Nathaniel turns sharply, instinctively stepping in front of me, his body a shield even though I’m fully dressed. “We’ll be right there,” he says, voice clipped.
She nods once, wisely retreating. The rhythmic click of her heels fades down the hall.
Nathaniel closes his eyes, drawing in a long, ragged breath. “Of course,” he mutters in disbelief. “Renée Caldwell’s timing is always impeccable.”
He glances down at his half-undone belt, then up at me, exasperated and laughing in the same breath. It’s contagious. I find myself giggling too.
“Duty calls,” I tease softly, adjusting the lapels of his jacket.
He groans under his breath, but the frustration in his eyes has softened to something almost tender. I smooth my gown, still catching my breath, the jealousy that had gripped me earlier now melted into a languid, satisfied warmth.
“Don’t pout, my love,” I murmur. “I promise I’ll finish what I started…later.”
His eyes darken, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. Before I can pull away, he catches my wrist, pressing a kiss to the inside of it. “I’ll hold you to that.”
He tugs me closer to fix the clasp of my necklace, his thumb brushing against the base of my throat before smoothing a curl off my shoulder. I reach up to tame his hair—disheveled from my hands—but only manage to make it worse.
“You’re a mess!” I exclaim with a laugh.
“Good,” he murmurs, a grin spreading slow and rakish. “I hope everyone notices.” He leans in just slightly, his voice dropping to something conspiratorial. “Especiallyher.”
I think, to my own surprise, that I’d very much like that too—to walk back into that glittering hall and have Anne take one look at us andknow.
He offers me his hand and I thread my fingers through his. As we walk toward the archway, our reflections flash briefly in the marble—his bow tie askew, my cheeks still flushed.
Together, we descend the staircase back into the golden light of the gala—claimed, claiming, and entirely unashamed.
TWENTY-FIVE
nathaniel
We step backinto the Celeste Bartos Forum, and for once, the crush of light and sound doesn’t feel like a gauntlet. The glass dome glows overhead, warm instead of blinding, and the applause that rises as the servers wheel out the three-tiered cake feels oddly…welcome.
Candles flicker against polished marble, strings swell, someone calls for another round of champagne. It’s the exact sort of tableau the Caldwells are known for, but the usual tightness in my chest is absent.
My mother stands in the center, already glowing under the dome. My father stays close, a steady anchor at her side, content to let the room orbit her.
When the photographer gestures for us to join, Olivia moves first—grace put into motion. Her hand slides into mine without hesitation, and flashbulbs catch it immediately. I rest my hand at her waist. Everyone else will think it’s just good manners. Only I know it’s restraint—a leash on the want clawing up my spine.
My mother laughs, and my father leans into her, the picture of long-settled affection. When I adjust my cuff—still slightly askew from our tryst in the rotunda—my father’s eyes flickdown, then back up to mine. A single, unmistakable look. Dry amusement, the ghost of a smirk.
I feel my ears heat.
I look away and fix my gaze back on Olivia instead. Under the lights, she is luminous—mythic, even. A goddess among mortals.
The photographers notice it too. “Mr. Caldwell—just one more with your girlfriend!”
The title lands off-key. It doesn’t touch what she is to me.
Girlfriendis what you call someone who occupies the edges of your life. Olivia is the center of mine—the pulse beneath my ribs, the axis around which everything turns.
Across the room, near the champagne tower, Anne’s laughter cuts through the noise. It’s bright at first, then falters when her eyes meet mine. I watch the recognition pass over her face—the way her eyes take in the loosened line of my bow tie, the barely tamed state of my hair, the flush that hasn’t fully left my skin.
A slow smile spreads across my face. I don’t break eye contact as I pull Olivia closer and press a kiss to her temple—tender for the cameras, pointed for Anne.
My girl giggles sweetly, leaning into me and settling her hand over my chest. She has no idea she just delivered a finishing blow.
I don’t miss the way Anne’s jaw tenses. She lifts her champagne in a brittle attempt at nonchalance, but the motion is too stiff, the glass catching light like a flare. Her expression betrays her wounded pride.
