Page 27 of His To Unravel (His & Hers Duet #1)

The list goes on, an endless stream of tasks she’s meant to manage, each one a weight added onto her shoulders. They’ve anchored her to a role she was never meant to bear, and the injustice of it incites rage within me.

For the first time, her desire to break free from these expectations becomes so starkly apparent, that I almost relish the anger curling through me.

It’s no wonder she hesitates sometimes. No wonder she clings to control with white-knuckled fingers.

But I can see that she also longs for an escape, for the kind of freedom I can offer her.

She only needs to accept it, to step into the life I’ve carefully laid out for her, where such demands would never reach her.

My grip tightens on the phone. Her so-called family has buried her under duty, expectation—using her as a lifeline they’ll fray to the last thread if allowed.

An idea sharpens into certainty: when the semester ends, she won’t be going back to them.

She’ll come with me.

In New York, she’ll finally be free—cherished, protected, unbound from the weight of expectations she shouldn’t have to carry .

But to get there, I’ll need to be patient. Methodical. I’ll sever each link one by one until there’s nothing holding her back. And when I’m done, she’ll choose me—not because I’ve forced her, but because she’ll know there’s nowhere else she belongs.

I set the phone down, my thoughts cooling, the simmering fury replaced by a calculating satisfaction before the faint creak of the floorboards pulls my attention.

I turn to the direction of the sound, and there she is—my darling girl, framed in the soft glow spilling in from the kitchen. Olivia pads toward me with bare feet, one hand rubbing sleep from her eyes, the other holding the hem of my shirt she wore to bed.

“Good morning, Nate,” she murmurs, her voice laced with the warmth of drowsy contentment.

I hold out my arms and she steps into them without hesitation, her body melting against mine. I kiss the crown of her head, inhaling deeply as her scent—lilies, mingled with the cologne from my clothes—seeps into my lungs.

“You’re too good to me,” she whispers, the words muffled against my chest.

If she only knew.

“Never,” I reply, pressing another kiss to her temple before tilting her face to kiss her mouth. I savor the way her lips yield to mine. She’s so pliant in these moments, completely unaware of the power she has to undo me entirely.

Reluctantly, I pull back and guide her to the dining table, unwilling to let the moment pass without indulging her in something more tangible.

“Sit,” I instruct gently, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Breakfast is ready.”

Her eyes light up as I set a stack of French toast in front of her, golden and dusted with powdered sugar, the faint sheen of syrup catching the light. The corners of her mouth curve into a smile, and the sight fills me with pride.

“French toast?” she asks with childlike delight.

I nod in acknowledgement, sitting across from her as she picks up her fork. Watching her take that first bite is as satisfying as crafting the dish itself. She hums softly, her eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment as the taste registers.

“This is incredible,” she says, her voice laced with genuine admiration. “You’ve yet to make me a bad meal.”

Her compliment sends a warm thrum of satisfaction through me, though I school my expression to something more casual. “I intend to keep that streak alive,” I reply smoothly, leaning back in my chair to study her.

“Do you like to cook?” I ask, deliberately light.

She pauses, her fork hovering midair as she considers my question.

“I don’t know if I’d say I like it,” she admits, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

“Growing up, cooking always felt more like a chore than something to enjoy. My family runs a diner, so there was always something that needed to be prepped or made. And when my parents were busy at the diner, it was my job to cook for my brothers.”

Her voice softens, tinged with something I can’t quite place—nostalgia, maybe, or something heavier.

“But,” she adds, looking up at me with an expression so sincere it makes my heart stutter, “it’s nice to be the one taken care of for once. Thank you.”

Her gratitude is like a balm, softening the blunting edge of anger that flares at the notion of a young Olivia, being deprived of a carefree childhood. My smile comes easily, but inside, my thoughts burn.

They worked her so hard. And still, they have the audacity to ask for more. I bite back the words, keeping them buried beneath a composed exterior. This isn’t the moment to address what I will eventually rectify .

Just then, her phone buzzes, interrupting the delicate intimacy of the moment. Her gaze flicks to the screen, and I force my expression to remain neutral.

She picks it up, finger swiping over the screen as her eyes scan the incoming messages.

I watch her closely, noting the slight furrow in her brow, the way her shoulders seem to sink just a fraction lower.

By the time she sets the phone back down, her mood has shifted.

The lightness in her has dimmed, replaced by a quiet resignation.

“Everything all right?” I ask, my voice carefully measured.

She looks up, her lips curving into a rueful smile. “Yeah,” she says, too quickly. “Just some things back home.”

I reach across the table, covering her hand with mine. “Do you want to talk about it?” I ask, my thumb brushing over her knuckles.

Her smile wavers, but she doesn’t pull away. “I’m fine, really,” she replies, even though her tone suggests otherwise. “I’d really much rather talk about anything else.”

I nod, letting the edge of concern slip from my expression, masking the sharp focus still slicing through my thoughts. If she doesn’t want to talk about it, I will give her that. For now.

“All right,” I say, my tone warm, casual—a veneer of ease carefully layered over my true intent. “Then tell me something lighter. What are your plans for winter break?”

The question lands exactly as I intended, a shift rippling through her.

Her shoulders tense, and she seems to deflate just a little further, her fingers curling tighter around the fork in her hand. Her eyes dart down to the plate in front of her, and the effort it takes to put on a brave face is painfully obvious.

“Oh, nothing too exciting,” she says lightly, though her tone is just a touch too bright. “I’ll go home. My parents could use the extra help, and the boys—my brothers—always need someone to keep them on track.”

She punctuates her words with a small smile, but it’s paper-thin and doesn’t reach her eyes.

I tilt my head, watching her with what I hope comes across as idle curiosity, though inside, a darker satisfaction coils tightly. She is unraveling, just as I knew she would.

“That sounds…busy,” I say, careful to keep the edge of judgment out of my voice. “Are you looking forward to it?”

She hesitates, just for a moment, but it’s long enough.

“Of course,” she replies too quickly. “I mean, it’s important to be there for them, right? My parents work so hard, and the boys…” She trails off, biting her lip before continuing. “They count on me.”

Her words are rehearsed, the kind of response she’s probably given herself a dozen times before. But I don’t miss the tinge of resignation that laces her tone, the way she avoids meeting my gaze as though doing so might shatter the illusion she’s trying to maintain.

I lean back in my chair, letting silence settle between us for a beat. My eyes never stray from her. She’s trying so hard to convince herself, but I can see the rigidity of her posture and I know—just as I knew when I read her mother’s messages—that going home isn’t what she wants.

I soften my tone, letting it slip into something almost coaxing as I float the suggestion. “You know, you could always spend the break with me.”

Her head snaps up, her wide eyes meeting mine, surprise flashing across her face.

“No responsibilities, no stress—just the two of us. You deserve that, Olivia. You deserve some time for yourself.”

She blinks, and for a moment, I see it—a wistful softness in her expression, a gentle curve to her lips that isn’t forced. She’s imagining it, letting herself consider the possibility, and I can see how much she wants it.

“That sounds…” She pauses, her voice trailing off before she smiles. “Really nice.”

But then she shakes her head, as though banishing the thought away.

“Unfortunately, I can’t,” she says with a sigh. “My family would never let me hear the end of it.”

I force a smile, tamping down the flicker of irritation that rises at her words.

“It’s just something to think about,” I reply smoothly, folding my hands on the table and schooling my expression back to something neutral. “It’s okay to put yourself first sometimes.”

Her smile returns, tentative but grateful, and she nods before turning her attention back to her plate. I watch as she picks up her fork again, her movements slower now, her mind clearly elsewhere.

She’s still thinking about it. As intended.

I let the topic drop, allowing the suggestion to linger in her mind while I turn my focus inward, to the pieces of my plan that are already beginning to take shape.

I will bide my time. She isn’t ready to hear my invitation yet, to fully consider what I’m offering, but she will . The Bennetts have made sure of that.

I will show her that she deserves more. That she deserves me .

“Don’t let it get cold,” I say gently, nodding toward her plate.

She glances up at me, her expression softening as she offers a small smile. “Thanks, Nate,” she murmurs before taking another bite.

The satisfaction of watching her savor the food I prepared for her is only matched by the darker thrill of knowing she’s already mine .

I imagine her like this every morning—wrapped in the comfort of my home, free from the burdens of a family that only takes from her. I can give her so much more.

Her family may be content to take from her endlessly, but I’ll be the one to lay the world at her feet.