Chapter 25
NATALIE
It’s been a week since the attack. A week since Roland nearly died. A week since I found myself shoved into the glaring spotlight of public attention I never wanted.
And now, things at work are different.
The office looks the same—same glass walls, same cold lighting, same relentless hum of productivity—but it seems different, like I’ve stepped into a version of my life that doesn’t quite fit anymore.
Eyes follow me when I walk into the building.
Conversations pause just a second too long when I pass.
There’s a tension, a ripple, every time I walk through the halls.
I try not to notice. I keep my head high, my spine straight. But the whispers trail behind me anyway.
They know.
They all saw it—the news coverage, the headlines, the breathless speculation. Natalie Thorne, the fiancée of Ethan Wilder, billionaire. The woman nearly killed in a targeted attack. The man who saved her? In critical condition.
I catch glimpses of it in the way people glance away when I meet their eyes. Not hostile, not overt. Just... watchful. Like I’ve become something they don’t quite know how to address. Not quite one of them, not quite separate.
It’s strange, surreal. I’ve always worked hard to be seen for my merit. My results. My decisions. Now, all anyone sees is Ethan’s shadow looming over me.
Yet the whispers haven’t all been negative.
There are quiet undercurrents of support, too.
I’ve heard them in passing. The staff who still remember what happened just a few weeks ago.
How Ethan had a wave of unjust terminations during my month-long absence.
How I fought to bring some of them back.
I didn’t do it for gratitude. I did it because it was right.
But people remember. And word has gotten around.
“I heard they’re living together. Did you notice they leave at the same time?”
“But they’re so professional at work.”
“Engaged? Didn’t he just take over the company a few months ago?”
“They must have been together for longer if they’re engaged.”
“She might be his fiancée, but she’s nothing like him.”
“She stood up to him. Saved our jobs.”
“So they liked each other, big deal.”
Those words aren’t meant for me to hear, but I do. And they matter more than I want to admit. Because in a place where power is currency, and appearances are everything, I still want to be seen for the right reasons.
I’m not just Ethan’s fiancée. I’m still Natalie. I still have work to do.
The pressure is different now, heavier. It’s not just about getting numbers right or managing client expectations. Now it’s about proving something. Every minute of every day.
That I earned my place here. That I didn’t sleep my way to the top. That I can hold my own against Ethan Wilder .
Because the rumors don’t stop at the engagement. They spiral. There are whispers about favoritism. About how long we’ve been involved. About whether I’m the reason Ethan’s been more distracted in meetings lately.
They don’t know the truth. That we’re still navigating whatever this is. That there are no rings. No wedding dates. Just sleepless nights, lingering touches, and more danger than either of us expected.
Yet, the narrative has already been written. And now I’m walking through it, trying to hold my head above the words others have chosen for me.
I bury myself in work. There are still performance evaluations that have to be done, updating the payrolls, dealing with HR complaints.
I still have to deal with issues from the warehouse and the factory.
It’s easier to hide in spreadsheets than to confront the awkward silence that follows me down every corridor.
It also doesn’t help that Ethan keeps checking in on me.
He comes to my office so many times, I have half a mind to lock him in his own and swallow the key.
But at night, I sense his fear as he holds me close, the tension within him as he claims my body with desperate intensity.
He loves me.
He’s scared of losing me.
I couldn’t hear it louder if he screamed it at me.
And me?
I find myself running my fingers through his hair as he sleeps beside me, restless, trying to soothe him, to tell him I’m here, that I’m not going anywhere.
And when he’s deep under, I whisper the words I don’t have the courage to tell him just yet.
‘I love you.’
Deep down, I’m still recovering too. My body is healing, but my mind? Not so much. I still flinch when I cross the street. I still dream about the screech of tires, the way Roland’s body shielded mine. The way I thought it would all end in a blink.
But I survived. Because of Roland.
I owe him more than I can say.
Ethan has kept his word. He takes me to see Roland every morning before we come to work.
Roland’s sometimes sleeping, but he’s always happy to see me.
He talks about everything and anything, but each word drips with the loneliness of an old man who has no one in his life.
Perhaps he had been seeking comfort in someone, and he liked me.
But there’s nothing romantic in the way he holds my hand and talks to me, or in the way he smiles at me.
His recovery is going well. In another two weeks, he’ll be discharged.
But as the weeks go by, the police are still clueless about the driver of the car who tried to run me down. Ethan is getting angrier by the day. I’m not at the receiving end of his temper, but everybody else is.
“You’ve got to relax,” I tell him as he sits on the couch at home, brooding. “You’re not helping anyone by getting this worked up. I’m being careful, aren’t I? I don’t go anywhere without you. Our baby is safe.”
When he doesn’t respond, staring into his glass of unfinished scotch, I let out a sigh.
“Ethan? Ethan, are you listening to me?”
“I am.”
“Are you hearing me?”
“I’m not deaf.”
Glaring at him, I walk over and straddle him. That gets his attention.
“What was I saying?” I demand.
“I’m not in the mood, Natalie.” Even as he says that, his hand curls around my waist to balance me. Or hold me .
“Well, I am. And I want you to pay attention to me.” The challenge in my voice is unmistakable.
“I’m always paying attention to you.” He frowns at me.
“Really? Then what was I saying?”
He doesn’t answer.
Without hesitation, I pull off my shirt, leaving myself in only my bra.
“Natalie.” There’s a warning edge to his voice.
I unclip my bra, pulling it off, the cool air brushing against my sensitive skin.
“Will you be able to hear me now?”
The anger fades from his eyes, replaced by amusement and something darker, hungrier. “Are you trying to seduce me?”
“Only if it’s working.” I lean forward, arms settling on his shoulders. I can smell the scotch on him, and when I brush my lips against his, I hear the sound of the glass clinking as if he’s setting it down.
And then he gets up, his mouth pressing against mine, fiercely, hungrily, his hands holding my thighs as he carries me to the bedroom.
He gently tosses me on the bed, and I reach up and loosen his tie, sliding it off and tossing it to the ground.
My fingers make quick work of the top buttons of his shirt, just enough to expose the taut lines of his chest, the smooth skin that heats under my touch.
I brush my lips over the hollow of his throat, soft and slow.
“Natalie—” His voice is a warning, a threat.
I love him like this. Caged. Coiled. On the edge of giving in.
“Lie back,” I whisper.
He does.
I climb onto his lap, straddling him with deliberate slowness, letting my bare chest brush against his shirt. He’s hard already, pressed tight against his pants, and when I grind against him, he growls, the sound vibrating through my body .
“Natalie...”
I kiss him, deep and dirty, biting at his lower lip. And when I pull back, I lean in to whisper against his ear. “What are you going to do?”
His hands are on me in an instant, gripping my hips, flipping us so I’m beneath him in one fluid motion. His mouth claims mine with bruising intensity. There’s no hesitation now.
“Since when did you get so bold?” he rasps.
I grin. “Since I like riling you up.”
That’s all it takes.
His smirk is devilish, holding a hint of promise that makes me shiver. “Where’s your box?”
I blink. “My what?”
“The box you keep, with all your little ‘friends.’”
I half sit up, alarmed. “Ethan?—”
But he’s already walking away from me and heading to my closet, bringing out a small wooden box. The lock on it is flimsy, and he breaks it with one tug.
My face feels hot as I sink back onto the bed. “Don’t you dare.”
He draws out a sleek black wand and approaches me, picking up his tie from the floor. The look in his eyes makes my heartbeat quicken, my legs pressing together involuntarily.
When he reaches me, his expression has shifted completely—focused, commanding.
“Hands above your head,” he says.
The dark edge to his voice rubs against me, a velvety sensation that lights a trail of fire against my skin. I feel myself grow wet with anticipation.
“Now, Natalie.”
“I was supposed to be doing the seducing,” I complain, and he smacks me on the hip, the sharp sting sending heat through my core.
“I won’t ask again. ”
My arms lift over my head, excitement filling me.
“Grab the bed frame.”
My fingers curl around the wooden frame, cool against my heated skin.
He ties the blindfold over my eyes, gently but firmly, stealing the room from view, heightening every sound, every breath, every brush of air. I feel the bed dip, his weight returning. His hands ghost over my ribs, my hips, the insides of my thighs. Teasing.
“You’re beautiful like this,” he murmurs, his voice like honey and gravel.
The wand buzzes to life.
He doesn’t press it to me right away. No, Ethan’s crueler than that. He traces it along my inner thighs, over my stomach, letting it hum near—but not on—my clit. I arch instinctively, and he chuckles low.
“Needy already?”
“Ethan...”