Olivia refilled it, then started rambling about recent social circle gossip—who got married, who went bankrupt—her tone dripping with cheap sympathy and schadenfreude. Her voicebuzzed in my ear like a mosquito, mixing with the alcohol, making me increasingly irritable.
"Enough." I cut her off, downing another glass, trying to drown the burning restlessness and... emptiness with alcohol.
I missed Natalie's scent, missed her body. I wanted her under me right now, wanted her gasping and begging, swearing she'd never leave me again.
"I just want to make you happy, Richard." Olivia's fingers brushed my hand. "You're exhausted. You need to relax, need someone with you. I can be that person."
The alcohol hit me. My vision blurred. Olivia's face swam in the light, dark hair, red lips... she was undeniably beautiful, but another face overlapped hers in my mind, a face that captivated me with or without makeup, and the body I couldn't resist. I loved it when she looked at me with those blue eyes full of desire. In those moments, I'd give her anything.
"Natalie..." I murmured unconsciously.
Olivia stiffened, but the next second she pressed closer, arms around my neck, warm breath on my ear. "Don't think about her. I'm here..."
Her kiss landed, aggressive and perfumed. But the instant our lips touched, I snapped awake—no, this was wrong. This wasn't Natalie!
I shoved Olivia hard. She stumbled back, crashing into the desk. "Richard, you..."
"Get out." My voice was hoarse, still drunk but ice-cold with fury.
"I was just..."
"Last warning, Olivia." I looked at her with zero warmth. "Don't test me. Now leave."
She bit her lip, embarrassment flashing in her eyes, even tears, but what did I care? Finally, Olivia grabbed her purse and click-clacked out on her heels.
The office fell silent again, thick with alcohol fumes and perfume, and my heavy breathing.
I pulled down the blinds, unbuckled my belt, and gripped what was rock-hard and ready to explode in my pants.
I imagined Natalie naked before me, imagined her cupping her breasts to my mouth, imagined her spreading her legs, begging me to fuck her hard. Natalie was always so tight—every thrust into her body made my scalp tingle with pleasure.
"Natalie..." I called her name over and over, my grip growing thicker, stroking faster, breathing harder.
This thing between Natalie and me was far from over.
Chapter Eleven
Natalie
Two months into being "Vegas's Mystery Nightingale," I'd learned one thing for sure—being a masked singer beat the hell out of playing Mrs. Winston.
"Look, Emma, we had a deal." I tucked the phone between my shoulder and ear, crossing another item off my shopping list. "The only reason I signed with Harbor Records was that this mask never comes off. I gave up higher percentages, took harsher terms, all for absolute privacy behind this thing. Showing my face? Not happening."
On the other end, Emma kept pushing. "Baby, I know, but the label wants to capitalize on this heat. God, we're talking unimaginable money here, sweetie. Do you have any idea how many people are trying to guess who you are? Everything from bankrupt socialites to runaway princesses! This is free traffic gold! Just a little peek, a tiny bit of profile, or maybe—"
"No." I cut her off. "Emma, it's the mask, or I walk. Contract says so. And last month's single got you the highest bonus at the company. You even got promoted because of it. Seems like you could throw me a bone with the higher-ups, considering."
Emma sighed on the other end. "Sweetheart, I'm just passing along the company's wishful thinking. You're my cash cow—of course I'm on your side. Mask it is, then. Mystery sells, too. But I need the demo for the next single this week. Heat doesn't wait."
"You'll have it by Friday." I hung up and tossed my phone onto the couch, which was buried under sheet music and snack wrappers.
My Vegas apartment wasn't big, but it had good light. One corner of the living room was my mini workstation—keyboard, guitar, sticky notes covered in scribbled lyrics, colored pencils scattered everywhere. The other corner held freshly opened delivery boxes, all baby stuff.
I walked over and picked up a light blue onesie printed with little dinosaurs. Couldn't help but smile.
Who would've thought? Two months ago, I'd dragged a suitcase out of LA with nothing but a one-way ticket. Now I was Harbor Records' hottest masked artist, "Nightingale," with three songs in the top fifty on streaming platforms—one even cracked the top ten. More importantly, my account had enough in it to get me through this pregnancy without panic.
My phone buzzed—bank notification. Last month's royalty payment, final installment. I stared at those numbers, feeling steadier. Good. Enough for the next few months of rent, prenatal checkups, plus a little more for my tiny "baby fund."
