Page 99 of His To Unravel
My study is dark, illuminated only by moonlight filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I move to the desk, opening the drawer I rarely touch. Inside is a box—simple, unassuming, but heavy with the weight of a life I no longer have.
My fingers hesitate on the lid before lifting it. Photographs greet me, a collection of moments frozen in time.
There we are—Alexander and me.
In every image, we are side by side. School portraits, where our identical smiles are polished to perfection. Vacation shots, his arm slung casually over my shoulders, radiating that effortless charmhe always had. Formal family gatherings, where even the stiff poses can’t dull his spark.
I pick up one photo, my thumb brushing over his face. He is mid-laugh, his head tilted back, eyes bright with confidence. He is always like that—radiant, magnetic. People flock to him without hesitation, drawn by a gravity I can never replicate.
Our parents adore us both, but there is no mistaking the preference.
Alexander is the natural heir, the one meant to lead, while I am…the spare. It isn’t overt, but it is there. In our father’s gaze as it fixes on him during discussions about the future. In the way our mother’s laughter comes easier in his presence.
I am content to orbit him, unnoticed but steadfast. He thrives in the spotlight, and I am fine in his shadow. Or at least, I thought I was.
An ache settles in my chest as I set the photo aside. If Alexander were here, would Olivia choose him instead?
The question is irrational, I know. She’s given me no reason to doubt her. But doubt festers anyway, gnawing at the edges of my mind. Alexander has always been the better half, the one who shines brighter. If she knew about him, about what I am not, would she see me differently?
My grip tightens on the edge of the desk. Olivia is the only person in my life who sees me without the comparisons. With her, I am not a reflection or a substitute. I am simply Nathaniel.
And yet, that thought terrifies me. If I lose her, there will be no one left who sees me that way.
I close the box, lowering the lid with care. The drawer slides shut with finality, but the pressure in my chest doesn’t ease.
When I return to the bedroom, Olivia is still asleep, her breaths soft and even. I slip beneath the sheets, pulling her close. She shifts slightly, her hand instinctively finding mine, her fingers curling loosely around mywrist.
I press a kiss to her hair, inhaling deeply. Her scent soothes me, but it isn’t enough to quell the storm in my mind.
I tell myself that everything I have done is justified. That I have earned her presence, her trust, by sheer will and strategy. I don’t regret any of it. I have bent my life for the privilege of holding her beside me.
I have framed it well, I reassure myself. Positioned my actions as gestures of devotion, spun a story of love so intense it borders on obsession. And why not? What is obsession if not an amplification of love? The lines blur, and I cross them willingly, eagerly, knowing I would do anything to keep her here.Anything.
But beneath my conviction, a sliver of doubt claws at me, a reminder that I am treading on thin ice. If she truly understood the lengths that I have gone to, would she accept it? What if she changes her mind and decide that she can’t handle it, can’t handleme?
No, I think, closing my eyes briefly, a hard determination settling within me. As much as I want her voluntary submission, the assurance that she is here of her own will, I know that if it comes to it… I will find other ways to ensure she doesn’t slip through my grasp.
The thought brings a wave of guilt, or something like it. Not enough to stop me, but enough to acknowledge the precarious line I walk. I would give her anything—everything—but I will also take if need be.
For now, she is here. The world can have its judgment, its notions of love and morality. I care for none of it. All I care about is her, my beautiful, perfect Olivia.
As long as she stays, I can endure the rest.
TWENTY-EIGHT
olivia
The first thingI notice is the silence.
Nathaniel isn’t awake. It’s a disorienting realization. In all the mornings I’ve spent in his penthouse back in Boston, he has always risen before me, his side of the bed cool by the time I stir. But now, as I blink against the soft morning light filtering through the curtains, he’s still lying beside me, his broad chest rising and falling in steady rhythm.
For a long moment, I don’t move. I watch the curve of his slightly parted lips and the faint crease between his brows that never seems to fade, even in sleep. Stripped of his usual composure, he looks younger. Softer. Almost vulnerable.
He must be exhausted.
Nathaniel hides it well, but the cracks in his polished veneer have been showing. The intensity of the evening clearly affected him—his confessions, the careful way he drew my bath, dried my hair, and massaged my feet until I couldn’t resist the pull of sleep. I wonder how late he stayed awake, watching over me the way he always does.
Nathaniel’s attentiveness can border on obsessive, but I understand why he feels the need to fuss over me.
