Page 102 of His To Unravel
Nathaniel’s response is smooth, almost rehearsed. “The apartment is more practical for my schedule.” He doesn’t look at her as he speaks, instead focusing on his coffee.
Renée lets the topic drop but not before she glances my way, as if hoping I might support her suggestion. I keep quiet, sensing the undercurrent of tension in the room.
“Anyway,” Renée pivots, her tone shifting to something more cheerful, “I was surprised you didn’t remember the date.”
Nathaniel raises an eyebrow. “Should I have?”
She gives him a pointed look. “The Christmas fair at the Elysian Gallery. I assume you haven’t forgotten that it’s today.”
Nathaniel’s expression doesn’t change, but his tone cools. “Why not go with Father?”
Renée sighs, folding her hands on the table. “It’s a tradition, Nathaniel. Something I used to do with you and Alexander. It would mean a lot to me to continue it with you.”
The air suddenly feels thicker. I glance at Nathaniel, whose grip tightens slightly on my thigh under the table. His face is impassive, but I can feel the tension radiating from him.
Renée must notice too, because she turns to me with a kind smile. “Olivia, I’d love for you to join us. It’s a beautiful event, and I think you’d enjoy it.”
The thought of him missing out on a tradition with his mother, especially one tied so deeply to his family, makes my heart hurt.
“That sounds wonderful,” I say, smiling warmly at Renée. “I’d love to go.”
Nathaniel’s attention snaps to me, his expression softening as his focus shifts entirely. “Are you sure?” he asks quietly. “Would it make you happy?”
I nod. “It would.”
His agreement comes swiftly after that. “Then we’ll go,” he says, his tonefinal.
Renée’s relief is visible as she beams. There’s a wordless exchange between us—gratitude on her part, understanding on mine.
As we finish up our meal, I have the chance to observe Renée up close. Her chestnut brown hair is impeccably styled, framing sharp cheekbones that resemble Nathaniel’s. Her blue eyes, though striking like her son’s, carry a softer warmth that makes me feel both welcome and examined.
She wears a cream cashmere coat over a dove-gray dress, tailored and timeless. Everything about her exudes wealth without flash, confidence without effort. But there’s a subtle scrutiny in her gaze, like she’s evaluating more than just the apartment.
Nathaniel rises and extends his hand to me. “Let’s get ready,” he murmurs.
I take it, feeling the tension still coiled in his grip. As we walk back toward the bedroom, I glance back once. Renée stands alone in the living room, surveying the space with an unreadable expression.
She’s not just admiring the decor.
She’s measuring what her son has built without her.
The Rolls-Royce glidesto a stop in front of the Elysian Gallery. Through the window, I catch my first glimpse of the grand façade—tall glass panels framed by marble columns, each one draped with frost-kissed wreaths and twinkling lights.
As we step inside, the scent of pine and cinnamon wraps around us. Vaulted ceilings stretch above us, their intricate carvings highlighted by soft, golden lighting. The marble floors gleam underfoot, reflecting the shimmering displays of ornaments housed in individual cases. Live harp music fills the space, mingling with the gentle hum of conversation. Waiters in crisp uniformsmove gracefully through the room, offering glasses of champagne and trays of delicate hors d’oeuvres.
“This,” I murmur, awestruck, “is not what I expected.” It is obvious that this is unlike any other Christmas fair I have been to.
Renée, standing beside me, smiles warmly. “The Yuletide Atelier is an experience. It’s as much about tradition as it is about artistry. Each piece tells a story.”
Nathaniel’s hand tightens around mine, his touch a constant reassurance for himself as much as it is for me, I’m sure. He said little on the drive over, letting his mother fill the silence with stories of past Christmases and the Caldwell family’s traditions. She spoke fondly of the ornaments, describing how she, Nathaniel, and Alexander added one to the family collection each year.
His brother.
I glance at Nathaniel now, his expression composed but distant. I can feel the strain in the way his thumb absently brushes against my knuckles.
A man dressed impeccably in a tailored suit approaches us as we stand in the entryway. “Mrs. Caldwell, Mr. Caldwell.” He nods respectfully before his gaze shifts to me. “And your guest.”
“This is Olivia,” Renée says.
