When Her Death Couldn't Break Him (Cecilia and Nathaniel) novel Chapter 2182

With Charlotte's wedding racing toward the calendar like a bright-white comet, Cecilia found her own days swallowed by errands that glittered and hummed. She studied lace and silk under showroom spotlights, matched earrings to veils, and signed for gifts large enough to fill a delivery truck.

Yet she never dared loosen her grip on the Jamieson Group. She had not sat in that chair long, and the veterans could smell new paint on the walls.

Old leverage—secret files her late mother had hidden away—kept those silver-haired shareholders docile for now.

But Cecilia understood steel-sharp skill, not blackmail, would be the only thing that lasted.

News of the upcoming ceremony sent a fresh spark through Chelsea, who treated Charlotte's happiness as though it were her own.

"Lottie, you're really getting married! Congratulations!" Chelsea typed, thumbs flying. "Looks like I'm the last single woman standing."

"What are you talking about, Chelsea?" Charlotte replied. "Aren't you and Jason practically glued together?"

Chelsea lounged on the secondhand couch in Jason's rented apartment, a slice of fruit balanced on her tongue while she stared at the ceiling and sighed, the room's quiet pressing in on her ribs.

"My parents don't approve of us, and a wedding feels impossible now. I've stopped wishing for it." Her words wavered, as fragile as soap bubbles.

Charlotte, unsure how to patch that tear, responded with a single hug emoji—cartoon arms outstretched in silent comfort.

Seeing it, Chelsea let the chat fall idle and the screen dim to black.

She set the phone aside and let her gaze drift around the small apartment.

With Jason away, Chelsea drifted through the house like a ghost in her own life.

Running away had felt heroic the night she did it. Reality collected the bill by dawn: her parents froze every account, revoked every allowance, and quietly fired her from the family firm.

Applying elsewhere, she asked for a manager's desk—she knew no other rung—and watched recruiters' brows shoot sky-high.

Rejection followed rejection, each polite e-mail a little blade. Abroad, she'd worn privilege like air; here, companies reminded her she had no resume, only expectations.

She almost called Jason—almost—but the image of him hunched over overtime spreadsheets made her swallow the impulse.

Restless, she wandered the apartment and spotted one of Jason's coats hanging near the doorway, the faint scent of him still clinging to the fabric.

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