So she hadn't replied because she wasn't feeling well.
But the explanation didn't sit right. Instead, an unfamiliar anger rose in my chest.
She was sick and hadn't told me.
As her husband, I should have been the first to know about her health. That was a basic right. My responsibility. Her silence—what did it mean? That she didn't see me as someone to rely on? Or that she thought I didn't care?
Either way, it infuriated me.
Natalie had always been a perfect wife. Beautiful, appropriate, never overstepping. I told her what to wear, she wore it. I told her which events to attend, she attended. I told her to stay quiet, she stayed quiet. Like a piece of art I'd sculpted myself.
I was satisfied with that arrangement. Satisfied with her. So why was she disrupting the balance?
I rubbed my temples. Maybe... she was just throwing a tantrum. Women had these inexplicable moods. Maybe I'd been too busy lately. Neglected her. Maybe she just needed attention.
Fine. If that's what she wanted.
"Got it." I ended the call and turned to my assistant, who was organizing files. "David, compress my one-week schedule into three days. Three days from now, I'm going back to LA."
David clearly froze.
His reaction irritated me. "Problem?"
David snapped out of it, shaking his head. "Sorry, sir. I'll rearrange everything."
Olivia looked over. "Richard? Something wrong? Emergency in LA?"
"Natalie's sick." My answer was brief.
"She can see a family doctor. Or go to the best hospital." Olivia's tone was purely factual. "But the meeting with Fitzroy is critical. You can't just phone it in..."
"You think I'd half-ass this meeting?" I cut her off, focusing on the rapidly adjusted timeline. "Besides, I pay my team well—not so they just follow orders. The important meetings won't last a week. My staff can handle the tedious follow-ups themselves."
As for why Natalie had hidden her illness from me—I'd find out when I got back.
Three days later,all my necessary work finally wrapped up under intense pressure.
After the private jet landed in LA, I had the driver detour to Wilshire Boulevard. Last week I'd won an antique necklace at auction. It had been stored there ever since.
The first time I'd seen that necklace, I'd thought of Natalie's eyes—that clear blue with a hint of innocence. She always lit up when she got gifts, her eyes brightening before she smiled that obedient smile.
Spending money to make her happy—couldn't be easier.
The car passed through Blackwood Manor's iron gates just after midnight. Palm tree shadows pressed against both sides of the driveway, tall and silent.
The main house blazed with light—but those were the servants' quarters and hallway lights. The second-floor master bedroom window was dark. Natalie had probably gone to bed.
But when I pushed open the bedroom door, I found Natalie lying on the bed, her back to the door.
She wore a silk nightgown I'd never seen before—vivid crimson red. Thin straps. A vast expanse of smooth bare skin under the warm light. Damp blonde hair scattered across her shoulders. She was barefoot, absorbed in the tablet in front of her.
The bedroom was quiet. The central AC hummed softly. White mist rose from the humidifier. The air carried the scent of her usual body wash—rose. That fragrance made my pants tighten.
She hadn't noticed me. So I stood in the doorway and stared unabashedly. Watched her shoulder blades rise and fall with each breath. Watched that thin red strap hang loose from her shoulder, barely there.
God, I wanted to strip her naked right now.
I'd seen her in haute couture gowns at galas. Seen her drowsy and languid at dawn. But I'd never seen her like this—vivid and alive, like a fire burning quietly in the dark.
