Chapter 4
972 Words
CHAPTER 4
WELCOME HOME, MRS. PRESCOTT
Natalie had expected a mansion.
She hadn't expected a fortress.
The black SUV rolled through iron gates and into a private driveway lined with perfectly trimmed hedges. Beyond them stood the Prescott residence, all glass, stone and sharp architectural lines, overlooking the Hudson like it owned the river too.
Natalie stared through the window.
“This is our house?”
Vincent sat beside her, scrolling through his phone.
“Yes.”
“Our?”
His thumb stopped.
“Technically.”
Natalie turned toward him.
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“It's your house too.”
“Then why did you say technically?”
Vincent finally looked up.
“Because you've been glaring at the building for the last five minutes like you're considering filing a complaint against it.”
“I might.”
His mouth twitched.
Natalie pointed at him.
“You did it again.”
“Did what?”
“That almost-smile.”
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“Sure.”
The SUV stopped.
A woman in her fifties hurried down the steps before the driver could open Natalie's door.
“Natalie.”
The woman's face crumpled with relief.
Natalie hesitated.
She didn't know her.
But the woman knew her.
And judging by the way she grabbed Natalie's hands, she knew her well.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
Natalie's body stiffened.
The woman immediately noticed.
Her hands fell away.
Something painful crossed her face.
“I'm sorry.”
Natalie swallowed.
“It's okay. I'm just… still trying to remember everyone.”
The woman's gaze flickered toward Vincent.
He gave the slightest shake of his head.
Natalie caught it.
Of course she did.
Who was this woman?
And why did Vincent just silently tell her not to say something?
“I'm Margaret,” the woman said carefully. “I've worked for the Prescott family for years.”
Natalie smiled politely.
“Nice to meet you.”
Margaret's eyes glistened.
“You used to hate when I said that.”
Natalie's smile disappeared.
“Why?”
“Because you said we weren't strangers.”
Margaret glanced down.
“You called me Maggie.”
Natalie didn't know what to say.
Vincent stepped forward.
“That's enough for today.”
Natalie immediately turned on him.
“Stop doing that.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“Doing what?”
“Managing everyone around me.”
“I was trying to help.”
“I don't need help.”
Vincent stared at her.
Then, very calmly, he said, “You nearly fell over getting out of bed.”
“That was one time.”
“Three.”
Natalie opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Margaret suddenly looked like she was fighting a smile.
Natalie pointed at her.
“Don't encourage him.”
“I wouldn't dare.”
They entered the house.
Natalie's footsteps slowed.
She knew this hallway.
Not consciously.
Her body simply knew.
She stopped beside a large framed photograph.
It showed her standing beside Vincent at some formal event.
Her hand rested against his chest.
Vincent's hand was around her waist.
Natalie stared.
She looked happy.
Not polite-happy.
Not camera-happy.
Happy.
Her chest tightened.
“Did we really look like that?”
Vincent stood beside her.
“Yes.”
She glanced at him.
“You look different.”
“How?”
“Less dead inside.”
His eyebrows rose.
Natalie turned back toward the photograph.
Then she noticed something.
Her fingers were curled around Vincent's jacket exactly where they were now.
A strange warmth traveled through her hand.
Then—
A flash.
Vincent laughing.
Her own voice saying something she couldn't hear.
His hand catching hers.
A kitchen.
Coffee.
Morning sunlight.
Then it vanished.
Natalie grabbed the edge of the console.
Vincent immediately reached for her.
She jerked away.
“Don't.”
He stopped.
Natalie closed her eyes and breathed through the pounding in her head.
“What did I just remember?”
Vincent didn't answer.
She opened her eyes.
He was looking at the photograph.
Not her.
“Vincent.”
His gaze shifted.
“What?”
“You know.”
“I know what?”
“That memory.”
His face gave nothing away.
Natalie stepped closer.
“What happened in that kitchen?”
“Nothing.”
She laughed once.
“Wrong answer.”
Vincent's eyes narrowed.
Natalie turned away from him and started walking.
“Where are you going?”
“To find my bedroom.”
“Our bedroom is upstairs.”
She stopped.
Slowly turned.
“Our?”
Vincent seemed to realize his mistake.
Natalie's eyes narrowed.
“You said we had separate bedrooms.”
“We do.”
“Then why did you say our bedroom?”
A beat.
“Habit.”
Natalie stared at him.
“I'm starting to hate that word.”
She walked upstairs.
Vincent followed.
At the end of the hallway, he stopped beside a closed door.
Natalie looked at it.
“This one?”
“Yes.”
She opened it.
The room was beautiful.
Cream walls. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A bookshelf overflowing with novels. A small desk beside the window.
And photographs.
Everywhere.
Natalie stepped inside.
There were pictures of her with Chloe.
Her sister.
Friends she recognized.
And Vincent.
So many photographs of Vincent.
She picked one up.
She and Vincent were sitting on a beach.
Her head rested against his shoulder.
His face was turned toward her.
He wasn't looking at the camera.
He was looking at her.
Natalie stared at the picture.
“What happened to us?”
Vincent remained in the doorway.
His voice was quiet.
“That's what I'm trying to figure out too.”
Natalie looked up sharply.
For the first time, Vincent Prescott looked just as lost as she felt.
And somehow, that frightened her more than his secrets ever had.
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