CHAPTER 8 — ETHAN’S VERSION
Ethan came home after sunrise.
I felt him before I saw him—the dip of the mattress, the familiar heat behind my back, the arm that found my waist like it belonged there.
I turned into him, still half-asleep.
“You’re back.”
His voice was hoarse. “Did I wake you?”
“Yeah,” I murmured. “What happened? Are you okay?”
Ethan’s body went still.
Not fear.
Something closer to disgust.
He sat up, dragging a hand through his hair.
“Ava,” he said, “promise me you won’t get mad.”
“I promise,” I said, too fast.
He didn’t believe me.
He took my hand in both of his, thumbs rubbing my knuckles as if he could smooth the night off my skin.
“It wasn’t the company,” he admitted. “It was Stella.”
My throat tightened.
Ethan kept going, words spilling as if he wanted them out before they poisoned the room.
“She threatened her dad’s investment. Then she called him, said she was going to kill herself. He panicked and dragged me to the hospital like I was responsible for keeping her alive.”
His jaw clenched.
“She did it on purpose. She wanted me away from you. She wanted a photo.”
He glanced at my phone on the nightstand, like he could already feel what was on it.
“I didn’t want you driving out at midnight,” he said. “I didn’t want you anywhere near her.”
I sat up too.
“So you were at the hospital.”
“Yes,” he said immediately. “And I was furious the entire time.”
He leaned closer, eyes intense.
“Ava, you need to understand something. Stella Tang is not my ‘first love.’ She is not my ‘one that got away.’ She is a family friend who thinks she owns a version of me from when we were kids.”
He exhaled sharply.
“My mother is going to cut them off. If she hasn’t already.”
My mind moved, assembling, comparing.
Stella’s bandaged wrist.
The caption.
The timing.
The lie had been built with props.
“Did she actually hurt herself?” I asked.
Ethan’s mouth twisted.
“She barely scratched her wrist,” he said. “The nurse didn’t even look stressed.”
Then his expression hardened.
“But her dad looked terrified. And she knew he would.”
He stared at me like he was afraid of what he’d see.
“Did you believe her?” he asked.
I looked down at my phone.
Then back at him.
“I didn’t believe the bed photo,” I said. “I also didn’t sleep.”
Ethan’s shoulders dropped, relief and anger mixing.
He kissed my forehead, long and careful.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m going to fix this.”
“Not ‘fix,’” I corrected softly. “End it.”
His eyes lifted.
A slow smile touched his mouth.
“Yes,” he said. “End it.”
I hesitated, then showed him Stella’s “infertility report.”
Ethan stared.
Then he laughed once, sharp and humorless.
“Is she serious?” he said. “That clinic doesn’t even exist in New York.”
He reached for his phone, already scrolling.
“I’m calling my lawyer,” he said. “And HR. And my mother. In that order.”
I watched him move.
Fast.
Decisive.
And for the first time since Stella’s photo, the fear in my stomach loosened its grip.