It must have been before Alex’s death, when laughter still traveled freely down these halls. This rekindling has surprisedme. It’s cautious, yes, but steady in its own way—like testing a bridge long neglected and finding it still holds.
Like yesterday, I’m here again under the guise of work—helping her review investment allocations for one of her charitable trusts. A convenient pretext, really.
My mother’s instincts with money are sharper than most men’s. She doesn’t need my counsel, and we both know it. But I play along, amused and touched by the pretense. It’s her way of asking for time without admitting she wants it.
I’m grateful for it too.
She’s been generous—patiently scouting proposal sites with me, never once teasing when I dismissed each one as wrong. Her support means more to me than I care to say aloud.
There’s also something strangely soothing about being near her again, about the rhythm we’ve found that feels almost domestic. For years, we’ve spoken only through duty. Now, we’re learning to speak as family again.
Besides, the distraction helps.
This morning, dropping Olivia off at Caldwell Tower was harder than I’d expected, especially after the perfect night we had. For the first time, it felt like she was finally seeing the future the way I do—not as a mere possibility, but an eventuality.
I can’t stand the thought of leaving her now, of being apart at all. Every separation feels undeserved after reaching such harmony.
Still, I remind myself that today is her last day at Caldwell Ventures.
I’m proud of my girl—how she’s thrived under my father’s watch—but it’s been a test of restraint. I’ve had to let her move through his world without me, to prove to both of us that she can.
I tell myself I’ve done well. I’ve respected her space. I’ve waited for her honesty. Tonight, she’ll be finished. No more separate days, no more distance between us.
I turn down the last corridor, the one leading to my mother’s office. As I near the door, movement catches my eye. Someone’s already there.
The scent reaches me first—gardenias, cloying and excessive.
Anne Vanderhoof steps out, smile polished, posture perfect. Every line of her outfit seems calculated for admiration, and her expression brightens the moment she sees me.
“Nathaniel,” she says, drawing out my name as if savoring it. “What a lovely surprise.”
She closes the door softly behind her, clutching a leather folder to her chest. Her perfume thickens the air, sweet enough to choke on.
A familiar tension coils low in my body—not quite dislike, but a keen awareness of her intentions. Anne never approaches without an angle, and being around her means bracing for whatever she’s rehearsed next. Her presence always puts me on guard.
“I was just thinking about you,” she says, her smile sharpening.
I stop a few paces away, schooling my expression into civility. Whatever comes next, I can already feel the first fracture forming beneath the day’s calm.
She approaches with that practiced glide, the one meant to suggest elegance while demanding attention.
“It’s good to see you spending time with your mother again,” she says, voice syrupy with familiarity. “Renée misses you terribly when you’re away. It always broke my heart, the distance between you both after Alexander passed.” She softens her tone, as if invoking a shared grief. “It would have broken his heart too.”
It grates on my nerves, the way she acts as if she’s earned the right to speak his name. But I draw a steady breath and incline my head, a gesture meant to end the conversation rather than sustain it.
“Excuse me, Anne,” I say, stepping aside toward the office door.
But she moves with me, closing the distance. She catches my sleeve—lightly, but enough to stop me.
“How’s the proposal planning coming along?” she asks, the question too bright, too invasive.
My jaw clenches. “That’s hardly your concern.”
“Oh, but it is,” she murmurs, smiling in a way that’s all teeth. “Especially if it means you’ll be relocating all the way to London.”
That stops me. A precise, surgical strike.
“What are you talking about?” My voice stays even.
