It’s no coincidence that I chose this dress. When I first tried it on the night Nathaniel took me shopping at Bergdorf’s, his reaction had been instant, visceral.
As he helps me into it now, his fingers drag the zipper up my back at an agonizingly slow pace, his fingertips barely skimming my skin as he savors the moment. When he finally spins me around to take me in fully, his eyes are blue flames, burning as they rake over me.
“My goddess,” he murmurs, his voice reverent before he pulls me against him, pressing a drugging kiss to my lips.
His reactions still leave me lightheaded. Nathaniel is an intense man, and being the focal point of his attention is intoxicating. After spending my whole life being told I take up too much space, that I’m not beautiful in the way women are expected to be, my mind still struggles to catch up with the way Nathaniel looks at me.
Maybe there’s some truth to what he always says. Maybe I really am made for him.
And he, in turn, is made for me.
Because Nathaniel isbreathtaking.
Dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, the fabric wraps around his broad shoulders and lean, muscular frame in a way that makes my mouth water. He looks like he stepped right out of a high-fashion campaign. He’s always devastatingly handsome—tall and powerful, his beauty sharp and almost intimidating—but there is something about seeing him like this, knowing that he ismine, that sends a thrill through me.
I never dared to imagine that I would be on the arm of someone like him.
I find myself wondering—not for the first time—how he got his athletic build. I knew he had played competitive sports his whole life, and now he spends time in the gym to maintain his physique. But I realize that I don’t knowwhichsports he used to play. I make a mental note to ask him. To learn more about the life he had before me.
When we arriveat the Caldwell estate, the sight of the house takes my breath away. It has been transformed into something out of a dream, an elegant winter wonderland brought to life with effortless opulence.
Gilded garlands wrap around the sweeping banisters, and hundreds of soft golden lights illuminate the grand foyer, casting everything in a warm, inviting glow. The scent of pine and something subtly spiced wafts through the air, mixing with the rich, expensive perfume of fresh-cut flowers arranged in crystal vases along the hallway tables.
And then there’s the Christmas tree.
Towering near the grand piano, it is magnificent—adorned with handcrafted ornaments, each one telling a unique story. Some are heirlooms, passed down through generations, while others have been chosen carefully over the years as part of the Caldwell family tradition. I step closer, my fingers ghosting over one of the delicate glass pieces, my mind drifting to the afternoon at the Elysian Gallery when Renée invited Nathaniel and me to pick out this year’s ornament together. My eyes scan the branches, searching for it—our ornament, our small mark on this house.
Before I can find it, a voice cuts through the air behind us.
“My boy, a word in my study, if you don’t mind.”
I turn just in time to see Charles Caldwell approaching, his expression neutral, his tone calm but commanding.
I feel Nathaniel tense beside me, his grip on my waist tightening and his fingers pressing almost imperceptibly into my side. But he forces himself to nod, his jaw clenched.
“Of course, Father.”
His eyes flick to mine, and I feel his hesitation in his gaze—the reluctance to leave me, as if even a moment apart might undo something he isn’t ready to risk.
“Stay here,” he murmurs. “I’ll be right back.”
I nod, brushing my fingers over his wrist in silent reassurance, before watching him disappear down the hall with his father.
Then, another presence steps into my periphery.
“Olivia, dear.”
Renée’s voice is warm as she approaches. When I turn, she’s smiling, but there’s something purposeful in her gaze.
“Would you mind accompanying me for some tea?”
I blink, caught off guard. Renée has been nothing but gracious to me in the few encounters that we’ve had so far, but she has never sought me out one-on-one before. She and Charles have always been poised, never overstepping the invisible lines of propriety. So this—thisfeels different.
Still, I manage a nod, pushing down my surprise. “Of course.”
Renée leads me through the gently lit corridors of the estate, past the grandeur of the formal entertainment spaces and the hum of staff preparing for the evening’s festivities, until we arrive at a smaller, more intimate sitting room. The lighting is warm, casting soft shadows across the room’s antique furniture, and a faint trace of perfume lingers in the air—something classic and somewhat nostalgic.
“This room was Charles’s mother’s favorite,” Renée says, sensing my curiosity. “She used to host tea here with her friends, though I suspect it was more for gossip than for leisure.” She laughs lightly, before gesturing toward the loveseat. “Please, sit.”
