Page 60 of His To Unravel
I’ll handle it, just like I handle everything else.
I set the phone down for a moment, letting my gaze rest on Olivia once more. She looks so at peace, so unaware of the safeguards I’ve woven around her. It’s not enough to just watch overher. I have to become her axis—the center of her gravity, the only constant she needs.
If that means removing distractions, breaking ties, then so be it.
The irritation from Landon’s messages still hums beneath my skin, a persistent, restless energy I can’t dispel by simply lying beside her. The stillness of the morning feels stifling now, her sleeping form both a comfort and a reminder of everything I have yet to fully possess.
I slip out of bed, moving through the dim space with a purpose. I’ll channel this restlessness into something productive, into something that reminds her of where she belongs. There’s something soothing in the idea of making breakfast for her, a ritual of care that smooths some of the sharper edges inside me.
As I step into the kitchen, the ambient light of the city filters through the windows, casting a muted glow over the counters.
I open the fridge and take stock, mentally planning out what she might enjoy most this morning.
A soft vibration breaks the stillness. I glance at my phone where it sits on the counter, expecting nothing of significance, until I see the notification. My curiosity sharpens—Olivia’s mother, sending messages this early?
I unlock the phone and scan the messages, my initial annoyance morphing into something colder, more calculated as I read.
Each line solidifies something dark within me.
Mom
Olivia, the suppliers keep messing up the orders. Why haven’t you called them to straighten things out? You know how busy your father is in the kitchen.
Don’t forget to look at the diner’s finances while you’re here. The books haven’t balanced for weeks, and I know you’ll catch whatever we’re missing.
The Hendersons want the catering menu finalized for their Christmas party. Can you talk to them? You’re better at handling these things than your father.
Also, your brothers need to buckle down with their schoolwork. Can you have a word with them while you’re here?
The list goes on, an endless stream of tasks she’s meant to manage, each one a weight added onto her shoulders. They’ve anchored her to a role she was never meant to bear, and the injustice of it incites rage within me.
For the first time, her desire to break free from these expectations becomes so starkly apparent, that I almost relish the anger curling through me.
It’s no wonder she hesitates sometimes. No wonder she clings to control with white-knuckled fingers. But I can see that she also longs for an escape, for the kind of freedom I can offer her. She only needs to accept it, to step into the life I’ve carefully laid out for her, where such demands would never reach her.
My grip tightens on the phone. Her so-called family has buried her under duty, expectation—using her as a lifeline they’ll fray to the last thread if allowed.
An idea sharpens into certainty: when the semester ends, she won’t be going back to them.
She’ll come with me.
In New York, she’ll finally be free—cherished, protected, unbound from the weight of expectations she shouldn’t have to carry.
But to get there, I’ll need to be patient. Methodical. I’ll sever each link one by one until there’s nothing holding her back. And when I’m done, she’ll choose me—not because I’ve forced her, but because she’ll know there’s nowhere else she belongs.
I set the phone down, my thoughts cooling, the simmering fury replaced by a calculating satisfaction before the faint creak of the floorboards pulls my attention.
I turn to the direction of the sound, and there she is—my darling girl, framed in the soft glow spilling in from the kitchen. Olivia pads toward me with bare feet, one hand rubbing sleep from her eyes, the other holding the hem of my shirt she wore to bed.
“Good morning, Nate,” she murmurs, her voice laced with the warmth of drowsy contentment.
I hold out my arms and she steps into them without hesitation, her body melting against mine. I kiss the crown of her head, inhaling deeply as her scent—lilies, mingled with the cologne from my clothes—seeps into my lungs.
“You’re too good to me,” she whispers, the words muffled against my chest.
If she only knew.
“Never,” I reply, pressing another kiss to her temple before tilting her face to kiss her mouth. I savor the way her lips yield to mine. She’s so pliant in these moments, completely unaware of the power she has to undo me entirely.
