Page 93 of His To Unravel
In the end, I settled on an elegant bouquet of orchids and lilies for his mother—classic but understated. For his father, I chose a box of La Maison du Chocolat truffles after Nathaniel mentioned his sweet tooth.
Now, as the Rolls-Royce slips through the streets toward Fifth Avenue, I feel his eyes on me once more.
“You didn’t have to do all that,” he says again, his tone appreciative as his thumb skims gently along the curve of my knee.
“I wanted to,” I reply, shrugging lightly. “It’s my first time meeting aboyfriend’s parents.”
Nathaniel’s grip tightens. His expression shifts, and I catch the shadow of something darker beneath his satisfaction.
“Good,” he says, his voice lower. “It’ll be the last time too.”
Before I can react, his lips claim mine in a kiss that feels less like affection and more like a vow, one I haven’t yet agreed to.
I let him pull me closer, but as his hand glides to the nape of my neck, my thoughts drift elsewhere. My phone sits heavy in my purse, silent but not forgotten. I know unread messages from my mother wait there, each one a reminder of the world I have left behind.
Nathaniel’s world is gilded in luxury. Mine is built on necessity.
I recall the texts she sent before—demanding and laden with disappointment.We were counting on you, Olivia.
I exhale slowly, willing the knot in my chest to loosen.I deserve this.I deserve to be happy, even if happiness feels foreign in my hands.
The car slows, pulling up to the Caldwell family mansion. The limestone facade looms ahead, softened only slightly by the ivy curling along the edges. Tall arched windows framed in wrought iron glow faintly from within, while stone columns and intricate carvings line the black double doors. It feels more like a landmark than a home, anchored in legacy and power.
Nathaniel steps out first, circling around to open the door for me. His hand is steady as it slides against the small of my back.
“You ready?” he asks.
I nod, even though we both know that’s not entirely true.
When we reach the entrance, the heavy double doors open with a soft creak, revealing an older man standing just inside.
His silver hair is neatly combed back, and his sharp gaze holds the kind of quiet authority that comes from years of service. His eyes flicker briefly to me—a subtle nod of acknowledgment—before settling on Nathaniel with the ease of long familiarity.
“Welcome home, Mr. Caldwell,” he says, his voice calm and measured, laced with the warmth of someone who has likely known Nathaniel since childhood.
Nathaniel gives him a brief nod, but the weight of his hand against my back remains as we step inside.
The older man, hands clasped behind his back, introduces himself with a slight incline of his head. “I’m Roger, the Caldwell family butler. It’s a pleasure to welcome you. If you need anything during your visit, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
His gaze lingers just a moment longer—measuring, but not intrusive—before he steps aside, allowing us deeper into the mansion’s grand entrance hall.
The space opens up like a museum—marble floors gleaming beneath high coffered ceilings, reflecting the soft chandelier light that cascades down in shimmering drops. The space is grand and elegant in a way that speaks of generations past, but there is little warmth to it.
It feels less like a home and more like a legacy suspended in time, where everything has its place, yet nothing feels lived in.
Nathaniel’s stride doesn’t falter, but I catch the stiffness in his shoulders. There is no hesitation in his movements, but it’s the posture of someone who has walked these halls for years, enduring their presence rather than finding comfort within them.
Roger leads us deeper into the house, his steps echoing faintly across the marble. We have barely entered the main sitting room when the soft click of heels echoes from the grand staircase. I turn in time to see Nathaniel’s mother descending, each step light and measured.
Renée Caldwell moves with the kind of poise that comes effortlessly to women like her. She is beautiful, her chestnut brown hair pulled into a sleek twist that highlights the sharp lines of her face, eyes the same piercing blue as Nathaniel’s. A soft, practiced smile curves her lips when she sees him.
“Nathaniel,” she greets, her tone carrying a genuine warmth that contrasts with the coolness of the house. “Darling, you’ve finally decided to pay us a visit.”
Nathaniel remains composed, offering nothing but a polite, closed-lip smile. “We were taking our time,” he replies smoothly. There is finality in his tone, an unspoken boundary drawn between them.
Sensing the shift in the air, I step forward, offering the bouquet of orchids and lilies. “It’s so nice to meet you, Mrs. Caldwell. I brought these for you.”
Her eyes soften with her surprise, though I can’t tell if it’s genuine or another layer of performance.
