Chapter 25 Lila
LILA
We don’t celebrate victories in this place with champagne or speeches, and thank god, since I’d rather chew glass than sit through a romantic monologue about “us” while the world still smells faintly of courtrooms and revenge.
What we do have is leftover pizza, a shut laptop, and Ethan moving around the kitchen like a man who’s trying to act normal while his brain is still tracking exits, angles, and threats that aren’t there anymore.
He’s shirtless, which is not helpful for my focus, and he’s holding a plate like it’s a business proposal.
“I’m not hungry,” I lie.
He turns, one brow lifting, and he doesn’t say anything, but his mouth does that small tilt that means he heard me and filed it under cute nonsense.
“Eat,” he says.
I take the plate, glare at it, then glare at him, and he just watches like my tantrum is part of the meal plan.
“I don’t want to eat,” I say again, then I cave and bite anyway, since my body has been running on adrenaline and spite for months and it’s probably time to stop trying to power a pregnancy with sheer attitude.
He leans a hip against the counter and folds his arms. It would read casual on someone else, but Ethan doesn’t do casual. He does contained.
“Talk to me,” he says.
I swallow, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and keep my voice even though my chest feels too full. “Okay. Here’s the part where we either fix this or we keep circling the same fight until the baby goes to college.”
His eyes narrow in focus. “Go on.”
“I ran,” I say, and I hold up a finger before he can jump in. “I know why I ran, and you know why I ran, and I also know it hurt you, and I’m not going to pretend it didn’t.”
He nods once, slow. He doesn’t interrupt. That matters more than any apology.
“And you,” I continue, voice sharp but not cruel, “have this reflex where you fill space, and you don’t always notice you’re doing it. You show up, you take over, you make plans, you put bodies in corners, and part of me likes it, which is the worst part.”
His gaze doesn’t move. “You don’t like it.”
“I like safety,” I correct. “I like competence. I like knowing someone can handle a situation without flailing. What I don’t like is feeling watched, and I don’t like feeling managed, and I don’t like that I have to fight for air in my own life.”
He drags a hand through his hair, and his forearm flexes. I have to blink once to keep my brain from wandering off track.
“I hear you,” he says.
I snort. “That’s not a fix.”
“No,” he agrees. “But it’s a start.”
He pushes off the counter and comes closer, slow enough that I don’t feel crowded, and that’s new. He stops an arm’s length away, then he speaks like he’s choosing each word on purpose, not to win, but to be understood.
“I don’t want to own you,” he says. “I don’t want you small. I don’t want you scared. I want you alive, and I want you near me, and I want to be the place you come back to by choice.”
My throat tightens, and I hate it, since I’m not trying to cry in the kitchen like an afterschool special.
“I didn’t tell you about Gavin,” I admit, voice rough. “I didn’t tell you the full truth, and part of that was shame, and part of that was fear, and part of that was me trying to protect something that didn’t deserve protection, which was my pride.”
His eyes hold mine. “You don’t owe me your past on demand.”
“I didn’t want you looking at me like I was damaged,” I say, then I laugh once, bitter. “Which is hilarious, considering I’m pregnant and you’ve seen me throw up twice from stress and once from prenatal vitamins.”
His mouth twitches. “You’re not damaged.”
I lift a shoulder. “I’m altered.”
“Yeah.” He steps a little closer, not rushing. “So am I.”
I stare at him, and it hits me, sudden and unfair, how tired he looks under the polish. Not tired in a tragic way. Tired in the way men get when they’ve carried responsibility as a habit, and then someone they care about makes the weight personal.
He adds, “I’m sorry for the deli. I’m sorry for following you, and I’m sorry I made you feel like your choices didn’t matter.”
My pulse ticks up, and I press my tongue to my teeth, trying to keep my voice from shaking.
“You did make me feel like that,” I say.
“I know,” he replies. “And I’m not asking you to forget it. I’m telling you I’m changing it.”
I want to ask how, and I want to demand proof, and I want to be difficult, since difficulty has kept me alive.
Instead, I do the thing that scares me more.
I step closer too.
“Okay,” I say, quiet in my own way, which is to say, blunt and honest. “Here’s what I need. I need you to ask, not assume. I need you to let me say no without acting like it’s rejection. I need you to stop showing up in my life like a surprise inspection.”
He nods. “Done.”
“And I need,” I continue, voice cracking at the edges, “for you to understand that when I pull away, I’m not playing games. I’m trying to breathe.”
His hand lifts, then stops, hovering near my cheek like he’s waiting for permission.
I give it by leaning into him.
His palm cups my face, warm and firm, and the simple steadiness of it makes my eyes sting.
“I can do that,” he says.
I swallow. “Good.”
He brushes his thumb along my cheekbone, then drops his hand, and that alone is a statement. He can touch me and also let go. He can hold and not trap.
“So,” I say, trying to lighten it before I drown in feelings. “Are we done being idiots?”
He looks at me for a beat, then he smiles, real. “We’ll probably still be idiots.”
“Great,” I mutter. “I love consistent branding.”
He laughs, and the sound shifts something in my chest, like my body finally believes the emergency is ending.
“Get dressed,” he says.
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“We’re going out,” he replies. “A date. You said you wanted normal.”
I narrow my eyes. “Normal people don’t go on dates the day after dismantling a money laundering network.”
“Normal people don’t do half the things you do,” he says, calm. “But you still deserve dinner.”
I want to argue. I also want to say yes so fast it’s embarrassing.
“What kind of dinner,” I ask, suspicious.
“The kind with cloth napkins,” he says. “The kind with menus that don’t have pictures.”
I groan. “So, emotional damage with a side of overpriced vegetables.”
He picks up his phone, taps, and shows me a reservation time. “Eight.”
I glance down at my stomach then back up. “I’m not drinking.”
“I know.” His gaze flicks to my mouth for half a second and back to my eyes. “You’re still eating dessert.”
Damn it. I really love this guy.
I shower first, then I spend too long staring at my closet like it’s a personal attack. Half my clothes feel wrong, and the other half feel like I’m trying too hard. I settle on a black dress that skims instead of clings, and heels I can walk in without looking like a newborn deer.
Ethan waits in the living room in a suit that should be illegal. His tie is simple, his sleeves crisp, and he’s holding a small box in one hand.
I freeze. “If that’s jewelry, I’m leaving.”
His mouth tilts. “It’s not jewelry.”
He opens the box, and it’s a sleek little phone charm, gold and minimal, with a single engraved word. HERE.
I stare at it, then I look up. “That’s either sweet or unhinged.”
“It’s practical,” he says. “You keep it on your keys. If you ever need me, you text that word. No explanations, no debate.”
My throat tightens again, and I hate that I’m emotional, so I cover it with sarcasm like the mature adult I am.
“So, you invented a bat signal for my trauma.”
“For your safety,” he corrects. “And for my sanity.”
I take it, fingers brushing his as I do, and I tuck it into my bag like it’s a secret weapon.
The restaurant is the kind of place where the host greets Ethan like he’s expected, and the room softens around him like money has its own gravity. I brace myself for stares, for whispers, for someone recognizing us.
None of that happens.
It’s just dinner. It’s just warm light, clean tables, and the hum of people living lives that don’t involve surveillance and revenge.
We’re seated in a corner booth, and Ethan does his scan anyway, eyes moving once around the room, then returning to me. He doesn’t keep doing it. He settles.
That matters.
We order, we talk, and for twenty minutes I almost forget what our last few months have looked like. He asks about my day, he listens without checking his phone, and he makes a dry comment about a dish description that reads like a dare.
“I think they want to fight us,” I say, reading the menu.
“They’ll lose,” he replies.
Of course he says that.
Halfway through the first course, Ethan shifts, eyes cutting past me, then back. “They’re here.”
I turn.
Three women walk in. Priya first, hair glossy, eyes sharp, dress confident.
Jo behind her, shorter, wider smile, the kind of person who seems friendly until you realize she’s clocking everything.
Dani last, tall and bright, cheeks flushed from the cold, already grinning like she’s thrilled to be part of a story.
My chest squeezes.
I haven’t seen them in months, and I didn’t even tell them where I was, and now they’re here, and I feel exposed in the best and worst way.
Priya spots me and points, then she strides over like she’s marching into a meeting.
“Lila Bennett,” she says.
I stand, and she grabs my shoulders and looks me over like she’s checking for bruises.
“You look alive,” she says.
“That’s my new aesthetic,” I reply.
She exhales, then pulls me into a hug that’s tight enough to make my eyes sting. Jo and Dani pile in, and suddenly I’m in a three-person sandwich of perfume and warmth and anger.
Dani pulls back first, eyes flicking to my stomach, then to my face. “Don’t tell me,” she says, already smiling. “No.”
I glare at Ethan over their shoulders. He sits there, composed, hands folded, watching me like he’s braced for impact.
“I’m pregnant,” I admit.
Jo freezes, then lets out a breath. “Oh my god.”
Priya’s eyes sharpen again. “Okay,” she says, then she looks at Ethan like she’s measuring him in inches. “So you’re him.”
Ethan stands, polite and calm, and offers his hand. “Ethan Cross.”
Priya doesn’t take his hand right away. She holds his gaze, then she shakes it, firm.
“I’m Priya,” she says. “This is Jo, and that chaos gremlin is Dani.”
Dani beams. “I’m not a gremlin, I’m a concept.”
Ethan’s mouth tilts. “Nice to meet you.”
Jo leans in toward me, voice low. “Are you okay?”
I nod, and I mean it. “I am now.”
Priya’s eyes don’t leave Ethan. “Good,” she says, then she gestures at the seat beside me. “We’re joining.”
Ethan doesn’t argue. He just signals the server and has chairs added like this was always the plan.
Dinner turns into laughter—and not the forced kind.
Priya tells a story about a client who tried to expense a yacht as “team building.” Jo describes a disastrous date she bailed on by pretending she’d been called into work, and Dani says she recently got out of a speeding ticket by crying and then got annoyed when the cop handed her tissues like she was a child.
Ethan listens, adds a comment here and there, and doesn’t dominate the table. He watches me more than he talks, and I feel it, the steady awareness, the way he tracks my reactions without turning it into control.
At one point, Priya raises her glass of sparkling water and clinks it lightly against mine.
“To the fact you’re still here,” she says.
“To the fact I’m stubborn,” I reply.
“To the fact,” Dani adds, grinning, “you’re having a tiny person and that tiny person is going to have the best aunties and the scariest dad.”
Ethan’s brow lifts. “Scary?”
Jo smiles. “I didn’t make the rules.”
He blinks once, then he nods, accepting it like a contract he actually wants.
“I need the bathroom,” I say after dessert, partly for pregnancy reasons and partly to breathe for a second.
Priya points her fork at me. “Text me tomorrow.”
“I will,” I promise.
I slip away, make it to the bathroom, and lock myself in a stall. I exhale hard, hand pressing to my stomach as if it’s the only steady thing in my world.
“Okay,” I whisper. “We’re doing this.”
My phone buzzes.
Ethan.
I stare at the screen like it might misbehave.
Then another buzz.
Then another.
I open the messages, and my pulse starts climbing in a way that has nothing to do with fainting.
Ethan: You look too good tonight.
Ethan: I’ve been watching you pretend you don’t know it.
I bite my lip, then I stop myself, since that’s a tell and I’m alone in a bathroom stall, which is not the place to start acting like a heroine in a romance novel.
I type back.
Me: I’m literally peeing. Please have manners.
A response comes fast.
Ethan: No.
Ethan: I’m picturing you in that dress, and I’m thinking about what’s under it.
My thighs press together, and I hate my body for being so easy.
I type with one hand, the other still on my stomach.
Me: The girls are right there.
Ethan: They’re your friends. They already know you’re trouble.
Ethan: I want you back at the table with that calm face, and I want you to know you’re going home with me.
My skin warms, and my breath shifts, and my brain tries to pretend this is inconvenient.
It isn’t.
Me: Are you trying to get me arrested for public indecency.
Ethan: I’m trying to get you wet in a bathroom stall.
I choke on a laugh, then I press my knuckles to my mouth, eyes wide.
Another message appears.
Ethan: Touch your thigh.
Ethan: Just once. Slow.
My stomach flips, and I stare at the words like they’re a command and a promise at the same time.
I type.
Me: You’re insane.
Ethan: I’m patient.
Ethan: And you like it when I tell you what I want.
My fingers tremble, and I curse under my breath, then I slide my palm along my thigh, just above my knee, and my whole body reacts like it’s been waiting for permission.
I swallow hard and type back.
Me: Fine. Now what.
His reply comes immediately, like he’s been holding it.
Ethan: Come out.
Ethan: Look at me when you sit down.
Ethan: Smile at Priya like nothing’s happening.
Ethan: And keep your legs crossed, since I’m going to spend the rest of the night imagining what I’m doing to you when we get home.
I close my eyes for a second, and my breath comes quicker, and I press my fingers to my stomach again like a grounding habit.
Then my phone buzzes one more time.
Ethan: Tell me you want it.
I stare at that line, heat in my face, pulse everywhere, and I realize this is exactly how I end up in trouble, since I’m stubborn, I’m turned on, and Ethan Cross is apparently the kind of man who weaponizes dessert and a bathroom break.
I type two words, and my hands don’t shake this time.
Me: I do.
Then I unlock the stall, wash my hands like a normal person, and practice my calm face in the mirror, since I’m about to walk back into that table with my friends and my boss and my future, and I’m already thinking about getting home.