My circling fingers stopped.
"I love singing on stage, even if there's only ten people watching. I love writing lyrics you might call childish, arguing with the band over a chord till midnight, wearing those red dresses you think are too flashy, chatting nonsense with fans at signings, hearing how my words gave them strength... But to you, that's what? Undignified? Not good enough?"
Her voice was soft, but it hammered my sated, relaxed heart.
"Back with you, as Mrs. Winston, I watch my words, my posture, the events, the clothes, the people, even my smile—like there's a script. It doesn't feel like living. It feels like playing a role. A pretty, perfect doll that can't screw up."
She fully turned, blue eyes reflecting my furrowed brow.
"You give the best protection, Richard. No denying that. But I'm not some hothouse flower. I'm my own person. I can handle my messes—I have the chops. But have you ever considered that? You just decide and do it. If you respected me a bit, you'd have told me about fixing this, not let me hear it from Emma."
Honestly, this was one of our calmer talks in Vegas, but it bugged me more than any fight.
I tightened my arms, pulling her closer on instinct.
I'd never dug deep into what she said. But thinking now, she was right.
My upbringing and world made me assume some fields were real work, worthy of respect, while singers, actors—stuff about pleasing crowds, being exposed—seemed flighty, unsteady. Especially not for Mrs. Winston's main gig.
I'd let her keep singing, even hooked her up with resources, but deep down, I saw it as my big generosity, indulging her hobby.
If I didn't respect her career... Natalie'd never know how many nights I'd watched her performance videos. Singing, she was alive, radiant, magnetic. I was hooked.
But I hated sharing her with anyone, in any way. If that was my possessiveness, fine.
"Sleep, Natalie." I ended it stiffly, no answer ready.
She clearly hated my possessiveness. How the hell do I change?
I'd never faced this. Clueless.
But I'd find a win-win. Always did.
Just needed time.
I didn't expectmy cleanup to miss stragglers.
The guy handling it kissed his bonus goodbye.
Photos of Nightingale exploded online. Started with one from the presser where Natalie's mask slipped half off. Fans traced it to her L.A. school pics, then Mustang.
They were one step from proving she was Mrs. Winston.
But they didn't, so the net filled with bold love confessions, wild guesses on the baby's dad. Lewd comments on her looks, her body, shameless propositions—they all felt like challenges to my claim. I skimmed some, got pissed, and called David to wipe it.
"All platforms, keywords, images, videos, forums. I don't want a trace of Natalie's appearance or private life anywhere. Whatever it takes."
Overnight, it vanished. Busiest gossip sites crashed; leaker accounts ghosted.
That afternoon, I had a meet with Reese, a luxury brand exec from Europe. I sat in the restaurant, and a familiar figure approached.
Olivia.
In a champagne suit, makeup flawless, smile perfect. "Richard, surprised?"
She pitched her voice high, trying for cute and playful.
I ignored the act. "Where's Reese?"
