Page 55 of His To Unravel
I wrap my fingers gently around her hand, a silent vow binding me to her. I will give her everything, anything.
And yet, beneath the calm, a darker thought lurks.
If that trust ever wavered, if she ever turned away…No.
I’m in so deep now that if she ever changed her mind, I would surely lose mine.
SIXTEEN
olivia
Soft morning lightspills through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a warm glow across the vast, sleek bedroom. I blink awake, momentarily disoriented by the luxury surrounding me. The bedding beneath me are all crisp linen and understated elegance—cool to the touch, the kind of softness that speaks of things I’m not used to having.
The bed is empty and I’m caught off guard by the disconcerting emptiness in this otherwise opulent space.
Memories of last night rush in—warm, sharp and impossibly clear.
I’ve had sex before. But never like that. Never with someone who made me feel soknown. So completely undone and yet somehow more whole than I’ve ever felt.
It wasn’t just physical. It wasn’t even just emotional. It was something deeper. Like every version of me—shy and bold, fragile and fierce—had been invited to the surface and held, reverently, by someone who saw it all and didn’t flinch.
And God, it was good. Better than anything I thought it could be. Not just the way his body moved with mine, but the way it feltafterward—like something in me had shifted. Like he’d opened a door I didn’t know I’d been knocking on.
I sink a little deeper into the sheets, still able to smell him on the pillow. It wraps around me, warm and familiar, and I can’t help but wonder where he’s gone.
The sound of faint sizzling coming from the kitchen nudges me fully awake.
Sitting up, I take in my surroundings with fresh eyes, noting the understated elegance woven into every detail of Nathaniel’s room. The silken gray sheets are impeccably smooth, coordinated with the muted tones that define his space.
The walls are adorned with abstract art, their colors subdued but striking, like whispers meant to be noticed only in passing. It’s all so meticulously chosen, so deliberate, and it dawns on me just how curated his world is—so unlike mine. The observation settles heavily in my chest.
I grew up in a small, cluttered home where the furniture was chosen for practicality, and the walls were plastered with family photos and memories, not commissioned pieces and high-end design. Nathaniel’s world feels polished and imposing, a reminder of the distance between us. He lives a life so far from anything I ever imagined for myself, a life I’m only just beginning to understand.
I feel a little like an outsider here, a guest intruding on a world that belongs to someone else entirely. But the promise of him waiting outside settles me. It’s enough to remind me that, despite all these differences, he chose me to share this space with him—if only for now.
I slide out of bed, the plush carpet soft underfoot, and cross the room, each step shaking off the hesitation that clings like mist.
The hallway opens into an expansive living area bathed in natural light. Charcoal leather couches form a sleek sitting area around a low glass coffee table, perfectly arranged atop apatterned rug that looks like it belongs in a gallery. A few rare books are stacked with casual deliberation beside a crystal decanter on a side table.
The room is anchored by large, steel-framed windows that stretch from floor to ceiling, offering a panoramic view of Boston’s skyline. The sight is breathtaking, making the city feel almost within arm’s reach, its buildings piercing the soft blue of the early morning sky.
For a moment, I let myself simply take it all in, my fingers grazing the edge of the sofa as I move slowly, afraid to disturb the pristine tranquility.
Each corner of the room carries his imprint—decisive, sharp, with an understated elegance. Even the art on the walls speaks of his taste, abstract pieces that demand interpretation, much like him. There’s no clutter, no mess, only the intentionality of someone who lives with purpose, who curates his surroundings as carefully as he does his life.
And yet, for all the beauty and sophistication, there’s something achingly impersonal about it. This place is as much a fortress as it is a home, a carefully crafted image that keeps the world at arm’s length. I wonder if that’s how he lives every part of his life—shielded, untouchable, never quite allowing anyone too close.
A sharp ache blooms in my chest at the thought.
As I make my way through the open expanse of Nathaniel’s penthouse into the kitchen, I find him standing by the stove, plating breakfast with the same precision he applies to everything else.
He glances up as I approach, his gaze warming when he sees me. He motions me over, his mouth tilting in a barely-there smile.
“Good morning, baby,” he murmurs, stepping closer to kiss me, the familiar brush of his lips sparking a comforting warmth in my chest.
“Good morning,” I reply, the words soft, shy.
As he hands me a plate, I realize he’s made my favorite—pancakes, perfectly golden, just like that first night when he took me to the diner. The memory rushes back, bringing a smile to my face.
