She’s testing me again.
I trace the line of her cheekbone with my thumb, letting the tension sit between us for just a moment longer. “Did you pick up anything interesting at the Mayfair Book Shop today?”
Her body stills.
The smile doesn’t falter, but I see the faintest flicker in her eyes—a crack in the mask she wears so carefully. It’s subtle, but I catch it. She recovers quickly, brushing it aside like it didn’t happen.
“You know me. I can never leave a bookstore without something,” she responds smoothly. But the words are empty.
I shouldn’t have said it.
The moment the name left my mouth, I knew I gave too much away. I’ve just laid the evidence bare between us.
I force a smile, as if I didn’t notice her shift in demeanor, as if my pulse isn’t thrumming with the knowledge that I just handed her another piece of the puzzle she’s assembling.
Later that night, the quiet returns. Olivia curls beneath the covers beside me, the glow of her phone casting shadows across the room. I watch her from the corner of my eye as she scrolls, the flickering light illuminating the furrow in her brow.
She doesn’t say a word. Every now and then, her thumb hovers above the screen for just a second too long.
I want to ask. To reach for her phone and see. But I stop myself.
Instead, I lie beside her, pretending not to notice, while every nerve in my body screams that something is slipping away.
And I hate that I can’t stop it.
TWENTY
olivia
His arm lies across me,but it doesn’t feel the same. What once felt like reassurance—the steady press of his palm against my stomach, his fingers curling just enough to remind me that I’m his to hold—now feels heavier. Weighted by something else. The weight ofknowing.
I stare at the outline of the window across the room, the soft glow of morning seeping through the gaps in the curtains. The penthouse is still, save for the steady rhythm of Nathaniel’s breathing. Each exhale skims my skin, the rise and fall of his chest following in time. I know he’s awake, but he says nothing. And neither do I.
I stay there, unmoving, letting the silence build. The clock on his nightstand ticks softly, making each second that passes while my mind twists itself into knots around the same unrelenting thought:How long has he been watching me?
Not in the way he usually does—the soft, distant gaze when he thinks I’m not paying attention. Not like the gentle drag of his knuckles across my cheek as I sleep, or the way his lips brush over my hair, as if the simple act of holding me anchors him.
No.This is something else.
The bookstore wasn’t a lucky guess. I’m being confronted by something I’ve always sensed but never allowed myself to name. Now, I can’t ignore it.
Somehow, Nathaniel has been keeping tabs on me. Although thehowdoesn’t even matter right now. Thewhyis more unsettling to consider.
Nathaniel shifts behind me, his arm tightening fractionally as if he can feel me pulling away without moving an inch. I wonder if he will speak, break this fragile moment between us that feels stretched too thin.
He doesn’t.
Instead, his lips touch my shoulder, feather-light and unhurried. A quiet offering.
I inhale carefully, fighting the instinct to recoil. I let him kiss the line of my neck, let him taste the skin beneath my ear, let him think I’m sinking into it the way I always have.
I exhale and allow my body to ease into the shape of him. His hand drifts over my stomach, and I bring mine up to meet it, covering his with deliberate pressure, letting him know I’m with him. I trace slow circles over the curve of his knuckles, but the motion feels mechanical, like I’m trying to convince myself more than him.
“You slept through the alarm.” Such a simple statement, but there’s a weight to it—a gentle probe, testing the waters.
I keep my gaze on the window, my thumb still moving idly over his hand. “I guess I’m still tired.”
Nathaniel doesn’t press, but I feel him shift. His arm flexes around me, his chest presses closer to my back, as if testing just how tightly he can hold me before I protest.
