Chapter 8: Amber
481 Words
The gala was as tedious as expected, an endless sea of tailored suits and designer gowns, a chorus of false laughter and empty conversation.
Nathaniel played his role flawlessly, his hand resting at the small of my back, his voice dipping into low, intimate murmurs whenever someone commented on how "London's most enviable couple" looked so very much in love.
But something was different.
He stayed closer than necessary.
He leaned in more than the performance required.
And every so often, his fingers would graze my wrist, my waist, lingering just a second too long—as if he was trying to place something.
I could feel it in the way his jaw tightened whenever someone else stood too close, in the way his grip subtly adjusted when I turned away.
Then she appeared.
Isabella Sinclair.
A socialite, elegant and poised, with sharp green eyes and an even sharper smile.
"Nathaniel," she purred, her manicured fingers resting on his forearm. The air between them thickened with the cloying scent of her perfume, heady, floral, overwhelming.
His reaction was instant.
His fingers flexed around the glass of his champagne, his expression cooling.
Subtle, but noticeable.
She tilted her head, her gaze flicking between us. "And this must be the lovely wife."
Nathaniel didn't correct her. Didn't move away.
But I noticed the way his shoulders tensed, the way his fingers curled as if resisting the urge to pull back.
I smiled, keeping my voice light. "Charmed."
Isabella smirked, leaning in just a fraction more, letting her perfume swirl into the space between them.
Nathaniel remained perfectly still, but something about him shifted.
His gaze flickered to me, then lower, almost unconsciously, to where my wrist still rested on his arm.
I didn't think much of it at the time.
Not until later that night.
The mansion was quiet when we returned.
Nathaniel disappeared into his study without a word. I went upstairs, relieved to finally remove my heels, shaking off the weight of the evening.
But before I could close my bedroom door, I heard it.
Footsteps.
Stopping just outside.
I turned.
Nathaniel stood there, one hand in his pocket, his tie undone, his shirt slightly rumpled in a way that suggested he had pulled at the collar more than once.
There was something unreadable in his expression.
He didn't speak at first.
Then, finally—
"Your room smells like that amber."
I blinked. "What?"
He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair as if frustrated at himself. "The scent." His voice was quieter now, almost thoughtful. "It's better than whatever was on her."
My breath caught. "Who?"
He didn't answer.
Just lingered there for another second, staring at me like he was seeing something for the first time.
Then, before I could press him, he turned and walked away, disappearing down the hall.
I stood there, heart beating too fast.
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