When Her Death Couldn't Break Him (Cecilia and Nathaniel) novel Chapter 2042

Nathaniel nodded once, a solemn vow rather than a gesture.

"But if he contacts you again, promise you'll tell me—anything at all. No secrets," he said, the plea wrapped in quiet steel.

"All right." Her answer was immediate, unburdened. She lowered his hand from her face, fingers sliding down until their palms fit together. "Let's go home."

Their fingers threaded, and a calm he had never known seeped into Nathaniel's bones.

The world felt newly fragile; he feared her slipping away, feared someone stealing her as easily as a gust snatches a loose leaf.

"Ceci, you do love me, don't you?" he asked suddenly while they walked.

She stopped, eyebrows raised in amused disbelief. "We're practically an old married couple, and we have four children. Talking about 'love' now is downright childish."

Nathaniel answered her smile with a firmer squeeze, as if the warmth of her hand could seal every unspoken promise.

"So, tell me—do you love me?" His voice came out low and steady, but the intensity in his eyes pinned Cecilia in place like a beam of molten light.

His fingers unwittingly tightened around her hand, sharp enough to sting. She parted her lips, ready to whisper the answer he craved, when Elliot came barreling toward them.

"Mommy, where did you two disappear to?" he puffed, cheeks pink from the sprint.

Cecilia crouched until her gaze met her son's. "We went to look for Ms. Talbot a minute ago. What's wrong, sweetheart?"

"Ms. Seiler just arrived," Elliot announced.

Meredith Seiler?

Startled, Cecilia let Nathaniel's hand fall, clasped Elliot's small fingers instead, and together they entered the living room.

"Ceci." Meredith rose from the couch the instant they appeared, grief and concern mingling on her face.

"I'm so sorry for your loss." The words hung in the air like a soft, respectful veil.

Cecilia managed a small nod, though fresh pain rippled beneath her composed exterior.

Lately the sight of any familiar face filled her with dread. Well-intentioned condolences always forced her to revisit the moment her mother slipped away, a wound that had yet to scab over.

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