Chapter 17 Ethan
ETHAN
Tonight the office is quiet, and I’m the only idiot still here, staring at my phone as if it owes me an apology. Lila’s thread is full of unsent drafts.
I’m sorry I followed you. I wanted you safe. I won’t do it again.
I delete it.
I won’t push. One word, Lila, so I know you’re okay.
I delete that too because it reads as a demand dressed up as concern, and she’s had enough of men using softness as a crowbar.
I set my phone face down and rub my thumb along the edge of my desk until the wood warms under my skin.
Control isn’t only for other people. It’s for me, especially when I want to do the thing that feels good and makes everything worse.
I do one more thing before I leave the office, and it’s not noble, but it’s contained.
I open the old file with my name and Victoria’s in it, the one the internet still treats as a hobby.
Years ago, the city got a story: CEO is abusive, girlfriend flees, company buries it.
The truth was uglier and smaller. Victoria cheated, I found out, we detonated, and lawyers turned our mess into a product.
I never put my hands on her, but I did lose my temper in ways I’m not proud of, and I paid to make the noise stop.
If Lila searched me, she found headlines, comments, and strangers calling it proof. I can’t unpublish that, and I can’t talk her out of protecting herself.
I hang up and go home, but the penthouse doesn’t help. It’s clean and controlled and empty, and I can still hear her voice when she snapped at me outside the deli.
That’s not okay.
So I do the one thing that lets my brain settle. I look for information that Lila already left in the world.
Her social profiles are cautious. No location tags. No office selfies. No open friend list. The kind of restraint you learn after someone proves they’ll use your life as a map.
I scroll back anyway, slow, and I find an old comment thread under a photo that’s years out of date.
A name appears more than once—Gavin Hale, and he’s the guy from the deli.
His profile pops up fast, public and loud.
Gym shots, car shots, captions about grind and loyalty, the usual performance. I scroll until I find his work tag.
Lane Strategies. So the man isn’t just a scumbag. He’s also working at Victoria’s firm.
I sit down hard and run my hand over my scalp, fingers spreading as if I can hold my thoughts in place.
I click through Lane’s page and pull up the team photos, and there he is, leaning in with his arm draped over the back of a chair. Victoria is front row, smiling for the camera. Sabrina Hayes is off to the side, angled toward Victoria the way people angle toward money.
My stomach turns, steady and ugly.
This is not coincidence. It’s pressure, focused and close.
Sabrina interrupted my date and got removed.
Gavin shows up near Lila’s office. Victoria has a history with me that the city never gets tired of gossiping about.
There was the fraud mess years ago, the internal investigation, Dan’s systems work, Victoria’s name, and mine.
I was not the villain in that story, but you don’t need to be guilty to get painted.
I take a screenshot, then stop myself and lock the phone, because collecting evidence without her consent puts me in the same category as the men she keeps outrunning.
I call my PI, Adam, instead.
“Check on something for me,” I say.
He replies instantly, ready for whatever assignment I have for him. “Say it.”
“Can you find out if Victoria’s got a Gavin Hale working for her?”
A pause. Then Adam’s keyboard clicks in the background, fast. “Give me a minute.”
I wait, looking out at the lights, and I hate that Lane’s name is back near my life.
Adam comes back on. “He’s real. Hired six months ago. Client facing. Not a temp.”
“How close is Sabrina?” I ask.
“Mm hm,” he replies. “Partnerships. She’s very close to Victoria.”
I exhale through my nose and my hand slides to my collar, thumb pressing the knot that isn’t even there.
“Are you worried about her?” he asks. “Something you need done?”
I click my tongue against my teeth. “I’m not quite sure yet.”
“Tell me you’re not about to go hunting?” he says.
“I’m not,” I answer, and then I add, “unless Lila asks.”
Adam’s voice softens by half a notch. “Lila Bennett?”
I sigh. “Yeah, the very same.”
He whistles low in his throat. “Wow. I didn’t know—”
“Are you going to make a thing of it?”
I can hear him shake his head. “Nah, my guy. But be careful.”
The next day, I try to respect her.
I don’t text, call, or walk past her desk, pretending it’s casual. I do my meetings, I sign what needs signing, and I keep my hands busy so my head doesn’t start inventing worst cases.
By ten, I know she isn’t coming in.
Her desk is empty. No message. No sick leave note. Nothing.
I go to HR.
Marta looks up and her fingers press into the arm of her chair, just a small adjustment that tells me she already knows this won’t be pleasant.
“Sir?” she says.
“Where is Lila Bennett,” I ask.
“She resigned,” Marta brightly replies.
The word doesn’t register cleanly. “No.”
“Yes.” Her eyes widen as she slides a folder across her desk.
I open it and find a letter that’s tight and polite. Grave personal emergency. Immediate family medical crisis. Relocation required. Request to waive notice. Commitment to return company property by courier. Signed.
It reads like her voice, which is procedural without being dramatic.
Marta says, “We received the physical copy by courier this morning, and an email from her corporate account last night.”
“Confirm the sender,” I blurt out, although I’m having trouble stringing words together.
Marta’s lips press together, but she types. “Gateway logs show it routed through her apartment ISP, same as her normal access.”
That detail should calm me. It doesn’t.
“She didn’t speak to her manager,” I say.
“No,” Marta replies.
“Any exit interview,” I ask.
“She declined and cited emergency.”
My throat tightens. “And you approved it.”
Marta gives me a look. “We don’t hold employees hostage, Ethan. Not for notice periods.”
She’s right, and the fact makes me angrier.
I slide the folder back. “Forward me the letter.”
Marta lifts her brows.
“I’m not asking for gossip,” I say. “She handled sensitive information. If she left under duress, I need to know.”
Marta holds my gaze, then nods once. “I’ll send it.”
I make an immediate summons, and the guy I need shows up in my office within thirty minutes. Harrison, with his posture straight as ever, and his face mercifully blank. He doesn’t ask what happened. He sees it in my hands.
“Harrison,” I say. “Are you aware that Lila Bennett has resigned?”
He nods once. “Do you want me to initiate a welfare check?”
“No,” I answer, too fast. Then I force it slower. “Not unless we have direct evidence she’s in danger.”
Harrison watches me for a beat. “You think she is.”
“I think she’s running,” I say. “I don’t know from what.”
He tilts his head. “We can keep it narrow. No tailing. No following. Just a flag on external contact attempts.”
“On company channels,” I say.
“Yes,” Harrison replies. “If someone tries to access her accounts, if there’s a credential attempt, if there’s a spoof.”
I exhale. That’s the kind of help I can live with. “Do it,” I say. “Quietly.”
Harrison’s fingers move on the screen. “And Lane Strategies,” he adds.
My gaze snaps up. He already knows the name because Harrison doesn’t miss patterns either.
“Put them on a watch list for phishing attempts and social engineering,” I say. “Nothing beyond that.”
“Yes, sir,” he replies, and he leaves without another word.
I leave HR and I call Lila anyway.
No answer.
I call again. Voicemail.
I don’t leave one.
I text.
Me: HR says you resigned. One word so I know you’re okay.
I watch the screen for the three dots. Nothing.
So I do the thing she’ll hate and the thing I can’t avoid, and I go to her building.
The lobby is small and tired and it smells of cleaning spray. I keep my posture neutral and my hands visible, and I don’t flash money or authority because that isn’t the point. I ride the elevator up and I knock once.
No answer, so I knock again. Still nothing. I step back, give the door space, and stare at the peephole because it’s easier than thinking about what comes next.
A door opens across the hall. An older woman steps out, wrapped in a scarf, eyes sharp. She looks at me the way New Yorkers look at everything, like it might be a scam.
“You looking for Lila,” she says.
“Yes.”
“She moved out,” the woman replies.
My fingers curl around my phone. “Did you see her leave.”
The woman nods. “Yesterday. Walked out with a suitcase and got into a car. Though first thing this morning men came by, packed, and carried out boxes.”
“Alone,” I ask.
“Alone,” she confirms. “She didn’t look drunk. She didn’t look happy either.”
“Did she say anything,” I ask.
The woman’s mouth tightens. “She doesn’t owe the hallway a story.”
She’s right again.
I nod. “Thank you.”
I walk away before my face does something I can’t control.
In the car, my chest tightens until breathing turns into work. I keep my hands on the wheel and stare at the street as if I can force it to give me an answer.
Adam, my PI, calls. “What’s happened?”
“She’s gone,” I say.
Silence. Then, “Okay,” he replies, voice low. “We can find her.”
We can.
I know exactly how. Cameras, logs, accounts, airlines, subscriptions. A thousand quiet hooks that people never notice until someone uses them.
And I hear Lila again, flat and furious, telling me I don’t get to decide for her.
So I do what I should have done at the deli. I stop.
“Get me one lead,” I tell Adam. “One. Then we cut it.”
Adam hesitates, then says, “Alright.”
An hour later he calls back.
“Airport,” he says. “Yesterday. One way ticket. Her name.”
“Where,” I ask.
“Bay Area,” he replies.
My grip tightens. “Anything else.”
“Rideshare receipt to the airport,” Adam adds. “From her email.”
I close my eyes and press my tongue to my teeth, holding myself in place. I want to get on a plane right now, but I also know that chasing a woman who ran because she felt trapped is how you prove she was right.
“Anything else?” I ask.
Adam’s voice drops. “She listed you as an emergency contact on a medical portal two weeks ago.”
My stomach turns again. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe paperwork. Maybe she didn’t have anyone else.”
I sit there with that, because it’s a kind of intimacy. Not sex. Not a bed. A box on a form that says: if I go down, call him. I send one message to Lila and I make it clean.
Me: I know you left. I won’t follow. If you want help, I’m here.
Then I stop.
I don’t call again, and I don’t go to the airport. I let the silence stand because consent has to matter even when it hurts.
I try to keep my hands from reaching for her by exhausting my body instead.
I go to the gym at midnight and I hit the heavy bag until my wrists ache, then I sit on the bench and wrap fresh tape with slow, careful pulls.
I’m not trying to punish myself. I’m trying to keep the urge to chase from turning into action.
Adam meets me once, looks at my knuckles, and says, “You’re going to break your hands. ”
“I can afford new hands,” I tell him.
“You can’t afford new judgment,” he replies, and he’s right.
I ask him, once, “If you were her, would you trust me.”
Adam wipes sweat off his neck with his towel. “I’d trust your intent,” he says. “I wouldn’t trust your methods.”
That answer sits in my chest for days.
Time drags. Work moves. The company keeps breathing. I keep my face steady in meetings and I sleep in four hour pieces.
Three months pass.
On a Tuesday afternoon, a number I don’t recognize flashes across my screen, and I answer because I always answer.
“This is Dr. Patel from Saint Mercy Hospital,” a man says. “Am I speaking with Ethan Cross?”
“Yes.”
“You’re listed as an emergency contact for a Lila Bennett,” he continues. “She fainted in our lobby. She’s awake, stable, and refusing to call family. We need support for discharge planning.”
My spine goes rigid. “Is she hurt?”
“Stable,” he says. “Dehydration and stress. She’s pregnant.”
I sit down so fast my knee bumps the desk.
“Gestational age,” I say.
“Approximately seventeen weeks,” Dr. Patel replies. “She needs consistent care and follow up.”
Seventeen weeks.
My throat tightens. “Where are you?”
He gives me the address.
San Francisco.
When the call ends, I stare at my phone until the screen goes dark.
She’s pregnant. She carried it alone. She passed out in a hospital lobby. I book a flight without calling Adam first, and I don’t negotiate with myself.
On the plane, I sit in a window seat and keep my shoulders squared while the cabin fills. My hands are steady, but my head is loud.
I’m not angry at her. I’m angry at the man who found her again, and I’m angry at the circle around Victoria that keeps brushing up against her life.
I’m angry at myself for thinking restraint was enough. I text Adam one line before I turn on airplane mode.
I’m going to San Francisco. Don’t contact her. Don’t pull logs. I’ll handle it.
Then I stare straight ahead while the plane taxis, and my decision settles into something hard.
I won’t crowd her and I’ll do my best to ensure she doesn’t see me as a threat. I see now that this is ingrained in her biology, because she’s been running from the wrong kind of people for far too long. I’m not those people, and she knows it. She’s just too terrified to see it.
What I will do is put eyes on her and ensure she and my child are safe, and if someone tries to touch her again, I won’t be asking for consent from the threat.