I’m exhausted.
Emotionally stripped bare.
But I’m not about to give Charles Caldwell another reason to look at me with disappointment and disdain.
I straighten my cuffs, button my jacket, and force the mask back into place.
By the time I step out of the apartment, I look the part of the heir my father wanted.
But inside?
Inside, I’m still aching for the only thing that has ever felt real. And she isn’t here with me.
TWO
olivia
Nathaniel was right—NewYork feels different in the days leading up to Christmas. The city glitters, its streets alive with an effortless magic, but none of it compares to the world I’ve been drawn into since arriving here.
Despite Nathaniel’s reservations, I find myself at a luncheon hosted by Renée Caldwell.
The intimate affair is held in the private dining room of an exclusive restaurant—the kind of place where even the air feels expensive. The guest list consists of only a few of Renée’s closest friends—women of wealth and influence whose names carry weight in philanthropic circles and society pages. I sit amongst them, acutely aware of the scrutiny behind their polite smiles, the unspoken questions in their eyes.
I keep my expression pleasant and my posture composed, every inch the polite guest I’m expected to be, even as nerves prickle just beneath the surface.
It isn't just the unfamiliarity of the setting and the people. It’s the awareness that, for the first time since we arrived in New York, I will be apart from Nathaniel. And after everything that just transpired, I’m not sure how he will fare without me, even for an afternoon.
But I know this is important.
Renée extended the invitation herself, and no matter how much Nathaniel loathes family obligations, I’m not going to dismiss his mother’s attempts at connection and risk adding more strain to their already fragile relationship.
And beyond that, I know Nathaniel needs time to himself.
Although he won't admit it, or even recognize it, I sense that he needs a moment to process everything he’s shared with me, without my presence acting as a salve to soothe the wounds he’s only just exposed.
So, I go.
The outing is mostly pleasant. The women in attendance are neither cruel nor unkind, but I know what they’re looking for—as does Renée.
She’s warm, making sure I feel included, but she doesn’t shield me from their curiosity. She steers conversations with the effortless grace of someone who has spent a lifetime navigating high society, subtly guiding certain topics away from dangerous waters while letting others play out—watching, waiting. I catch her studying me at times, her gaze contemplative, as if she’s trying to decipher something.
It’s an odd thing, realizing that Renée Caldwell—elegant, untouchable, a woman who commands rooms with her very presence—is looking atmewith such careful consideration.
I like to think that I am handling myself well. I answer questions politely, engage in discussions with sincerity, and try to sound natural. Still, I feel every word being weighed, every reaction quietly assessed.
However, the moment I truly feel the shift is when Renée makes an offhand remark, her tone casual, but her meaning unmistakable.
“Nathaniel has always been reserved,” she muses, taking a slow sip of her mimosa, her blue eyes steady on me. “Buthe seems…lighterthese days. You must be a good influence, Olivia.”
Later, as the afternoon continues, she says, almost absently, “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him so at ease with someone.”
I don’t miss the implication. Renée is fully aware of how inextricably entwined my presence has become with Nathaniel’s emotional well-being.
When I leave the luncheon, my feelings are mixed but mostly positive. I don’t have long to ponder over it before Nathaniel returns from his own meeting with his father, his mood stormy, his patience worn thinner than before. I don’t need to ask how the meeting went. I can see it in the sharpness of his movements, the way his jaw tenses, his fingers flexing at his sides like he’s barely resisting the urge to shatter something.
“I take it things with your father didn’t go well?” I ask.
Nathaniel barely looks up as he pours himself a drink. “It was exactly what you’d expect from an afternoon with Charles Caldwell.”
