She leans in and presses a kiss to my brow. “I see you.”
Another kiss, soft, to my left cheek. “I choose you.”
Then she draws back just enough to meet my eyes—fully, unwaveringly—and her mouth curves with the most heartbreaking smile before she whispers: “And I love you, Nathaniel Anthony Caldwell.”
In that moment, I can’t do anything but gather her closer, holding her as if that might help me understand how someone like me could ever be loved this completely by someone like her.
But she’s warm against my chest and it hits me all over again that this is real. She’s mine—just as fully as I am hers.
I waketo find Olivia’s side of the bed empty.
For a split second, my body reacts before my mind does—an instinctive jolt of fear. Then I feel the lingering warmth on her pillow and the tension loosens.
I sit up and find her sitting cross-legged in the armchair by the window, scrolling through her phone intently.
“What are you doing?” I ask, voice still rough with sleep.
She looks up, eyes bright. “I found a florist a few blocks away. I’d like to stop by before brunch.”
It’s my mother’s actual birthday today, and she’s hosting a celebration for close friends and family. By Caldwell standards, it’s intimate—fifty guests, maybe sixty. Just family and old friends.
I’ve told Olivia a dozen times there is no need to bring anything, but she insists. That steadfast conscientiousness ofhers—always thinking of how to show care, how to be good—is something I’ll never stop admiring.
I would much rather spend the morning in bed, coaxing her back beneath the covers, maybe drawing a few pleasured moans from her before the day begins. But there is no version of events where I’d let her wander the city alone, so I go with her.
The shop is small, tucked between a café and a dry cleaner, its windows fogged with the breath of orchids. Olivia wanders through the rows of flowers like she’s been doing it all her life, touching stems lightly, tilting her head as she decides. Peonies, of course—her favorite—and garden roses, my mother's. White lisianthus to tie them together. She carries the finished bouquet to the counter and refuses to let me pay. I don’t argue. Watching her take ownership of the gesture is its own kind of pleasure.
A few hours later, we arrive at the Windsor Room.
Olivia’s hand is tucked in the crook of my arm as we step inside. I feel it right away—the flicker of admiration that follows us through the doorway. And I’ll admit, I relish it.
The late-morning sun pours through the windows overlooking Central Park, turning the room to glass and light. The trees outside are flushed with new green, soft and translucent, like the season hasn’t quite decided what shade to settle on. Inside, everything gleams—the silverware, the crystal, the polished marble floors.
And yet, all I can see is her.
Her dress is lavender, fitted through the bodice and flowing in a long, liquid line to her ankles. Wide straps frame her shoulders and the neckline is modest, the restraint somehow making the effect sharper. Her hair is parted cleanly, drawn back into a low chignon that bares the elegant slope of her neck. Gold sculptural earrings glint each time she turns her head, balancing the softness of the dress with just enough edge. Cream-tonedheels, exacting in their simplicity, complete the vision that is Olivia.
It isn’t just that she’s beautiful—it’s that she’s in her element.
She may tell herself she’s out of place in my world, but watching her now—serene, self-possessed, entirely herself—it’s as if she was made to move through these rooms, to command this kind of attention without even trying.
My mother spots us and waves us over, beaming. She’s elegant as ever in a mauve silk-crepe dress that falls just below the knee and a double strand of pearls gleaming against her neck.
Olivia steps forward first, bouquet in hand.
“Happy birthday, Renée,” she says, smiling broadly. “I wasn’t sure what could possibly do you justice, but these reminded me of you.”
My mother’s face softens as she receives them. “They are beautiful, and so thoughtful of you, my dear.” Her voice softens. “A woman after my own heart. Thank you.”
Olivia blushes, smiling shyly. “You’re welcome. I’m glad you like them.”
“Well, you both are certainly a sight for sore eyes,” my mother says, eyes sparkling. “I was almost worried I’d have to call in a search party last night when you disappeared so suddenly—but judging from the glow…I see you just found better ways to stay entertained.”
Olivia flushes instantly. To hide my grin, I reach for two mimosas from a passing waiter, handing one to her before lifting mine to my lips—an excuse to occupy my hands, to look anywhere but at my mother’s knowing smile.
“Oh no, it’s not like that at all!” Olivia says quickly. “We just thought it would be wise to slip out before it got too late. After all, we were very much looking forward to celebrating properly this morning.”
“Mmm.” My mother arches a brow, amused. “The McGraw Rotunda does have that effect, doesn’t it? The murals, the light—mostinspiring. I can see the appeal.” Her tone is mock-innocent.
