It is an opulence I’m not used to, though of course Nathaniel arranged every detail. He made sure there were breaks in between the whirl of powder and pins—cooling masks to calm my skin, a glass of sparkling water with lemon always within reach, the soft press of a masseuse’s hands across my shoulders when I tense without realizing. I should be overwhelmed, but there’s an oddly soothing rhythm to it all—a choreography that sweeps me along.
Still, nerves coil beneath the surface. Tonight is Renée Caldwell’s fiftieth birthday celebration—a gala held in her honor and, more importantly, to raise funds for the foundation she established to support arts education for underprivileged youth in New York.
Nathaniel explained the details to me on our flight down from Boston, his hand resting over mine as he spoke of silent auctions and donor pledges, contributions “in her honor” instead of gifts. But I know enough to understand what this really is: a glittering spectacle. Likely the biggest event I have ever attended. Christmas with the Caldwells gave me a taste of their world, but this is something else entirely.
One of the artists, a woman with winged eyeliner as sharp as her cheekbones, tried to persuade me toward a more dramatic smokey eye. But I shook my head. “Something more natural, please,” I requested, and when she hesitated, I added, “I’d like to still look like myself.”
It matters, that line. I might be stepping fully into Nathaniel’s world, but I won’t dissolve inside of it.
The compromise is what they callsoft glam: luminous skin, blush feathered high on my cheekbones, lips painted the faintest rose.
My hair, though, I left to Nathaniel. He asked, almost sheepishly, if I would wear it down tonight. So it’s curled in loose waves, the top half pinned back to frame my face the way he likes, cascading over my shoulders. When I glance at my reflection, I hardly recognize the woman looking back at me—but I can already imagine how he will.
He’s on the other side of the room, where his own preparation is less elaborate but no less meticulous: his tuxedo pressed, his hair smoothed into place by a stylist who looks like she could set diamonds with the precision of her comb. His gaze, however, never strays from me, cataloging every stage of my transformation.
“We’ll be announced as we enter,” he says, his voice carrying easily across the bustle around us. “And the press will be there.”
His lips tilt in the barest smile, his expression touched with something almost smug. The thought of us being photographed together pleases him—our public debut, sealed in flashing lights.
I swallow, forcing my shoulders back. “I’d guessed as much.”
He studies me for a moment longer, then dismisses his stylist with a quiet word and crosses the room to me. The makeup brushes fall still as the others instinctively step back, giving him room.
In his hand is a red velvet box. He opens it to reveal a necklace and matching earrings: diamonds in delicate drops that catch the light like frozen fire.
“From my mother,” he says. “She insisted you wear them tonight.”
The words land softly, but the gesture does not. Something in my chest loosens at the thought of Renée, who could so easily have kept me at arm’s length, selecting these just for me. It feels less like ornamentation and more like a welcome.
I touch the necklace, cool and delicate against my fingertips. “She didn’t have to do that.”
“No,” Nathaniel agrees. He lifts the chain, brushing my hair aside so he can clasp it at my nape. His fingers linger just a moment longer than necessary. “But she wanted to.”
When I meet his gaze in the mirror, his expression is one of reverence laced with possession. “Beautiful,” he murmurs.
When his hands fall away, the stylists return to their work. A final sweep of powder, a careful pin adjusted in my hair, the quiet click of a compact closing.
Then, they step back at last, and someone lifts the garment bag from its hanger. The blush satin gleams as it’s revealed, fluid and luminous even under the muted lights of the apartment.
Oscar de la Renta. One of the gowns Nathaniel chose for me back in winter, part of the Bergdorf Goodman spree that ended with my side of his closet filled as though I’d always lived here.
One of the stylists helps me slip out of the silk robe and into the gown, the fabric cool against my skin as it falls into place. The bias-cut satin drapes like liquid light, the neckline dipping low but not immodest, the hem pooling just so. When I step into the blush Louboutins waiting by the chair, the look is complete—all softness and precision, a fantasy made flesh.
I glance up to find Nathaniel watching me. The room is full of people, assistants bustling to gather their kits, zippers closing, chairs scraping back—but in that moment, there is only his gaze. Unwavering, awestruck, like I’ve stolen the air from his lungs.
“You’re…” He pauses, a rare falter. “God, Olivia. You’re beyond beautiful.”
Warmth creeps up my neck, a mingling of nerves and desire I can’t distinguish.
He closes the distance, his hand finding mine, thumb stroking once over the inside of my wrist as though he needs the reassurance of my pulse beneath his touch.
“The car is waiting,” he murmurs.
Fingers twined with mine, he guides me toward the elevator. I picture the limousine waiting below, polished chrome catching the last of the light, the city thrumming around it.
Whatever awaits us—the cameras, the stares, the glittering weight of his world—I will walk into it with him.
The Rolls-Royce slowsto a purr as it joins the procession on Fifth Avenue. Outside, the night glows like an old photograph—amber, honeyed, alive. A canopy of silk fabric stretches between the marble lions, Patience and Fortitude, their stone eyes watching as guests ascend through a tunnel oflight. Beyond the barricades, a thousand murmurs rise and fall beneath the pop of flashbulbs.
