But it fades almost immediately, replaced by a quiet frustration—something tight and helpless pulling between his brows. He shifts slightly, trailing his fingers along my ankle, his touch featherlight. “You know I would’ve come for you in a heartbeat,” he murmurs, gaze lifting to meet mine. “No matter where you were.”
I nod because I believe him. That’s the part that terrifies me the most.
Because even when I’ve asked him for space, for freedom, for distance—he’s always chased after me anyway. And I’ve never tried that hard to outrun him.
He leans forward and presses a kiss to the top of my foot—devastating in its tenderness. When he looks up at me again, there’s something fragile behind his eyes.
“Next time,” he whispers, “let me be there.”
He lingers there for a beat longer, his fingertips still ghosting over my ankle like he can’t bring himself to break the connection.
Then, he gracefully rises and folds himself beside me on the couch. His thigh presses against mine. One arm stretches across the back of the cushions, his fingers tracing the edge of my shoulder. He doesn’t simply sit next to me—he claims the space around me, the air between us.
It should be stifling…but it isn’t.
The allure of him is inescapable, and I’m hyperaware of every breath he takes. The way his touch lingers like a promise. And he knows exactly what he’s doing. He knows I melt faster when he’s gentle. He knows that softness, on him, is more dangerous than any cruelty.
But I won’t let myself forget. Not tonight.
“They told me,” I say, voice quiet but steady. “Someone gave me a strong recommendation.”
I feel the way his body stills. Then he leans back the smallest amount, like he’s giving me room to decide how angry I want to be. His expression is inscrutable.
“And?” he says, his tone deceptively mild.
I turn fully toward him, holding his gaze. “Was it you?”
There’s no flicker of guilt. No pause. Nothing but the smooth, inevitable truth in his voice. “It was.”
“Nathaniel…” I exhale slowly, the frustration curling under my skin like smoke. “You had no right to do that. I wanted to earn this.”
“And you did.” His voice is calm, reasonable. “They wouldn’t have considered you if you weren’t an exceptional candidate. My word simply ensured they understood that.”
His matter-of-fact tone is infuriating. Perfectly controlled, as though he’s explaining a simple fact of life. As if manipulating the outcome is a form of love.
“You didn’t trust me to get there on my own?” I hate that I sound so insecure.
“I trust you,” he says immediately. His eyes are soft, almost wounded, but the conviction in his voice is steel. “But I also know how the world works. And if I have the power to tip the scales for you, even slightly, I will. Every time.”
His hand rises, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. The intimacy of the gesture softens something in me—and that makes me even more upset.
“I won’t apologize for helping you,” he says quietly. “Not when I know you deserve everything you’ve worked for. Besides…” he adds, gaze steady. “This was your last open application, and the one you wanted most. If it slipped away because someone else had an edge, I would never forgive myself.”
I force myself to hold his gaze. My heart is beating too fast. “You really think I belong there? At Castor & Wyatt?”
His answer is instant. “I know you do.”
“In Manhattan?” I ask. My voice is careful now. Threaded with intent.
His thumb, which had been moving in slow circles against my shoulder, stills.
He registers the edge in my voice. Nathaniel is far too intelligent and too attuned to me not to notice the nuance.
“Of course,” he says, but something falters behind his eyes. “That’s where you belong. With me.”
I hesitate, just long enough to watch the flicker of uncertainty take shape in his eyes. “Did they tell you that?”
His brow tightens. “Tell me what?”
