Page 40 of His To Unravel (His & Hers Duet #1)

TWENTY-FIVE

nathaniel

The city glows beneath us, soft and distant from the deck of the yacht as it drifts along the Hudson.

Olivia stands near the railing, the wind teasing strands of her hair loose as she stares out at the Manhattan skyline, her face illuminated by the faint shimmer of the lights reflecting on the water.

She looks untouched by the weight of the world—a vision carved out of the evening itself.

And she is mine .

I never intended to feel this way. Watching her, I find myself caught in the undercurrent of jealousy that has surfaced more times than I care to admit over the last day and a half.

The way David Matthews looked at her. The lilt in Hunter Donaldson’s voice.

It wasn’t just interest—it was audacity.

Thinking Olivia could be pulled into their orbit.

They don’t understand what she is. What she’s becoming. She doesn’t belong to their world—yet. But she shifts the energy of a room when she enters. She draws attention like gravity.

This morning, we started at The Met. Empty. Quiet. Only us and the distant footsteps of the curator who remained just far enough away to give the illusion of privacy. I didn’t watch the art. I watched her .

The way her eyes softened under the glow of the skylight in the European gallery, how she paused a little longer in front of Degas, her head tilting just so, as if the ballerinas whispered secrets only she could hear. I made a note of that. There will be a Degas in her future.

I arranged for her to see the hidden rooms too—the restoration spaces closed to the public. She touched the edge of an unfinished canvas with delicate reverence, and I wondered if she knew she was already shaping something unfinished in me.

Broadway came after. A private rehearsal. We sat in the empty theater, velvet seats stretching out in every direction. The stage held her attention, her eyes bright as the performers drifted in and out, their voices filling the quiet.

Olivia leaned into me at one point, her hand slipping into mine without a second thought, and I felt something dangerous settle in my chest. I squeezed her hand just a little too tightly, but she didn’t pull away.

Now, the yacht carries us around the city’s edges, the skyline reflecting back like a distorted mirage on the water. Olivia finally turns, catching me staring at her. She smiles—soft, unguarded.

“Something on your mind?” she asks, her voice light but knowing.

I tilt my head, lifting the corner of my mouth. “I like seeing you like this.”

Her brow arches slightly. “Like what?”

“Like you belong here.” I move closer, my arm banding around her waist and pulling her flush against me.

She laughs softly, turning back to the skyline. “I don’t think I’ll ever belong here.”

“You will.” I don’t just mean the city. I mean everything—the world I’m folding around her, piece by piece .

My grip tightens, just slightly. Enough to remind her that she isn’t stepping back from this. From me .

She leans into it, her body instinctively finding mine, and I press a kiss against the top of her head. As the yacht glides along the water, I think about tomorrow. About what it means to bring her home, into the one space no one else has been permitted to touch.

I think about how easy it would be to keep her there.

I would give her the city if it meant keeping her by my side. And if that isn’t enough, I’ll find something else—something she won’t walk away from.

After dinner, there is one last stop on our itinerary.

The elevator doors open with a soft chime, revealing the grand expanse of Bergdorf Goodman—empty, silent, and waiting.

Olivia steps in cautiously, the heels of her boots clicking against the marble floor as her eyes sweep across the gleaming displays and carefully curated mannequins.

The store feels cathedral-like in its stillness.

Her gaze flicks to me, uncertain. “Nate, this is…a lot.”

I step beside her, resting my hand lightly on the small of her back, guiding her further inside. “It’s just shopping, baby.”

She hesitates, her eyes narrowing slightly. “At Bergdorf. After hours.”

I smile, brushing my thumb along her waist. “I thought you might enjoy having the place to yourself.”

Her lips part as if to protest, but no words come. I can feel the ripple of hesitation beneath her skin, the low thrum of insecurity she tries to hide.

“Is this your way of telling me you don’t like the way I dress?” she asks suddenly, her voice laced with defensiveness. She doesn’t meet my gaze.

The question catches me off guard, but only for a moment.

I shift, gently tugging her closer until our bodies nearly touch. “I love the way you dress. I love the way you are. This isn’t about changing you.” My hand slides lower, curling around her hip. “It’s about indulging you. I want to spoil you, Olivia. Let me.”

Her shoulders ease, but the undercurrent of resistance remains in her posture. “I just…don’t need all this.”

I tilt my head, lowering my voice. “I know you don’t. That makes it all the more satisfying to give it to you anyway.”

Her breath catches for just a second before she exhales, letting me lead her deeper into the store. The stylists are already waiting—a trio of them, standing in a neat row. They greet Olivia warmly, but I don’t miss the way her posture stiffens slightly under their attention.

“I’ll be right here,” I murmur against her temple. “Try on whatever catches your eye.”

She nods, though there is still hesitation in the way she approaches the racks of clothes, fingers brushing over fabrics without fully committing.

I lean against one of the display tables, watching her closely.

The first few dresses are safe choices. Olivia is drawn to modest cuts and neutral tones—classic but unremarkable. She steps out in one, a soft cream-colored sheath that hugs her figure delicately.

I trail my eyes along the lines of her body, slow and deliberate as I cross the room to meet her.

“It’s beautiful, but…” My tone says what I don’t: It isn’t enough.

Her brow lifts in amusement. “You’re not impressed.”

I smile faintly, trailing my fingers over the fabric near her waist. “I’m holding out for something else.”

She laughs, disappearing behind the curtain once more. The next few choices are better. A red slip dress that makes my breath falter. A black number that clings just enough to make me curse the stylists’ presence.

And then she steps out in a gown. Midnight blue, sleek and dangerously elegant, the slit rising just high enough to make my mouth water. I straighten from where I lean, my hands sliding casually into my pockets to keep from reaching for her.

Olivia notices the shift. “I take it you like this one,” she says with a smirk.

I don’t answer right away. Instead, I let the silence stretch, making sure she feels the weight of my gaze. When I finally speak, my voice holds clear intent. “You should keep that one.”

Her lips curve slightly, but I see the flush that creeps along her neck as she turns back toward the fitting room.

I stay close as she changes, listening to every rustle of fabric behind the curtain.

“You’re hovering,” she teases lightly from the other side.

“I like knowing you’re close,” I reply without hesitation. “You disappear behind this curtain, and I start counting the seconds until I see you again.”

She doesn’t respond, but I catch the quiet laugh under her breath.

Apart from gowns, the stylists gently guide her toward blouses, skirts, and tailored pants.

Olivia runs her fingers along the seams but eventually shakes her head, insisting she doesn’t need more.

I catch the flicker of reluctance in her eyes as she steps back, but while she speaks to one of the stylists, I lean in and discreetly instruct them to curate a full wardrobe for her.

Whatever they think will suit her best, I want it waiting with the rest of the purchases.

As we walk toward the elevator, Olivia’s hand slips into mine. “Thank you for this. Even if it’s excessive. ”

“Get used to it,” I say, brushing my lips against her knuckles. “I’m not finished spoiling you.”

The next morning comes quietly, marked only by the faint rustle of luggage and the soft hush of our departure from the hotel.

The time has come to leave the Aman behind, and with it, the delicate cocoon of isolation I have wrapped us in.

But this isn’t an ending—it’s the next step.

I am ready to bring Olivia deeper into my life, into the spaces I never share with anyone else.

On the ride to Central Park Tower, Olivia sits beside me, watching the city roll past through the tinted glass. Her hand rests lightly in mine, and occasionally she tightens her hold, anchoring herself.

When the car pulls into the private entrance, the doorman greets us with a nod, and I lead Olivia inside. The elevator sweeps us up, past floors that are homes to others I don’t care to know.

She glances at me, curious. “You’ve never mentioned this place before.”

“I haven’t brought anyone here before,” I say simply. That part doesn’t need embellishment.

The doors slide open, revealing the expanse of the apartment.

Sunlight floods in from the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows across the minimalist decor.

Cool gray tones stretch throughout the space—sleek, masculine, and intentionally restrained.

But even with all the restraint, she is there. Everywhere.

Olivia steps forward hesitantly, her gaze trailing across the room. Her reflection shimmers faintly against the glass overlooking the park, but her attention shifts when she catches sight of the pictures along the far wall.

I remain still, watching her as she approaches them .

Her fingertips brush over the corner of one frame—a candid shot, taken on a day she probably doesn’t remember. She is laughing, mid-conversation, sunlight tangling in her hair. The photo is cropped carefully, but it is unmistakably her. There are others too, placed discreetly but deliberately.

Her voice is soft when she finally speaks. “When did you take these?”

“Here and there.” I cross the room, standing just behind her.

Her brow furrows slightly, and I can feel the unspoken question hovering in the air. I choose not to answer it.

Instead, I take her hand, drawing her away from the frames. “Let me show you the rest.”

The bedroom is next. The door opens to reveal a space just as refined, but with softer touches—blankets folded neatly at the edge of the bed, fresh flowers on the dresser. More peonies, just for her.

I walk to the far side, opening one of the drawers. “I cleared space for you here,” I say, watching her carefully.

She stands in the doorway, hesitant, but I see the flicker of something unspoken in her expression—like a door left slightly open.

“Nathaniel…” she begins, her tone laced with uncertainty.

I smile faintly, closing the drawer. “It’s just space, Olivia. Our space .”

The words hang between us, heavy with meaning I don’t clarify. But I know she understands.

She crosses the room and her hand finds mine again. Satisfaction hums low in my chest. She is already here, woven into every corner of my life. I just need her to accept it.

I lead her into the walk-in closet, a cavernous extension of the bedroom. Rows of tailored suits line one side, dark fabrics perfectly arranged .

Olivia steps inside slowly, her eyes drifting over the sleek design—until she sees the other side. She freezes.

Dresses, skirts, and blouses line the wall. Her lips part slightly.

She turns slowly toward me. “Whose are these?”

For a second, something cold grips my chest. Her eyes narrow, and the open curiosity that once filled them shifts, hardening into something distant. Suspicion. Discomfort. It coils between us, thin and sharp, threatening to unspool everything I have carefully built.

I step forward, careful to keep my tone light, though panic stirs just beneath my calm exterior. “They’re yours. From Bergdorf. I had them delivered this morning.”

Her fingers graze one of the dresses, but she doesn’t speak right away. The silence stretches, her hesitation pressing against me like a weight. I watch the tension in her shoulders, the way her hand pauses at the silk, questioning the truth behind my words.

“All of them?” Her voice is low, uncertain.

I rest a hand lightly on her hip, closing the space between us, my chest brushing against her back. “I wanted you to have options to choose from,” I murmur, my mouth near her ear. “To feel at home here.”

She finally glances at me, her eyes searching mine. I hold her gaze, steady, but beneath the surface, every nerve in my body braces for rejection. The thought that she could pull away—could misinterpret this as something else—tightens like a vise around my ribs.

Olivia steps out of the closet, crossing the bedroom with slow, deliberate steps. Each one feels heavier than the last, and by the time she lowers herself onto the edge of the bed, I can see it— doubt . Her hands rest lightly in her lap, but she won’t look at me.

I follow, the grip of unease spreading through my chest. She is retreating, withdrawing into some part of her mind I’m not sure I can reach.

I sit beside her, close but cautious. My gaze fixes on her, tracing the delicate line of her profile. The need to bind her to me feels all-consuming.

“Is something wrong?” I ask, my voice straining to sound composed, but the edges fray with the weight of unspoken need. It isn’t just a question, it’s a plea for reassurance.

She hesitates, and the silence feels damning. I can already see the narrative forming in my head—the regret flickering behind her eyes, the second thoughts she won’t voice aloud.

She finally shakes her head, but it isn’t enough to quell the storm building inside me. Her acquiesce feels too fragile, like a thread stretched to its breaking point. One careless tug and it will snap entirely.

My grip tightens around the edge of the bed, knuckles whitening as if sheer force could tether her to this place, to me .

Every aspect of her life now passes beneath my gaze—her location, her conversations, even the fleeting moments she thinks are hers alone. None of it escapes me. And yet, it isn’t enough. Not when she can still sit here, within reach yet somehow miles away.

The thought twists something inside me, dark and seething.

I have already crossed lines I never imagined I could.

What’s one more? A part of me welcomes the descent—the steady unraveling of restraint that whispers promises of more absolute measures, all to erase the possibility of an existence without me.

If she won’t stay willingly, I will make certain she has no other choice.