When Her Death Couldn't Break Him (Cecilia and Nathaniel) novel Chapter 2088

Nathaniel still had no idea what awaited him. He paced the mansion's corridors, hoping movement would chase away the fog, then headed for the bathroom, intent on a scalding shower.

The moment he faced the mirror, he stopped dead.

Foundation masked his complexion. Rosy lipstick glared back at him.

Arched brows that were drawn far too perfectly completed the grotesque tableau.

“Elliot!”

Instinct named the culprit.

After all, the kid had pranked him countless times. This, apparently, was another entry in that cursed ledger.

Fury cooled into icy determination. Nathaniel twisted the faucet, splashing water and half a bottle of facial cleanser over his face.

The pigments clung stubbornly. The more he scrubbed, the brighter his skin flushed and the darker his mood became.

Nathaniel scrubbed the lingering water from his face, then spun on his heel. In three long strides, he was out of the bathroom and heading for Elliot's bedroom.

Across the hall, Elliot was still livestreaming, the glow of his laptop painting the boy in soft blues. The camera had just enough time to capture a tall male silhouette crossing the doorway.

Viewers saw only broad shoulders, a trim waist, and the easy power of his gait. That single glimpse was enough to set the comment feed ablaze.

“Eli, who on earth is that?”

“Look at that build. Good heavens.”

“Wait, is that your dad?”

Within seconds, a blizzard of comments smothered half the video window, hearts and exclamation points tumbling past in neon colors.

Before Elliot could type a reply, Nathaniel's voice, deep, cool, and edged with frost, cut through the room. “Elliot Smith, you'd better explain what's happened to my face.”

His baritone rolled through the mic like velvet over steel, and every sound-obsessed viewer on the stream practically swooned.

Have I falsely accused him?

“The make-up on my face, you didn't do it?”

Elliot leaned in and noticed, to his horror, a faint smear of lipstick clinging to Nathaniel's lower lip. Who would dare to do this?

“Of course not! I wouldn't have the guts even if someone paid me.”

“Really?”

Elliot nodded so hard his hair bounced. “Absolutely.”

Nathaniel narrowed his eyes. “For your sake, I hope that's the truth. If I find out you lied, you know what happens.” With that warning, he staggered toward the hallway, footsteps slightly uneven.

Elliot watched the retreating back, baffled. He muttered, “What's gotten into sc*mbag daddy these last two days? Acting all weird, suspecting me of clown tricks, and reeking of booze...”

Nathaniel reached the living room, requested the security footage, and hit play. Only then did the real mastermind flicker into view on the screen.

Cecilia slipped out of the bedroom. In the pale wash of morning, she found Nathaniel already planted on the living-room couch, face newly scrubbed, posture rigid, a sober intensity where last night's liquor had once reigned.