Page 94 of His To Unravel
“These are lovely, Olivia. Thank you.” I feel the weight of her gaze, carefully assessing me. “Nathaniel speaks highly of you.”
I manage a small smile, but beneath it, I feel exposed.
“I can see why,” she adds, her tone light but laced with subtle curiosity. Her eyes dip briefly to my dress—one Nathaniel insisted I choose during our shopping trip. I suddenly feel grateful for the new wardrobe.
As pleasantries unfold, I catch myself glancing down the hall, half-expecting Nathaniel’s father to emerge. Renée must notice because her lips curl just so, reading the unspoken question on my face.
“His father will join us for dinner,” she says gently. “He’s been preoccupied with work.”
Nathaniel’s jaw tightens imperceptibly, but he says nothing.
The tension stretches just beneath the surface, thin and delicate, as if one wrong word would snap it. Something unspoken passes between them—a familiar dance they seem to know well.
Nathaniel shifts beside me. “I’d like to show Olivia around before dinner.”
Renée hesitates for only a heartbeat before inclining her head. “Of course.” Her blue eyes find mine once more, lingeringjust long enough to stir something in my chest—not fear, but a distinct awareness that I am now part of something far larger than myself.
Nathaniel’s hand slides against the small of my back once more, guiding me from the room. As we walk through the quiet corridors, I glance up at him, noting the strain that hasn’t fully left his frame.
“You’re different around her,” I say quietly.
He glances at me from the corner of his eye, offering a wry smile. “I prefer not to give too much away.”
I let that settle between us as we move through the grand corridors. This house may be a monument to his family’s power, but it’s also seems like a mausoleum, full of ghosts Nathaniel never quite escapes.
His pace is leisurely, his voice smooth and measured as he guides me from room to room. As he describes the house’s history and points out pieces of art with casual ease, I feel that same calculated charm he uses to defuse tension—like he is crafting an experience, each turn down the hallways deliberate, every word carefully chosen. This isn’t just a tour—it’s a narrative.
We move through the grand foyer, its marble stretching endlessly beneath another towering chandelier that glitters in the dim evening light. The formal sitting room follows, adorned with ornate, gilded frames of landscapes and figures I don’t recognize but suspect are expensive.
Nathaniel seems unaffected by the grandeur, his attention focused on me more than anything. It isn’t until we pass a long hallway lined with photographs that I feel his grip shift slightly, his fingers tensing against my back.
I slow, my eyes trailing the frames.
There are rows of them, stretching down the corridor like a living timeline. The older photos at the far end have a sepia tone, suggesting generations of Caldwells who came before him. But the more recent ones catch my attention.
Nathaniel as a boy. His hair is shorter but the same deep brown, and there’s something recognizable in his expression—the same calm, reserved gaze he carries now. In one photo, he stands beside his mother, dressed impeccably in a small, tailored suit. Even as a child, Nathaniel was polished, though his smile barely creeps past the corners of his mouth.
But he’s not alone.
There’s another boy in several pictures, often positioned close to Nathaniel, their matching outfits making it impossible to miss the resemblance. In one photo, the two of them stand on the steps of the mansion, their arms casually slung over each other’s shoulders. The other boy’s grin is wider, more carefree than Nathaniel’s, but the resemblance is uncanny.
Too uncanny.
I step closer to the frames, my pulse slowing as I examine a portrait hanging slightly apart from the rest. It’s larger, more formal. Nathaniel and the same boy—both slightly older—stand side by side, dressed in crisp black suits. My breath catches.
Their faces are identical.
Twins.
Nathaniel has never mentioned a brother.
For a heartbeat, I go still. The symmetry is so perfect it unsettles me, like staring into a mirror that reflects a truth I was never meant to see.
I feel his presence behind me, silent but watchful.
I open my mouth to ask but hesitate, sensing the shift in the air. Nathaniel’s expression doesn’t shift, but there’s something distant in the way his gaze settle on the photos, like he’s staring past them rather than at them.
My curiosity curls tightly in my chest, but I swallow it down. There’s something in the way he’s holding himself that makes me hesitate. Whatever this is—whatever story lies hidden in these frames—Nathaniel isn’t ready to share it.
