Chapter 9: The Growing Tension

Following Nicholas' abrupt "investment" in the art center, the days went by in a tense cadence. I should have been ecstatic to see my haven turning into a building site for upgrades. However, I couldn't get rid of the anxiety that coiled inside me every time I heard Nicholas's voice booming through the building or saw the sleek black town car pull up outside.

The strain was higher at home, or what I was meant to call "home."

In that vast penthouse, Nicholas had always kept his distance. Though occasionally, I questioned whether he did it on purpose, keeping us apart as though the less time we spent together, the less genuine this whole arrangement would seem; we were like ships passing in the night. But despite his efforts to maintain his distance and coldness, something was changing.

His eyes lingered when he believed I was not looking, and I could tell.

I was alone in the kitchen one evening, gazing at the microwave's blinking clock. Even though it was late, the penthouse's silence felt oppressive. I had to do anything, anything at all, to regain my sense of stability, so I took the only action that sprang to mind: I prepared food.

Kneading dough, measuring ingredients, and bringing warmth into a room were all forms of healing. I was working with my sleeves rolled up, the marble surface covered in flour, and my cheek smudged. I heard the door behind me gently close after I had just placed the final batch of cookies in the oven.

Nicholas.

I felt him before I saw him, but I didn't turn right away. The room's vibe changed, and the air felt heavier in some sense.

"You're awake," he murmured.

I looked behind me. His shirt's first few buttons were undone, and he was resting against the entryway with his tie unfastened. The little mussing showed that he had run his hand through his hair too many times.

I said, "I couldn't sleep," and returned my attention to the oven. "I needed to do something."

His footsteps were gentle on the shiny floorboards as he entered the kitchen. "Midnight baking?"

"It's preferable to pacing the hallways."

As I washed my hands on a dish towel, attempting to ignore the strange flutter in my breast, I could feel his eyes on me. The thick quiet that lingered between us was filled with words that none of us was saying. He was examining me when I turned to face him, his brow slightly wrinkled as if I were a conundrum he was unable to solve.

At last, he added, "You know, you don't have to stay here."

I was surprised by what he said. "What do you mean?"

"You don't have to act like you live here."

The oven's heat brushed across my back as I gazed at him. "Where would I go? Remember how I signed your contract?

He didn't answer immediately, but I couldn't read the spark of something in his face. "That's not how I meant it."

"So, what did you mean?"

Not a word. Although Nicholas was a calm man, I could see that his jaw was twitching as if he were holding his tongue. At that moment, he moved closer till I could smell the subtle hint of his cologne, which was a blend of cedar and something sharper and deeper.

"I'm not your prisoner, Nicholas," I stated quietly while maintaining eye contact.

"I didn't say you were."

"So why is it feeling that way?"

The moment was interrupted by the beep of the oven timer. I put the tray of cookies down, my hands trembling a little as I turned away to get it. However, Nicholas remained still. He remained motionless, observing me.

"Why do you act this way all the time?" To my surprise, I blurted.

"Like what?" he inquired, his tone steady but tinged with a sharpness.

"Cold. Detached. You give the impression that you're unbreakable, but you do things like support the center that baffles me. I have no idea who you are.”

For a moment, I believed he would not answer as the words hung in the air like smoke. However, his voice was quieter than I had ever heard it before he spoke.

"You're not interested in knowing who I am."

I was shocked by the candor in his voice. I looked up at him, trying to read his face for a response. "Why not?"

"Because you wouldn't like what you find," he continued, deliberately approaching.

Between us, the air crackled. I ought to have taken a step back. I ought to have cracked a joke to defuse the situation. But I was immobile and unable to breathe. My pulse was thumping in my chest because of the way he was staring at me as if I were simultaneously valuable and dangerous.

I muttered, "You keep saying things like that." "But you never explained."

He looked briefly at my lips before turning away and frantically raking his fingers through his hair. "It makes no difference."

"It does, indeed!" I lost my temper. "You keep me here, you get involved in my life, and then you cut me off." I'm sick of it.

Nicholas turned back to me, a mask of constraint covering his features. "You agreed to this knowing what it was."

"Did I?" My voice faltered. "Because I'm no longer so sure."

For a long time, he gazed at me, our silence resonating with unsaid words. He turned and left the kitchen without saying anything more, leaving me standing there by myself with my chest heaving.

Unable to concentrate, I was pacing my studio at the art center the following morning. The blank canvas on my easel taunted me as my brushes remained untouchable. I kept thinking about what Nicholas had said the previous evening.

What you discover won't please you.

What was he trying to say? Why was he unable to simply speak to me? Despite his self-assurance and haughtiness, Nicholas Scott was a man confined by steel doors. He kept everyone out. And my curiosity about what he was concealing grew as he pulled me farther away.

My phone buzzed on the desk. When I spotted an unknown number, I scowled and snatched it.

"Hello?" I gave a cautious response.

“Mrs. Scott?” remarked an odd, clipped voice.

"Yes?"

This is the office of Dr. Langston. To confirm your appointment for this afternoon, I'm calling.

I went cold. "I believe your number is incorrect."

A pause occurred. "No, ma'am. Nicholas Scott made the appointment. He requested that we contact you directly.

I felt sick to my stomach. "What's the appointment?"

With matter-of-factness, the woman said, "Your prenatal consultation." "Today at two o'clock."

The phone almost fell out of my grasp.

Expectant?

With my heart racing, I stumbled, "I—I think there's a mistake." "I'm not—"

"Ma'am, everything has already been set up. Mr. Scott demanded it.”

Demanded? I hung up the phone numbly, my mind racing. Why would Nicholas set up such an event? As I clutched my coat, my hands were shaking, and my mind was racing. I needed to locate him. I had to ask him what the devil was going on.

Later that afternoon, Nicholas was standing near the floor-to-ceiling windows, holding a glass of whiskey, when I barged into the penthouse. When he heard me, he turned, his eyebrows rising a little at my unkempt appearance.

"What did you do?" With a trembling voice, I demanded.

He put down the glass and turned to face me, his face unreadable. Cassie, you'll need answers shortly, and I'll make sure you get them.

"What is meant by that? What do you not want me to know?

His jaw muscles twitched as he paused. "You're not prepared to find out."

The last straw was the cryptic wording. I moved across the room and used both hands to push his chest. Nicholas, please stop teasing me! Tell me if there is anything I should know!

With burning eyes, he took hold of my wrists and held them softly but forcefully. "Believe me when I tell you that it's best not to."

I wrenched out of his hold, my heart pounding. "That is not for you to decide."

As Nicholas gazed at me, I caught a glimpse of something deeper, a spark of regret. His barriers slammed back into position, and his voice became icy once more.

"Give it up, Cassie."

However, I was unable to. I knew in my heart that he was harboring a secret that had the power to alter everything.