Chapter 3 Cracks in the Facade

**Chapter 3 — Cracks in the Facade**

I didn't go to Nathaniel's room that night. Instead, I lay beside Henry, listening to his soft snores, guilt and desire waging war within me. When morning came, I had convinced myself that the stolen kiss was a momentary lapse—one that wouldn't happen again.

The next week passed in a blur of preparations for the dinner party. I threw myself into the planning, grateful for the distraction. Rachel stayed at the mansion to help, watching me like a hawk whenever Nathaniel was nearby.

"You're playing with fire," she whispered one afternoon as we arranged flowers in the dining room. Nathaniel had just left after lingering too long, his fingers brushing mine as he handed me a vase.

"Nothing's happening," I lied.

Rachel's skeptical look said everything. "Liv, I've known you for ten years. I was there when he broke you the first time."

"That was different. We were younger."

"And now he's your stepson." She set down a lily with deliberate care. "Does Henry suspect anything?"

The question sent a chill through me. I hadn't considered that Henry might notice the tension between Nathaniel and me. "Of course not. There's nothing to suspect."

But that evening, I caught Henry watching thoughtfully as Nathaniel and I maintained a careful distance during dinner. His eyes moved between us, calculating in a way I hadn't seen before.

"Nathaniel seems very interested in your event planning experience," Henry commented later as we prepared for bed. "He mentioned you had some innovative ideas for the company's charity gala next month."

My pulse quickened. "Did he? We've barely spoken about work."

Henry removed his watch, placing it on the nightstand with precision. "Really? He said you two had quite a lengthy discussion about it yesterday."

We had spoken yesterday—but not about event planning. Nathaniel had cornered me in the library, pressing me against the bookshelves as he whispered how often he'd dreamed of me over the years. No hands had wandered, no kisses exchanged, but the intensity in his eyes had left me breathless.

"Just a brief conversation," I said, focusing on removing my earrings. "Nothing substantial."

Henry hummed noncommittally, a sound that made my skin prickle with unease.

The morning of the dinner party arrived with a flurry of activity. Caterers and staff moved efficiently through the house, transforming the formal dining room into a showcase of elegance. I was checking the place settings when Nathaniel appeared at my side.

"You've been avoiding me," he murmured, standing close enough that our arms touched.

"I've been busy," I replied, moving to adjust a fork that was perfectly aligned.

"Too busy to finish our conversation?" His fingers brushed the small of my back, the touch burning through the thin silk of my dress.

I glanced around nervously, but the staff was focused on their tasks. "This has to stop, Nathaniel."

"Does it?" He leaned closer, his breath warm against my ear. "Because I think we're just getting started. Meet me in the garden house after the party."

"No." I stepped away, but he caught my wrist.

"I have something to show you. Something you need to see." His tone shifted, serious now. "It's about us, about what really happened six years ago."

Before I could respond, Martha appeared in the doorway. "Mrs. Wilson, your friend Ms. Carter is looking for you. She's in the blue room."

I nodded gratefully, pulling free from Nathaniel's grip. "Thank you, Martha. I'll go right away."

Rachel was pacing when I entered the room, her face tight with concern. "I need to talk to you before the guests arrive."

"What's wrong?"

She closed the door, lowering her voice. "I think Henry knows something. He called me into his study this morning to ask about your past relationships."

My blood ran cold. "What did he ask?"

"Nothing specific. Just whether you'd had any serious boyfriends before him." She twisted her hands nervously. "I said there had been one in college that ended badly. I didn't mention Nathaniel by name."

"And?"

"He thanked me and said he'd always believed that understanding someone's past was key to securing their future." Rachel's eyes met mine. "Liv, the way he said it... it wasn't casual curiosity."

I sank onto a chair, my legs suddenly weak. "Do you think Nathaniel told him?"

"I don't know. But something's definitely off." Rachel sat beside me, taking my hand. "Whatever's happening between you and Nathaniel—and don't deny it, I can see it—you need to end it. Henry isn't just some ordinary husband. He's powerful, connected. If he discovers his son and wife have a history..."

"Nothing has happened," I insisted, though the kiss in the hallway flashed vividly in my mind.

"Nothing yet," Rachel corrected. "But it will if you don't put a stop to it now."

I squeezed her hand. "I know. You're right."

But even as I said the words, a part of me was already wondering what Nathaniel wanted to show me in the garden house.

The dinner party began at seven. Thirty of Seattle's most influential couples filled our home, mingling over cocktails before dinner. I moved among them in a midnight blue gown, playing the perfect hostess while keenly aware of Nathaniel's gaze following me.

Henry kept me close for most of the evening, his hand possessively at my waist as he introduced me to business associates and friends. To anyone watching, we were the picture of marital contentment—the successful businessman and his beautiful young wife.

"Mrs. Wilson," a silver-haired woman approached us, champagne in hand. "Your home is exquisite. You must tell me who did your floral arrangements."

"I did them myself, actually," I replied with a smile. "I used to own a small event planning business before Henry and I married."

"Olivia has quite the eye for beauty," Henry said, his tone warm but his eyes calculating as they flicked toward Nathaniel across the room. "A quality I've always admired in her."

As dinner progressed, I felt the weight of Henry's scrutiny more keenly. His attentiveness had an edge to it, his questions to me and Nathaniel subtly probing, as if testing our reactions to each other.

"Nathaniel tells me you both attended the University of Washington," Henry remarked as dessert was served. "Strange that your paths never crossed."

The table fell quiet, guests sensing the undercurrent in his question. Nathaniel answered smoothly, "Different years, different departments. The campus is huge."

"Actually," I added, desperate to appear casual, "I think we might have had a mutual friend or two. Seattle is smaller than it seems."

"Indeed it is," Henry agreed, his smile not reaching his eyes. "Connections have a way of revealing themselves eventually."

After dinner, the guests moved to the terrace for coffee and liqueurs. I excused myself to check on the kitchen staff, needing a moment alone. As I returned through the darkened hallway, Nathaniel stepped out from the shadows.

"Garden house. Midnight," he whispered, pressing something cold and metal into my palm before disappearing again.

I opened my hand to find a small key.

The remainder of the evening passed in a blur of goodbyes and promises to meet for lunch. By eleven, the last guests had departed, and Henry retreated to his study with a nightcap, claiming he needed to review documents for an early morning meeting.

"Don't wait up," he said, kissing me distractedly on the cheek. "I'll be a while."

In our bedroom, I changed into black pants and a dark sweater, telling myself I was only going to the garden house to tell Nathaniel definitively that whatever was between us needed to end. Rachel's warnings echoed in my mind, but the key in my pocket seemed to burn with possibilities.

At five minutes to midnight, I slipped out through the kitchen and followed the stone path to the garden house—a small, elegant structure at the far end of the property that Henry used for meditation and reading. My heart pounded as I inserted the key and pushed open the door.

Nathaniel stood by the window, moonlight silvering his profile. He turned as I entered, his expression unreadable.

"You came," he said softly.

"Only to tell you this has to stop." I remained by the door, afraid to move closer. "Henry suspects something."

"I know." Nathaniel moved toward a small table where a folder lay. "That's why you need to see this."

Curiosity overcame caution. I approached, watching as he opened the folder to reveal several documents—emails, photos, and what looked like bank statements.

"What is this?"

"Evidence that my father knew exactly who you were when he pursued you." Nathaniel's voice was tight with controlled anger. "He didn't meet you by chance at that charity gala. He engineered it."

I stared at the papers, trying to make sense of them. Photos of me from years ago, surveillance reports, emails between Henry and a private investigator discussing my routines, my preferences, my history.

"This can't be real," I whispered, my hands shaking.

"It's real." Nathaniel moved closer, his warmth at my back. "He's known about us from the beginning, Olivia. He knew you were the woman I loved in college. The woman who carried my child."

"Why?" My voice cracked. "Why would he do this?"

"Control." Nathaniel's hands came to rest on my shoulders. "It's always been about control with him. Over me, over his empire, over everything he touches."

I turned to face him, our bodies inches apart. "How did you find these?"

"I've been watching him for years, waiting for the right moment to break free of his manipulation." His eyes searched mine. "When I discovered he was pursuing you, I knew I had to come back."

"To warn me?"

His hands moved to cup my face. "To save you. And maybe to save us both."

The door to the garden house crashed open. Henry stood in the doorway, his face a mask of cold fury as he took in our proximity, the open folder on the table.

"I see you two have dispensed with pretense," he said, his voice eerily calm. "How convenient."

Nathaniel stepped in front of me protectively. "It's over, Father. I know everything—about London, about how you manipulated both of us."

Henry entered the room, closing the door behind him. "And what exactly do you think you know, son?"

"That you sent me away because you knew Olivia was pregnant. That you've been watching her for years. That you married her to punish me."

A chilling smile spread across Henry's face. "Your imagination has always been your weakness, Nathaniel. Always seeing conspiracies where there are only coincidences."

He turned to me, his eyes hardening. "As for you, my dear wife—I expected better. Barely a month married and already meeting my son in secret."

"Henry," I began, my voice trembling, "it's not what it looks like."

"Isn't it?" He moved closer, his presence filling the small space. "Because it looks very much like my wife and my son have been lying to me since the moment I brought you into my home."

The tension in the room was suffocating. Henry's gaze moved between us, calculating and cold. Whatever warmth I had once seen in those eyes was gone, replaced by something that made my skin crawl.

"We have a lot to discuss," Henry said finally, his voice deceptively gentle. "All three of us. But not here. Not like this." He extended his hand toward me. "Come back to the house, Olivia. Now."

I hesitated, looking at Nathaniel, whose jaw was clenched in barely contained rage. The documents on the table seemed to whisper secrets I wasn't sure I was ready to hear.

In that moment, I realized the true danger wasn't just the attraction between Nathaniel and me—it was Henry himself, and whatever game he had been playing all along.