautious, yes, but steady in its own way—like testing a bridge long neglected and finding it still holds.
Like yesterday, I’m here again under the guise of work—helping her review investment allocations for one of her charitable trusts. A convenient pretext, really.
My mother’s instincts with money are sharper than most men’s. She doesn’t need my counsel, and we both know it. But I play along, amused and touched by the pretense. It’s her way of asking for time without admitting she wants it.
I’m grateful for it too.
She’s been generous—patiently scouting proposal sites with me, never once teasing when I dismissed each one as wrong. Her support means more to me than I care to say aloud.
There’s also something strangely soothing about being near her again, about the rhythm we’ve found that feels almost domestic. For years, we’ve spoken only through duty. Now, we’re learning to speak as family again.
Besides, the distraction helps.
This morning, dropping Olivia off at Caldwell Tower was harder than I’d expected, especially after the perfect night we had. For the first time, it felt like she was finally seeing the future the way I do—not as a mere possibility, but an eventuality.
I can’t stand the thought of leaving her now, of being apart at all. Every separation feels undeserved after reaching such harmony.
Still, I remind myself that today is her last day at Caldwell Ventures.
I’m proud of my girl—how she’s thrived under my father’s watch—but it’s been a test of restraint. I’ve had to let her move through his world without me, to prove to both of us that she can.
I tell myself I’ve done well. I’ve respected her space. I’ve waited for her honesty. Tonight, she’ll be finished. No more separate days, no more distance between us.
I turn down the last corridor, the one leading to my mother’s office. As I near the door, movement catches my eye. Someone’s already there.
The scent reaches me first—gardenias, cloying and excessive.
Anne Vanderhoof steps out, smile polished, posture perfect. Every line of her outfit seems calculated for admiration, and her expression brightens the moment she sees me.
“Nathaniel,” she says, drawing out my name as if savoring it. “What a lovely surprise.”
She closes the door softly behind her, clutching a leather folder to her chest. Her perfume thickens the air, sweet enough to choke on.