Page 86 of His To Unravel
There’s something delicate about the quiet, like it mightshatter if we press too hard against it. The sun slips higher, brushing the tips of the skyscrapers in soft amber.
“I’ve always wondered what it would feel like to belong somewhere like this,” I say, almost to myself. “To walk these streets and know I had a place here…like the city was mine, even if just for a moment.” The words linger in the air, curling into the space between us.
Nathaniel shifts just enough that I can feel his breath at my ear, his voice low and certain. “Whatever part of this city you want, it’s yours.”
I smile, shaking my head lightly. “I don’t think it works like that.”
He doesn’t answer right away, and when I look up at him, his gaze is fixed on the horizon, his expression serious. His hand slides a fraction higher along my back, his thumb brushing against the ridge of my spine.
“You’d be surprised.” His voice is soft but sure, as if he’s made up his mind. I wonder, not for the first time, how far he’d go to make good on promises that would seem impossible coming from anyone else. The thought settles heavily in my chest—because with Nathaniel, even the impossible is beginning to feel inevitable.
I let my gaze drift back to the view, but the quiet stretches longer this time. Nathaniel wraps his arms around me and I find myself leaning back into the warmth of his embrace. Somehow, being held by someone so certain makes the world feel steadier.
The Windsor Roomis easy to miss. There’s no sign above the entrance, no menu by the door. It exists quietly between rows of brownstones, tucked beneath an unmarked archway, where the city’s elite slip in and out without fanfare.
Nathaniel’s fingers brush my elbow as he guides methrough the heavy glass doors. The staff greet him by name, and though their smiles are warm, there’s an air of professionalism that makes it clear not just anyone crosses this threshold.
I take in the space as we are led toward a table by the window. Velvet booths line the room, a rich inky blue that matches the trim of the towering windows overlooking Central Park. Crystal chandeliers hang low, catching the pale morning light and scattering it across white linen tables. Understated in a way that is unmistakably exclusive.
Without Nathaniel’s reassuring proximity, his hand steady at the curve of my waist, I might feel out of place. But when he ushers me into the seat beside him, I let myself get acclimated, feeling the brush of his fingertips over my knee beneath the table.
“Champagne or coffee?” Nathaniel asks, his voice low as he scans the menu, though I suspect he’s already decided what we’re having.
I smile. “It’s a little early for champagne, don’t you think?”
Nathaniel hums thoughtfully, trailing his fingers along my jaw. “We’ll do both.”
I let him order without interjecting. He enjoys curating these experiences for me, which I sense is less about the extravagance and more about the control—the satisfaction of shaping the moment exactly how he wants it.
Within minutes, gold-dusted croissants arrive alongside heirloom berry preserves, the butter so soft it melts the second it touches the pastry. Plates of champagne-poached eggs sit atop lobster brioche, and a serving of quail and foie gras waffles is drizzled delicately with honey-lavender syrup.
I pick up a croissant, laughing lightly at the decadence. “This feels like a celebration, not a Tuesday.”
Nathaniel’s hand slides along the back of my chair, his thumb tracing a light pattern on my shoulder. “You deserve to be spoiled every day.”
I open my mouth to respond, but before I can, a man’s voice cuts in.
“Nathaniel Caldwell. I thought I’d seen a ghost.”
I glance up as a man approaches our table, mid-thirties with a sharp suit and easy confidence that screams money. His smile is broad, though there’s something pointed beneath it.
Nathaniel’s posture stiffens, his grip tightening briefly on my shoulder.
“Hunter Donaldson,” he greets coolly.
Hunter’s eyes slide over to me, blatant curiosity flashing in his gaze. “And who’s this?”
Nathaniel’s fingers go back to tracing slow circles against my shoulder. “This is Olivia. My girlfriend.” There’s a softness in the way he says it but deliberate emphasis on the title.
Hunter raises an eyebrow. “Well, I can see why he doesn’t want to share,” he says with a grin as his eyes dart between Nathaniel and me before focusing his gaze back on me. “Nathaniel is particularly careful about who he brings around. I take it you’re new to the city?”
Nathaniel’s thumb presses a little harder into my skin.
“Yes,” I reply, trying to be polite. “It’s my first time in New York, actually.”
“Is that so?” It’s clear from Hunter’s voice that he’s fishing for gossip more than making small talk. “Nathaniel must be getting serious if he’s bringing you here. I imagine that the city feels a bit more inviting with him playing tour guide.” His hand rests on the back of an empty chair at our table, as if getting ready to pull it out. “Mind if I join you?”
“I’d rather Olivia enjoy her meal without interruption,” Nathaniel says evenly, his tone leaving little room for argument.
