19. Natalie
NATALIE
Iwake in my own bed. We came back here after the gala. I needed to be on home turf for what comes next. Not that I got to it last night. I was…distracted. Three times, if we’re being exact. It felt like Henry was making up for every second he’d had to wait. I let him. Happily.
Now he’s asleep beside me, sheets tangled low at his waist, his face softened in the early light. I let my eyes trace him but I can’t lie here pretending forever. Last night, I had an excuse. I was emotional and exhausted. This morning, I don’t have that luxury. He needs to know the truth.
Still, I hesitate because I’ve never told anyone in this world.
For years, I’ve let people believe I come from privilege.
That I’m like them. That I belong. The reality is messier.
Saying it out loud feels like handing someone a weapon and hoping they won’t use it.
And trusting someone with that kind of power? That’s never come easily to me.
What if it changes how he sees me? What if he tells someone? There are too many what-ifs to count, but if I really want him, I can’t keep hiding forever.
I poke his chest. “We need to talk.”
Henry rolls toward me with a groan, eyes still closed. “That sounds serious.”
“It is.” My throat feels tight. “There’s…something I should have told you before now.”
That gets his attention. His lashes lift, eyes locking on mine. Even half-asleep, he’s infuriatingly handsome, and the sleepy smile he gives me nearly knocks the words out of my mouth. I almost let it. Almost pretend for another day. But I steel myself.
“I’m not who you think I am exactly,” I blurt.
His brow creases. “You’re Natalie Wright. Woman who drives me crazy. Terrible texter. Did I miss something?”
I huff a laugh, nerves fizzing in my chest. “My family doesn’t have money. We never did.”
For a moment, silence stretches. I brace for the shift in his face, a flicker of judgment.
Instead, Henry just studies me, like he’s cataloguing something important. Then he leans in and kisses my forehead.
“I know,” he says quietly, like it’s no big deal.
“What do you mean, you know?”
“I looked into you.”
“What?”
Henry doesn’t flinch. “Of course I did. You think I’d let myself fall into something without knowing who you are?”
“You ran a background check on me?”
“Not like that.” He runs a hand over his jaw. “I just needed to know who I was dealing with.”
I stare at him, torn between outrage and something close to relief. “You’re supposed to be horrified. Or at least surprised.”
“I am surprised,” he says after a beat. “Surprised you think that I’d care.”
His hand slides down my arm until our fingers lace. “Also, I’m surprised you got where you are so fast. I’m a little jealous, honestly.”
“Jealous?”
“You built everything on talent. No shortcuts.”
The words flatter me more than I want them to but I try not to let it show. “Oh, it must’ve been so hard growing up with money and opportunity,” I tease.
“It wasn’t,” Henry admits. “But it’s hard to feel good about yourself when you know the deck was stacked in your favor.”
“Well, I don’t feel sorry for you,” I say, smiling.
“I don’t want you to.” He leans back, relaxed, completely unbothered. “But don’t think the trust fund made me. I would’ve figured it out either way.”
“Trust fund?”
“My brothers and I each got one when we turned twenty-one. Eighty-five apiece. We’ve all grown it…as far as I know.”
At first, the number just floats there, too big to process. Then it clicks.
“You have eighty-five million dollars?” I ask.
“No,” he says evenly. “Much more.”
My mouth goes dry. Of course he does. I press my face lightly to his chest, half to hide the expression I can’t control.
He shifts, clears his throat. “It’s…ah, not really something I talk about. Feels tacky, putting numbers to it. I’d rather you didn’t…you know…tell people.”
I tilt my head at him, pretending to consider. “You don’t want me to ruin your reputation as a scrappy underdog? Relax. Your secret’s safe with me.”
His smile fades into something steadier. “I don’t want secrets with you. I’d rather you know everything. Even the ugly parts. Especially the ugly parts.”
“There are some things we should keep separate. For now,” I say carefully. “Work stuff, mostly.”
His brows lift. “Separate how?”
“We can’t talk about work. It’s not right.”
He watches me for a beat, considering. Then he nods slowly. “Alright. Wasn’t planning on pumping you for Vue’s secrets anyway.”
After a coffee and croissant breakfast, Henry clears the mugs while I scroll through the headlines from last night. My feed is stacked with variations of the same thing: Henry and Isla Reignite? Former It Couple Back Together at AHFF Gala.
I hold up my phone, expression flat. “Your mom really made you take her? For publicity?”
“It worked, didn’t it?”
I glance back down at the dozen articles clogging my screen. He’s not wrong. Their photo is everywhere. Isla in that silver dress, Henry looking perfectly indifferent beside her. The comments are worse. People rooting for them to get back together.
“Isla knew what it was,” he says, watching me a little too closely. “We barely spoke all night. I think she’s still pissed I ended it.”
“I thought it was mutual?” The words slip out before I can stop them. Great. Now he knows I’ve read the articles about their split.
He gives a dry laugh. “Not even close. She fought hard but I was done. She always liked the attention more than she liked me.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“That’s because you actually like me,” he says, smug as ever.
And for once, I don’t have the urge to argue. He kisses the top of my head like it’s settled, like that explains everything. Maybe it does, but the headlines still sit heavy in my chest.
“Okay, calendar time,” he says, drying his hands. “I’m free every night, except maybe Friday. Might be a late one.”
Carter’s show. My heart lurches. This is where it gets tricky. I can’t tell him we’ve moved ours up. Not yet. But he’s obviously going to find out.
“I’m free every night except Thursday,” I say, keeping my voice light. “There’s a work thing.”
He raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t press. Just nods. “Alright. Monday, you’ll come to mine. Tuesday, I’ll come here. Wednesday, mine. How late on Thursday?”
“I don’t know. Probably better not to plan anything.”
He frowns. “Yeah…same with Friday. I don’t like that.” He tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “And I guess Sunday’s out for you too with your show?”
I nod, heart thudding. It’s not. Guilt tightens in my chest. I hate lying to him. But if he found out ahead of time, he’d have to say something, and then…I don’t know what.
This has just started and it’s already a mess.