VANESSA BELMONT
As my sobbing abated, I felt someone stroking my hair.
The touch was gentle, hesitant—almost as if the person wasn't sure they were allowed to comfort me.
I looked up.
The dim light of the bedside lamp cast shadows across Nathan's sharp features. His tie was loosened, his usually immaculate suit jacket wrinkled, and his dark eyes were fixed on me with an intensity that made my stomach twist.
He grabbed the tissue box and held it out to me.
I tore out a few tissues, wiping my nose and patting at the damp trails of tears from my cheeks. My hands trembled, and I hated it—hated how weak I looked, how exposed. Nate reached for my free hand, his fingers brushing against mine, but I jerked away, shaking off his grasp.
"What are you doing?" I asked, irritated
"Comforting my fiancée."
I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Well, that's stupid of you."
Nate exhaled through his nose, his jaw tightening, but he didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he said, "I told Fiona to go home."
I raised an eyebrow. "You mean you told Malone to take her home."
"No." His voice was firm. "I told Malone to go somewhere else."
"Whatever." I settled back onto the bed, pulling the covers up to my chin like a shield. The hospital sheets smelled faintly of antiseptic, a sterile reminder of where I was. "Go away."
"I'm staying."
Nate sat down in the chair beside the bed. He reached for my hand again, and this time, when I tried to pull away, his grip tightened, refusing to let go.
"I went into the hallway," he said, his voice low. "Fiona stood there, smiling at me. She held out her hand and asked me to take her home."
My stomach clenched. "Why would she expect anything less? You're her boyfriend."
"I'm not." His thumb traced slow circles over my knuckles. "We don't … we're not like that."
"Are you sure? Because Fiona sure as hell thinks so."
"I don't know what she's thinking." Nate's grip tightened slightly. "I had this awful feeling that if I left with Fiona, I would lose everything. I felt it down to my soul, Vanessa. You would never forgive me, and we'd spend our married life unhappy."
You got that right, I thought. I tugged at my hand again, but he held fast.
"Look, I know in the past that I was clingy, whiny, and jealous. But I won't be that way anymore. I've seen the ending. I know what happens if I don't make different choices this time."
Nate frowned. "This time?"
"Forget it." I met his gaze, my own steady despite the way my pulse thundered in my ears. "Maybe you let Fiona go this time, but what about next time? Or the time after that? I'm not going to fight for you. You will choose Fiona, and for once in my life, I'm choosing me."
For a long moment, Nate just stared at me, his dark eyes searching mine. Then, without warning, he moved—shifting from the chair to the edge of the bed, his arms caging me in on either side as he leaned down until we were nose to nose. His breath was warm against my lips, his presence overwhelming.
"I don't want Fiona," he said, his voice rough. "I want you."
My heart stuttered, but I refused to play this game. "I don't believe you." I pressed my hands against his shoulders, pushing him back.
Nate sat up, but he didn't retreat far. "I'll prove it," he said. "Every day."
I rolled my eyes. "How noble of you. Should I be grateful for your attention?"
"I'll be grateful for yours."
"Do what you want," I muttered. "But do it somewhere else. I'm tired."
A light knock sounded at the door before it creaked open. Malone stepped inside, his usual composed demeanor in place. "Boss?"
"Bring it in, Malone."
Malone carried a white paper bag with Georgio's scrawled across the side in thick black marker. The sight of it made my stomach growl.
I glanced at Nate. "What's this?"
"Dinner."
Malone handed the bag to Nate, then turned to me with a small, polite bow. "Good evening, Mrs. Jang."
"Hi, Malone. I'm not married to Nathan. Just call me Miss Belmont."
Malone nodded in acknowledgement. Then he looked at Nathan. "Is that all you need, Boss?"
Nate nodded. "Consider yourself off for the rest of the night. I'll need an early pick-up tomorrow so I have time to shower and change at the office."
"Yes, sir."
Malone gave us a nod before slipping out, closing the door softly behind him.
"Hey, does he have a first name? Or is it more like Cher and Madonna?"
"Malone is his last name. Robert is his first, though no one I know has ever called him that."
Nate unfolded the table tray near my bed and rolled it into place. I sat up, adjusting the pillows behind me as he began unpacking the food. The scent of garlic, herbs, and rich tomato sauce filled the room, making my mouth water.
"I'm still mad at you," I told him, crossing my arms. "But bringing me Georgio's buys you a teeny tiny piece of forgiveness."
Nate's lips twitched, almost a smile. "Good to know."
I watched as he removed a container and spoon, setting them carefully on the tray.
"This doesn't look like lasagna," I said, eyeing the steaming soup.
"Minestrone." He placed a couple of napkins beside it. "If you eat all of it, you'll get a little, and I mean little, lasagna."
I narrowed my eyes. "Does my lasagna consumption increase in relation to the size of my forgiveness?"
"No." He pulled out two rectangular tin containers. "But if you're really good, you might also get a half slice of bruschetta al pomodoro."
I huffed. "You're stingy."
"You're still recovering." He nudged the soup toward me. "Eat."
I ate the soup. It was rich, hearty, and delicious. Just what a hungover girl needed to feel better. Nate exhaled, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "Did I mention I have tiramisu, too?"
"Do I get a whole piece?"
Nate opened his mouth to answer, but his cell phone rang. He took it out of his inner jacket pocket and looked at the screen. He clicked it off, but before he put away the phone, it rang again. He frowned. "I better take this."