Page 42 of His To Unravel (His & Hers Duet #1)

Nathaniel remains composed, offering nothing but a polite, closed-lip smile. “We were taking our time,” he replies smoothly. There is finality in his tone, an unspoken boundary drawn between them.

Sensing the shift in the air, I step forward, offering the bouquet of orchids and lilies. “It’s so nice to meet you, Mrs. Caldwell. I brought these for you.”

Her eyes soften with her surprise, though I can’t tell if it’s genuine or another layer of performance.

“These are lovely, Olivia. Thank you.” I feel the weight of her gaze, carefully assessing me. “Nathaniel speaks highly of you.”

I manage a small smile, but beneath it, I feel exposed.

“I can see why,” she adds, her tone light but laced with subtle curiosity. Her eyes dip briefly to my dress—one Nathaniel insisted I choose during our shopping trip. I suddenly feel grateful for the new wardrobe.

As pleasantries unfold, I catch myself glancing down the hall, half-expecting Nathaniel’s father to emerge. Renée must notice because her lips curl just so, reading the unspoken question on my face.

“His father will join us for dinner,” she says gently. “He’s been preoccupied with work.”

Nathaniel’s jaw tightens imperceptibly, but he says nothing.

The tension stretches just beneath the surface, thin and delicate, as if one wrong word would snap it. Something unspoken passes between them—a familiar dance they seem to know well.

Nathaniel shifts beside me. “I’d like to show Olivia around before dinner.”

Renée hesitates for only a heartbeat before inclining her head. “Of course.” Her blue eyes find mine once more, lingering just long enough to stir something in my chest—not fear, but a distinct awareness that I am now part of something far larger than myself.

Nathaniel’s hand slides against the small of my back once more, guiding me from the room. As we walk through the quiet corridors, I glance up at him, noting the strain that hasn’t fully left his frame.

“You’re different around her,” I say quietly.

He glances at me from the corner of his eye, offering a wry smile. “I prefer not to give too much away.”

I let that settle between us as we move through the grand corridors. This house may be a monument to his family’s power, but it’s also seems like a mausoleum, full of ghosts Nathaniel never quite escapes.

His pace is leisurely, his voice smooth and measured as he guides me from room to room.

As he describes the house’s history and points out pieces of art with casual ease, I feel that same calculated charm he uses to defuse tension—like he is crafting an experience, each turn down the hallways deliberate, every word carefully chosen.

This isn’t just a tour—it’s a narrative.

We move through the grand foyer, its marble stretching endlessly beneath another towering chandelier that glitters in the dim evening light. The formal sitting room follows, adorned with ornate, gilded frames of landscapes and figures I don’t recognize but suspect are expensive.

Nathaniel seems unaffected by the grandeur, his attention focused on me more than anything. It isn’t until we pass a long hallway lined with photographs that I feel his grip shift slightly, his fingers tensing against my back.

I slow, my eyes trailing the frames.

There are rows of them, stretching down the corridor like a living timeline. The older photos at the far end have a sepia tone, suggesting generations of Caldwells who came before him. But the more recent ones catch my attention .

Nathaniel as a boy. His hair is shorter but the same deep brown, and there’s something recognizable in his expression—the same calm, reserved gaze he carries now.

In one photo, he stands beside his mother, dressed impeccably in a small, tailored suit.

Even as a child, Nathaniel was polished, though his smile barely creeps past the corners of his mouth.

But he’s not alone.

There’s another boy in several pictures, often positioned close to Nathaniel, their matching outfits making it impossible to miss the resemblance.

In one photo, the two of them stand on the steps of the mansion, their arms casually slung over each other’s shoulders.

The other boy’s grin is wider, more carefree than Nathaniel’s, but the resemblance is uncanny.

Too uncanny.

I step closer to the frames, my pulse slowing as I examine a portrait hanging slightly apart from the rest. It’s larger, more formal. Nathaniel and the same boy—both slightly older—stand side by side, dressed in crisp black suits. My breath catches.

Their faces are identical.

Twins.

Nathaniel has never mentioned a brother.

For a heartbeat, I go still. The symmetry is so perfect it unsettles me, like staring into a mirror that reflects a truth I was never meant to see.

I feel his presence behind me, silent but watchful.

I open my mouth to ask but hesitate, sensing the shift in the air. Nathaniel’s expression doesn’t shift, but there’s something distant in the way his gaze settle on the photos, like he’s staring past them rather than at them.

My curiosity curls tightly in my chest, but I swallow it down. There’s something in the way he’s holding himself that makes me hesitate. Whatever this is—whatever story lies hidden in these frames—Nathaniel isn’t ready to share it .

Instead, I let the moment pass, tucking the questions away for later.

Nathaniel’s eyes meet mine, softening slightly as if relieved by my silence.

“This way,” he says, his voice returning to its usual steadiness as he gestures further down the hall.

As we walk, I can’t help but glance back one last time, the image of Nathaniel and his twin hovering at the forefront of my thoughts.

By the time we reach the dining room, Nathaniel glances at his watch, his thumb brushing absently over the edge of the cufflink on his sleeve.

“They’ll be down soon,” he murmurs.

I inhale quietly, smoothing my hands down the front of my dress as if the simple motion can settle the unease pressing at the edges of my mind.

Nathaniel’s father enters the room without announcement, yet his presence fills the space.

Tall, with broad shoulders and a frame that demands attention, Charles Caldwell carries himself like a man of authority.

The resemblance to Nathaniel is chilling—same sharp cheekbones, same aristocratic bearing.

Both devastatingly handsome. But where Nathaniel is cool and intense, Charles is cold and immovable.

I haven’t given much thought to Nathaniel’s genetics before, but seeing his parents makes it clear.

Between his father’s commanding stature and his mother’s timeless elegance, it’s as though Nathaniel’s refined beauty was crafted with the same meticulousness that seems to shape every corner of this house.

Charles’s eyes flick to me briefly before settling on Nathaniel with a reserved nod. His expression doesn’t soften, but there is familiarity in the way he regards his son, like a man acknowledging a reflection he doesn’t entirely know what to make of.

“Good evening, Father,” Nathaniel says evenly .

Charles inclines his head in return. “Son.”

There is no embrace, no familial affection. Just polite acknowledgment—two figures standing on the same plane but separated by something I can’t quite name.

Nathaniel guides me forward with his hand on my back.

“Father, this is Olivia.”

Charles’s gaze slides to me, and I immediately feel as though I am being studied—not unkindly, but thoroughly, like he is trying to parse out the riddle of how I came to be in his son’s life. His handshake is firm but brief, cool fingers brushing mine before withdrawing.

“Welcome, Olivia. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. It’s not every day Nathaniel changes course, and I was curious to meet the woman responsible.”

I smile politely, though his words leave me wondering what exactly Nathaniel has ‘changed course’ from. Before I can dwell on it, Nathaniel speaks.

“Olivia brought something for you,” he says, cutting in smoothly.

Suddenly aware of the box of truffles in my hand, I step forward, feeling slightly self-conscious under Charles’s unflinching gaze.

“Nathaniel mentioned you have a sweet tooth,” I say, offering the gift. “So I thought… Well, I hope you enjoy them.”

Charles arches a brow, glancing at Nathaniel as if mildly impressed. “Truffles?” He accepts the box, weighing it lightly before handing it to Roger, the butler who stands at attention nearby. “That was very kind of you. We’ll be sure to enjoy them with dessert tonight.”

From the doorway, Renée chimes in. “She brought me the loveliest bouquet of flowers too. Thoughtful, isn’t she?”

Charles’s gaze lingers on me a moment longer. “It seems you’ve made quite the impression. ”

Renée gestures toward the table. “Shall we?”

Nathaniel pulls out my chair as we settle at the long dining table, his hand brushing against mine beneath the linen. The unspoken connection soothes me.

The dinner conversation is light at first. Renée leads with anecdotes about family traditions, her warmth filtering into the space like sunlight breaking through clouds.

But it doesn’t last long.

Eventually, Charles turns his attention to Nathaniel, the cutlery soft against porcelain as he slices into his filet.

“It’s been…refreshing to see Nathaniel apply himself again,” he remarks, not looking up from his plate. “There was a time he considered walking away from college entirely. Too easy for him, isn’t that right, my boy?”

Nathaniel’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Something like that.”

I glance at him, curiosity stirring, but his expression remains unreadable. I knew he had taken a year off, but not that he’d almost quit entirely.

“That changed when you came into the picture.” Charles’s gaze shifts to me. “Your timing was impeccable, Olivia. I was eager to meet the woman who could inspire such a transformation.”

My fork stills.

Nathaniel’s jaw is tight, lips pressed in a thin line. I can sense the shift in him, like something fragile has been laid bare.

Am I really the reason he returned?

Until now, I’ve thought our meeting was chance. But the pieces are beginning to rearrange themselves, forming a picture I’m not sure I know how to interpret.

Renée, reading the room, sweeps in like a balm to smooth the tension.

“Nathaniel’s always been exceptional,” she says with a smile, her gaze landing on me and offering silent reassurance. “He’s just…selective about where he expends his energy.”

“ Selective ,” Charles echoes with a smirk, his gaze flicking toward his son. “Indeed.”

There it is again—a tense undercurrent that tugs at the space between them. Nathaniel’s grip tightens on his wine glass, though his face remains composed.

Renée continues filling the silence, recounting a story from Nathaniel’s childhood that draws laughter from the table. As she speaks, I watch Charles, who listens quietly, his sharp gaze occasionally drifting between Nathaniel and me.

I’m not sure what he’s looking for.

By the end of dinner, I feel like I’ve passed a test I didn’t know I was taking.

The Caldwell family is stunning. Cultivated. Impressive.

But underneath the polish, there are fractures.

And as Nathaniel threads his fingers through mine under the table, a question settles quietly into my chest: How deep do they go?