When Her Death Couldn't Break Him (Cecilia and Nathaniel) novel Chapter 2061

Her reflexes yanked her hand free. Under the bedside glow, her eyes darted everywhere but his face, as if the air itself had grown too tight to breathe.

"I... I'd rather wait until after the wedding. It just feels right that way."

Seeing her fear, Yannick eased back, palms lifting in surrender. "All right, whatever you say. You must be tired. Get some sleep—I'll finish the bed myself."

She shook her head once, tucked the corners with meticulous care, then slipped out, soft footsteps swallowed by the hallway.

Yannick sprawled across the mattress afterward, staring at the ceiling as if it hid answers. He turned left, right, left again—sleep refused to come.

His phone lit up. On the screen blinked Calvin's text: "Why aren't you picking up?"

During dinner he'd been laughing with Jocelyn, phone muted, time erased. He'd never noticed Calvin's calls.

He thumbed redial without thinking, pulse thudding in the hush.

"Hey, Calvin, what's up?"

"Took you long enough," Calvin said, worry outweighing annoyance.

"Just got in. Phone was across the room—didn't hear a thing."

Calvin exhaled, tension bleeding out through the speaker.

"We owe you for what you did with Sven. Anything you ever need, the Lindbergs will see it done."

"Come on, you and I don't keep score."

On paper, Sven was the bodyguard Calvin introduced to Cecilia. In truth, the three men were friends who'd bled together more than once.

"Mm." Calvin sounded ready to end the call.

Yannick couldn't help asking, "Hey—will you ever come back to Tudela?"

Silence stretched, thick as smoke, before Calvin finally spoke.

People always say that when you truly love someone, your body reaches for theirs without thinking. If even desire hesitates, what kind of love is that?

Across the hall, Jocelyn lay wide-eyed in the dark. Every few breaths, her fingertips brushed the place where Yannick's lips had pressed a moment too long, and the memory played on a loop so vivid it stole sleep from her.

Heat flooded her cheeks. She smacked them lightly, as though the sting might chase the blush away. "What is happening to me?"

She grabbed her phone, hoping a mindless scroll would drown the flutter in her pulse. A headline flashed across the screen: "Second Son of Rainsworth Group, Nicholas Rainsworth, Spotted Entering Hotel with Unknown Woman After Midnight."

Jocelyn tapped the link. Photographs loaded—Nicholas in an unbuttoned blazer, an unfamiliar woman on his arm, the neon sign of a hotel burning above them.

The copy claimed he was drunk, his hand fixed around the woman's waist as they disappeared beyond the revolving doors.

Nicholas? She almost dropped the phone. During all the months she had worked for him, he had guarded his private life like a locked vault—no rumors, no loose talk.

She opened more articles. New angles appeared, each photo sharper than the last. Her fingers tightened around the device until the case creaked.