For a second, the icy demeanor Nathaniel wore like armor cracked. His gaze softened, lingering on the delicate line of her jaw and the stubborn determination that hadn’t faded from her eyes since the moment she had saved his world.
“You don’t thank me, Rose,” he said quietly, his voice dropping into a register that sent a sudden, unexpected shiver racing across her skin. “You held my mother back from the abyss with your bare hands. As long as I draw breath, you and your sister will never want for anything.”
He reached over, his large hand hovering over hers for a fraction of a second, before gently resting on the armrest beside her.
“Now,” he said, the CEO returning in an instant. “Unpack. Rest. Because tonight, the Sterlings are hosting their annual Midsummer Foundation Gala at the Plaza Hotel.”
Rose blinked. “Tonight? After she was arrested yesterday?”
“Arthur Sterling posted five million dollars cash specifically to ensure Victoria could attend,” Nathaniel said, a cold, terrifying smile touching his lips. “They want to show the world that the Callaway allegations are nothing more than a domestic spat. They want the high society to rally behind them.”
“Are you going?” Rose asked.
“We are going,” Nathaniel corrected, looking directly into her eyes. “My mother has demanded that you attend as her personal guest of honor. Victoria wants to tell the world you’re a clumsy maid who extorted a billionaire.”
He leaned in closer, his cologne washing over her senses.
“Tonight, Rose Vance, we are going to show the world who you really are.”
The grandfather clock in the main library of the Callaway manor struck two in the morning.
The house was dead silent, save for the crackle of embers dying in the massive limestone fireplace. Rose couldn’t sleep. The bed in the cottage had felt too soft, the silence of the country estate too loud compared to the sirens and rattling subway trains of Queens that had lulled her to sleep her entire life.
Her ribs still throbbed with a dull, persistent ache, and her bandaged hands itched as the torn skin began the agonizing process of knitting back together.
She had wandered up to the main house after the security guards at the perimeter recognized her, giving her polite nods instead of stopping her. She found the grand library unlocked, its floor-to-ceiling mahogany shelves filled with first-edition leather volumes that smelled of ancient paper, vanilla, and pipe tobacco.
She was standing on her tiptoes, trying to read the spine of an antique botanical text on the third shelf, when a deep voice cut through the shadows.
“The ones on the third tier are nineteenth-century French imports. If you drop one, it won’t break, but the binding might never forgive you.”
Rose gasped, jumping backward. Her bruised ribs flared with sharp pain, and she stumbled, losing her footing on the polished oak floorboards.
Before she could hit the ground, two strong arms caught her around the waist.
Rose found herself pulled flush against a hard, broad chest. She looked up, her breath hitching in her throat.
Nathaniel was standing over her, wearing a soft black t-shirt and charcoal sweatpants. His dark hair was slightly damp from a late shower, falling rakishly over his forehead instead of being slicked back into its usual severe corporate style. The heat radiating from his body was immense, surrounding her like a barrier against the cold estate night.
For several seconds, neither of them moved.
Rose was hyper-aware of his large hand resting against the curve of her hip, his fingers holding her with surprising gentleness, careful not to press into her bruised ribs. His gray eyes were locked onto hers, dark and searching, reflecting the faint golden light of the dying fireplace embers.
“You shouldn’t be wandering around in the dark,” Nathaniel murmured, his voice low, vibrating right through her chest. “Your body has been through trauma.”
“I couldn’t sleep,” Rose whispered, her voice barely louder than the crackle of the wood. “It’s too quiet out here. In Queens, there’s always a siren, or a shouting neighbor, or the number seven train rattling the window panes. Out here… it feels like the whole world stopped moving.”
Nathaniel didn’t let go of her waist immediately. He slowly helped her straighten up until her feet were securely planted on the Persian rug, but his hand lingered on her shoulder, his thumb brushing against the soft fabric of the gray sweater she was still wearing—his sweater.
“I know that feeling,” he said quietly, stepping back just enough to give her room to breathe, though his presence still dominated the massive room. “When my father died ten years ago, this house felt like a tomb. Every hallway echoed. I worked eighteen hours a day just so I wouldn’t have to sit here and listen to the silence.”
