Chapter 2
Natalie was still warm from the encounter in the lobby, her skin buzzing with the ghost of her stranger’s touch, her mind stubbornly replaying the way his gaze had pinned her in place.
She’d told herself to focus on work, but the awareness lingered, threading through her with every step toward her next client meeting.
Unfortunately, that warm, fuzzy feeling changed the instant she reached the door.
The familiar scent hit her first—a faint, woodsy cologne she hadn’t smelled in years but would never forget.
The warmth her stranger had left in her veins iced over in an instant.
Natalie froze, every muscle locking tight.
The smell wrapped around her like a cold, invisible hand, squeezing until her pulse spiked and her stomach churned with old, unwelcome memories.
Her second warning came from the woman in the doorway. The smile she wore was too bright. Too fixed. The heavy makeup couldn’t quite disguise the exhaustion shadowing her eyes.
“Are you Natalie Gibbons?” the woman asked, her voice thin and shaky, as if she were balancing on the edge of something sharp and dangerous.
Ignoring the tension knotting in her shoulders, Natalie extended her hand. “Yes. And you’re Henrietta Ackers?”
“Yes!” The woman’s relief was immediate, though still brittle. “Oh, thank goodness I finally found you.” She gestured toward the living room, her movements too hurried, too jerky.
Natalie stepped inside—and immediately felt smothered.
The space was immaculate to the point of lifelessness: the living room to the right contained two white sofas in rigid formation, a gleaming coffee table perfectly centered between them, a bouquet of flowers so precisely arranged it looked more like a prop than anything meant to be enjoyed.
Even the stack of art books beside it had been squared off like soldiers in formation.
A gilt mirror on the mantle reflected the symmetry, flanked by matching candlesticks.
Every element was deliberate. And utterly without soul.
“Please, come in,” Henrietta said quickly, stepping aside. “Can I get you some coffee or tea? Water?”
Natalie shook her head with a polite smile. “Thank you, but I’m fine.”
Henrietta gave a jerky nod, as though relieved she wouldn’t have to fetch anything, and motioned to one of the white sofas.
Natalie set her leather tote gently on the floor and took a seat, the pristine cushions barely giving beneath her weight. The air felt heavy, charged. Henrietta’s hands fluttered to her hair, smoothing already motionless strands.
“You were looking for me specifically?” Natalie prompted, keeping her tone professional despite the unease slithering up her spine. Normally, being requested by name was flattering. Now it set off alarm bells.
Henrietta’s fingers twisted in her lap. “Yes.” She hesitated, then her voice dropped to a whisper. “Well, not me. My husband… he saw some of your work and… asked that I hire you to decorate our home.”
Asked. The word lodged in Natalie’s gut like a stone. The tremor in Henrietta’s voice, the stiffness in her posture—it all felt like someone bracing for a blow.
Natalie opened her notebook, determined to push forward. “Why don’t we start with your budget and which rooms you’d like to redecorate?”
Before Henrietta could speak, the front door burst open. The slam reverberated like a gunshot. Henrietta flinched so violently Natalie’s pulse lurched in response. Any bit of warmth from earlier was long gone; in its place came the crawling, suffocating weight of dread.
And then he appeared.
Mark Soloman.
The air punched out of her lungs. Her ex-fiancé walked in with the same calculated arrogance she remembered too well, his tailored suit a perfect armor, his expression unreadable but for the flicker of satisfaction in his eyes.
He crossed to Henrietta, bending for a perfunctory kiss to her forehead while his gaze locked onto Natalie, smug and unyielding.
Meanwhile, Henrietta seemed to shrink under his touch.
“Hello, Natalie,” he said smoothly, his tone almost amused.
Her throat tightened. She forced herself to meet his eyes with what she hoped looked like indifference. “Mark.”
His smile curved, mock-friendly. “I hope you can do better with this space than my wife. She’s absolutely hopeless at decorating.”
The words were sugar-dipped venom. Natalie caught the way Henrietta’s cheeks flushed as she stared at the floor. But Natalie knew this game. She had played it before. And she’d barely escaped with her sanity.
Closing her notebook, Natalie slid it into her tote with deliberate precision, as if each movement hammered a nail into her decision.
“I’m sorry,” she said, turning her full attention to Henrietta, her voice calm but edged with finality.
“I’m not the right designer for this project.
I wouldn’t be able to meet your husband’s expectations—and I won’t set either of us up for that kind of failure. ”
Henrietta’s eyes widened, panic flashing bright before it dimmed into resignation. Natalie’s heart squeezed. She recognized that look—the mix of fear and shame that came from living in someone else’s shadow.
Mark, of course, rocked back on his heels, smugness radiating off him like cheap cologne. He thought he’d cornered her. He thought she’d fold.
Natalie rose, smoothing her skirt with a practiced sweep, and met Henrietta’s gaze again with determination.
“You deserve a home that feels like yours,” she said quietly, letting the words linger as a lifeline before she turned toward the door.
Her heels struck the Brazilian cherry floor in sharp, even beats that echoed like punctuation.
At the threshold, Natalie hesitated and turned back to look at the couple.
Henrietta sat frozen, her shoulders curved inward as if under the weight of chains no one else could see.
Mark stood behind her, eyes glinting with the kind of satisfaction Natalie used to fear. Now it only fueled her contempt.
She shook her head once, not at Henrietta, but at him—a silent promise that he hadn’t won anything.
Outside, the crisp autumn air rushed over her like a cleansing tide, filling her lungs and cooling the heat still burning in her chest. She drew in a long breath and let it out slowly, feeling the tightness in her muscles begin to unwind.
By the time she reached her car, her steps had quickened. She tossed her bag onto the passenger seat and slid behind the wheel, her hands steady despite the adrenaline still coursing through her. Never in her career had she “fired” a client, but today it had been the only choice.
Mark hadn’t changed. He was still the manipulative narcissist, still thriving on making others feel small.
Her jaw clenched as she pulled onto the street. It had taken four years to rebuild her life, her confidence, her career brick by painstaking brick. Seeing him again had rattled her—but it would not break her.
Not this time.
Her grip on the wheel tightened, eyes fixed on the road ahead. Mark Soloman no longer had any power over her. She wouldn’t give him an inch. Not today. Not ever.