When Her Death Couldn't Break Him (Cecilia and Nathaniel) novel Chapter 2046

"Neither do I," Yannick admitted. "My friend says that if he lets go now, he'll wake up every day regretting it—hurting far worse than any embarrassment he feels today."

He was painfully aware that he had fallen for a woman as unusual as Jocelyn.

He wasn't claiming eternal love, but if she asked for a breakup, he doubted he could survive the blow.

That fear was what had made him cut her off mid-sentence earlier.

Perhaps true love really did turn a man into something small and timid.

"Then continue being with her," Calvin said simply. "It's always better than separating."

He spoke from experience; he himself had never even been granted the chance to stand beside Cecilia.

Those were exactly the words Yannick had been hoping to hear.

"Okay," Yannick said, his tone light yet edged with amusement. "Stay together it is. When the thrill dries up, we'll talk about what comes next."

He doubted he could adore Jocelyn forever. Sooner or later, the excitement would fade—just as it had with every woman before her, even that first love he once swore he would remember until his last breath.

Yannick ended the call, tossed the phone onto the passenger seat, and fixed his eyes on the dark highway. The car surged toward Sven's townhouse, neon streaks sliding over the windshield like restless ghosts.

Nicholas' private villa crouched beneath thick midnight clouds, its stone façade an obsidian silhouette of locked shutters and sleeping balconies.

Jocelyn stood at the wrought-iron door and pressed the bell again. The chime echoed through the silence—long, unwavering, unanswered.

She slammed both palms against the mahogany. "Mr. Nicholas!" Her voice cracked under the weight of worry.

Inside, Nicholas' eyelids fluttered. The pounding dragged him from a brittle, exhausted sleep.

A frown cut across his brow. He offered no reply.

"Mr. Nicholas, I know you're inside," she called, fists drumming the panels. "Say something!"

Her name slid through the fog in Nicholas' head. Clarity returned, jagged but sufficient.

Bracing against the wall, he staggered upright, reached the intercom, and pressed the button.

"What is it?"

At last, the door opened. Nicholas appeared in fresh clothes, stubble trimmed, a hint of color in his face.

Even so, Jocelyn could see the weight he had lost. Lines of fatigue etched his cheeks, and dark shadows clung beneath his eyes.

"Mr. Nicholas." She moved toward him. "You look..."

The rest of the sentence dissolved, swallowed by unspoken concern.

Nicholas caught the concern forming behind Jocelyn's eyes even before a single syllable left her lips. He raised a hand, the gesture gentle yet final, as if drawing a line through her concern. "I've just been short of sleep these past few nights—nothing more. My health is fine."

"Oh." Jocelyn nodded, but when she stepped closer, a faint trace of liquor drifted from his breath and settled in the air between them.

She frowned. Nicholas had once refused alcohol for the sake of his health. Why doe she smell like alcohol now?

Worry gathered like storm clouds in her gaze. "Mr. Nicholas, please take better care of yourself."

Nicholas answered with a quiet smile that never reached his tired eyes. "I will." He slipped his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and asked, "How have you been lately?"