Page 41 of His To Unravel (His & Hers Duet #1)
TWENTY-SIX
olivia
The bedroom is steeped in stillness, the kind that stretches and frays at the edges until it feels too thin to hold. I remain seated next to Nathaniel on the bed, but my focus drifts, caught between the heavy silence and the questions I’m not ready to voice.
My gaze keeps returning to the dresser, where more framed photos of me rest, their presence unexpected and jarring. The sight of them stirs a sense of unease, curling low in my stomach. They echo the ones I saw in the living room—only now, I can’t pretend I’m imagining it.
I know those photos aren’t recent.
The sunlight filtering across my face, the soft curl of my hair as I laugh at something I can’t remember—they are moments captured long before Nathaniel and I had officially met. I don’t know how to process that.
I feel his fingertips brush against my palm in a wordless bid for my attention.
“You’re upset,” he murmurs, and it feels like a question, though it isn’t .
I glance sideways, meeting his eyes for only a breath before dropping my gaze to where our hands touch.
“No… Not at all. I’m just…surprised,” I offer. “It’s a lot to take in.”
It isn’t a lie, but it isn’t the whole truth either.
Nathaniel watches me, the weight of his focus palpable. He isn’t convinced, but he doesn’t press, although his expression conveys a fear of rejection that he is desperately trying to mask.
I should ask him about the photos, about how long he’s been watching me, wanting me, planning all of this. But I don’t. Because I know once I pry open that door, I won’t be able to unsee whatever’s behind it.
My thoughts wander back to the closet, to the rows of elegant dresses, silk blouses, tailored coats in the perfect sizes, styles, and colors. All waiting. He prepared this long before I even considered coming here.
I tell myself this isn’t control; this is Nathaniel’s version of love.
He doesn’t understand restraint—his love comes in waves that swallow everything whole. But if he were dangerous to me, I would know by now… wouldn’t I?
His intensity is undeniable, but it has never hurt me.
His actions are overwhelming, but they are always wrapped in tenderness.
He’s relentless, yes, but he’s mine . And I’m his.
That is how I have to think of it, because I can’t let myself waver.
Not when he looks at me like I’m the center of his entire world.
Yet, doubt flickers beneath that rationalization, quiet but persistent.
I exhale slowly, hoping that releasing some tension will make it easier to accept the overwhelming devotion in his gaze. And somehow, it does.
I lean forward, curling my fingers around his.
“Are you hungry?” I ask, letting my voice lighten as I glance up at him .
Nathaniel’s face softens, relief washing over his features as if those three words untangle something inside him.
“I’ll make you whatever you want,” he says, too quickly. “Or we can go out. Anywhere you like. You name it.”
His eagerness feels disarming in a way that knocks me slightly off balance. This is Nathaniel Caldwell , a man who practically lives in calculated restraint, yet the way he looks at me now seems almost boyish.
I smile, squeezing his hand gently. “How about pizza?”
Nathaniel tilts his head, considering it for a moment before nodding. “Done.”
I laugh, the weight in my chest beginning to lift. The warmth in his eyes steadies me, and for now, that is enough.
“We should pick up something for your parents,” I add as the thought crosses my mind. “I don’t want to show up empty-handed.”
Nathaniel’s brows lift slightly, surprised but pleased by my suggestion. “You don’t have to worry about that,” he assures me, but I insist.
“I’d rather not risk it.” The thought of meeting his parents tightens the knot of nerves settling low in my stomach. “I’m already nervous enough as it is.”
Nathaniel’s gaze softens as he leans closer, pressing a kiss to my temple. “You’ll be perfect.”
As we rise from the bed, his hand finds its familiar place against the small of my back—guiding me with that familiar, quiet possessiveness. And I let him. Because right now, it feels easier to move forward than to look too closely at what’s been laid out behind me.
The interior of the Rolls-Royce is cloaked in a comfortable silence. Nathaniel’s hand rests lightly on my thigh. His thumb traces idle patterns against the fabric of my dress. It’s a tender gesture that both soothes and unsettles me.
I lean back in the seat, my head resting against the cool leather. The weight of the last few hours still clings to the corners of my mind.
He hasn’t offered explanations, but I haven’t asked for them either.
It’s strange how easily I justify the way he weaves himself into my life as if it has always been inevitable. I tell myself that I don’t need to unpack it right now. There are more pressing things to worry about.
Like the fact that I’m about to meet his parents.
After we left the apartment, I insisted on picking up gifts. Nathaniel had teased me for overthinking it, but I refused to back down.
“What kind of flowers does your mother like?” I had asked between bites of pizza, my phone open to a floral boutique’s website.
“Is your father more of a wine or whiskey kind of person?”
Nathaniel had leaned back in his chair, watching me with a hint of amusement that made my cheeks warm. He answered each question patiently, indulging me as I mentally cataloged the possibilities.
In the end, I settled on an elegant bouquet of orchids and lilies for his mother—classic but understated. For his father, I chose a box of La Maison du Chocolat truffles after Nathaniel mentioned his sweet tooth.
Now, as the Rolls-Royce slips through the streets toward Fifth Avenue, I feel his eyes on me once more.
“You didn’t have to do all that,” he says again, his tone appreciative as his thumb skims gently along the curve of my knee.
“I wanted to,” I reply, shrugging lightly. “It’s my first time meeting a boyfriend’s parents.”
Nathaniel’s grip tightens. His expression shifts, and I catch the shadow of something darker beneath his satisfaction.
“Good,” he says, his voice lower. “It’ll be the last time too.”
Before I can react, his lips claim mine in a kiss that feels less like affection and more like a vow, one I haven’t yet agreed to.
I let him pull me closer, but as his hand glides to the nape of my neck, my thoughts drift elsewhere. My phone sits heavy in my purse, silent but not forgotten. I know unread messages from my mother wait there, each one a reminder of the world I have left behind.
Nathaniel’s world is gilded in luxury. Mine is built on necessity.
I recall the texts she sent before—demanding and laden with disappointment. We were counting on you, Olivia.
I exhale slowly, willing the knot in my chest to loosen. I deserve this. I deserve to be happy, even if happiness feels foreign in my hands.
The car slows, pulling up to the Caldwell family mansion.
The limestone facade looms ahead, softened only slightly by the ivy curling along the edges.
Tall arched windows framed in wrought iron glow faintly from within, while stone columns and intricate carvings line the black double doors.
It feels more like a landmark than a home, anchored in legacy and power.
Nathaniel steps out first, circling around to open the door for me. His hand is steady as it slides against the small of my back.
“You ready?” he asks.
I nod, even though we both know that’s not entirely true.
When we reach the entrance, the heavy double doors open with a soft creak, revealing an older man standing just inside.
His silver hair is neatly combed back, and his sharp gaze holds the kind of quiet authority that comes from years of service. His eyes flicker briefly to me—a subtle nod of acknowledgment—before settling on Nathaniel with the ease of long familiarity .
“Welcome home, Mr. Caldwell,” he says, his voice calm and measured, laced with the warmth of someone who has likely known Nathaniel since childhood.
Nathaniel gives him a brief nod, but the weight of his hand against my back remains as we step inside.
The older man, hands clasped behind his back, introduces himself with a slight incline of his head. “I’m Roger, the Caldwell family butler. It’s a pleasure to welcome you. If you need anything during your visit, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
His gaze lingers just a moment longer—measuring, but not intrusive—before he steps aside, allowing us deeper into the mansion’s grand entrance hall.
The space opens up like a museum—marble floors gleaming beneath high coffered ceilings, reflecting the soft chandelier light that cascades down in shimmering drops. The space is grand and elegant in a way that speaks of generations past, but there is little warmth to it.
It feels less like a home and more like a legacy suspended in time, where everything has its place, yet nothing feels lived in.
Nathaniel’s stride doesn’t falter, but I catch the stiffness in his shoulders. There is no hesitation in his movements, but it’s the posture of someone who has walked these halls for years, enduring their presence rather than finding comfort within them.
Roger leads us deeper into the house, his steps echoing faintly across the marble. We have barely entered the main sitting room when the soft click of heels echoes from the grand staircase. I turn in time to see Nathaniel’s mother descending, each step light and measured.
Renée Caldwell moves with the kind of poise that comes effortlessly to women like her.
She is beautiful, her chestnut brown hair pulled into a sleek twist that highlights the sharp lines of her face, eyes the same piercing blue as Nathaniel’s.
A soft, practiced smile curves her lips when she sees him .
“Nathaniel,” she greets, her tone carrying a genuine warmth that contrasts with the coolness of the house. “Darling, you’ve finally decided to pay us a visit.”