6. Ethan
CHAPTER SIX
Ethan
I stand at my desk, the candidate files spread out in front of me, each one representing a decision I should, by all reasonable standards, be able to make without hesitation.
On paper, there's no shortage of options.
Three candidates remain under consideration. All of them qualified. All of them capable of fulfilling the requirements of the role to a satisfactory level.
And yet, the decision itself has already been made.
I reach for the first file, scanning it again out of habit rather than necessity. Strong references, structured approach, and a clear understanding of routine and discipline.
Oliver disengaged within minutes.
That’s not something I can overlook.
The second file offers a different set of strengths. Warmer, more flexible, less consistent. A tendency toward improvisation where structure is required.
Oliver withdrew entirely.
The third is technically flawless, the kind of candidate most families would accept without question. Every qualification accounted for, every expectation anticipated.
He lost interest before she finished her second answer.
I close the file and set it aside.
The exercise is redundant at this point. I’m not evaluating candidates anymore. I’m confirming a conclusion I reached the moment the final interview began.
There’s only one viable option.
And she’s the one candidate I shouldn’t be considering at all.
I rest my hands against the edge of the desk, allowing that reality to settle without interruption. This isn't a matter of uncertainty. It’s a matter of control.
Because the issue isn’t her suitability for the role.
That’s not in question.
She demonstrated a level of competence that cannot be fabricated.
Her responses were grounded in experience rather than theory; her approach to childcare was defined by an understanding of balance rather than rigid adherence to process.
She didn't attempt to perform. She didn't adjust her answers to align with what she believed I wanted to hear.
She responded as though she had nothing to prove.
More importantly, Oliver responded to her.
That alone would be enough to justify the decision.
And yet…
I straighten slightly, shifting my focus to the window without fully engaging with the view beyond it. The city continues as it always does, indifferent to the internal calculations that define these decisions. There’s a certain clarity in that.
What occurred on the flight wasn't part of any plan. It wasn't considered. It wasn’t something I’d typically allow.
It was, by every reasonable measure, a lapse.
Contained. Isolated. Irrelevant.
That’s how it should remain.
And yet, the memory persists with a level of precision I don’t appreciate. Not in detail, but in impression. The way she held herself. The absence of hesitation. The refusal to yield ground, even when it would have simplified the interaction.
She doesn't operate within expected parameters.
That, more than anything, is the concern.
I reach for my phone before the line of thought extends further than necessary.
Jeffrey answers on the second ring.
“This better be important,” my friend says.
“It is.”
A pause. Then, more attentive, “Alright. What’s going on?”
“I’ve completed the interviews,” I reply, keeping my tone measured. “There’s one candidate who meets the requirements of the position.”
“That sounds like a solution, not a problem.”
“It would be,” I say, “if the situation were straightforward.”
Jeffrey exhales, a sound that suggests both patience and expectation. “Go on.”
I consider how to present this in the most efficient way possible. There's no benefit in overcomplicating it.
“She’s qualified,” I begin. “Experienced. Adaptable. Oliver responded to her immediately, which, as you’re aware, isn't common.”
“Then hire her.”
“There’s a prior interaction.”
Silence.
“Define ‘interaction.’”
“We met on a flight prior to the interview. The interaction extended… beyond conversation.”
Another pause. “You’re telling me you slept with your top candidate.”
“Yes.”
Jeffrey lets out a quiet, incredulous breath. “That's… not ideal.”
“No,” I agree. “It’s not.”
“But you’re still considering hiring her.”
“She’s the only candidate who meets all necessary criteria.”
“That’s not what I’m asking.”
I shift slightly, resting my weight more evenly as I consider the distinction he's drawing.
“My concern,” I say, “is whether that prior interaction introduces a variable that compromises the professional dynamic.”
“And does it?”
I pause.
“No,” I answer. “Not in a way that affects her capability.”
“And you?”
“My judgment remains… unaffected.”
Jeffrey is quiet, processing that.
“Then I don’t see the issue,” he says eventually. “You have a candidate your son connects with, who's qualified, and who's willing to take the position. The rest is noise.”
“It’s not entirely insignificant.”
“It is if you treat it that way,” he replies. “You’re not hiring her to revisit a mistake. You’re hiring her to do a job.”
That's, in essence, the correct framework. Remove the unnecessary variables. Focus on the outcome.
“She understands the need for boundaries,” I say.
“Then establish them,” Jeffrey replies. “You’ve done more complicated things than this.”
I allow a brief pause before responding. “Yes. I have.”
“Then make the call.”
I end the conversation and set the phone down, allowing the decision to settle fully into place.
This isn’t impulsive or reckless. It’s a calculated choice based on available information. She’s the correct candidate.
The rest is manageable.
I pick up the phone again and scroll briefly before selecting her contact.
Adeline Clarke.
The name hangs there for a fraction longer than necessary before I press call.
It connects quickly. “Hello?”
“Yes,” I say. “Miss Clarke.”
A brief pause, followed by a noticeable shift in tone. “Hi. Yes.”
“I’ve reviewed the candidates,” I continue. “I’d like to offer you the position.”
There’s a moment of silence on the line.
“Wait.” A beat. “What?”
Despite myself, I allow the faintest shift in expression before it settles again.
“The position,” I repeat. “I'm offering it to you.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
The exhale that follows is quiet, but unmistakable. “Oh my goodness.”
“Yes,” I say. “The position is live-in. I expect consistency, discretion, and a high level of professionalism at all times. You’ll be responsible for maintaining structure within the household, particularly where Oliver is concerned.”
“Of course,” she replies quickly. “Yes. I can do that.”
I don’t doubt it.
“There’ll be clear boundaries in place,” I add. “Your role will be defined, and those expectations will be adhered to.”
She understands the implication. There’s a slight shift in her tone when she responds. “Right. Yes. Boundaries. Very important.”
“Good.”
I make a note on the desk. “When can you begin?”
“Tomorrow,” she says. “I can be ready tomorrow.”
“That’s acceptable.
“This will require adjustment,” I say. “From both sides.”
“I figured,” she replies.
“And you’re prepared for that.”
“Yes.”
I close the file in front of me. “Then we're agreed.”
“We are.”
I end the call shortly after.
The decision is in motion, and while the variables remain, they’re, for now, under control.
What's she doing here?
I stare at Addy, unable to quite wrap my head around what I’m looking at, even if I know it isn’t real. I must have finally drifted into sleep after hours of tossing and turning.
She’s wearing the same white blouse from the interview. A crisp, innocent thing that manages, through the geometry of its tailoring, to suggest something lascivious. A hint of skin at the wrist, the curve of a ribcage every time she inhales.
Her mouth is a little open. Her hands are in her lap, twisting a pen between long, lacquered fingers. I feel the heat of humiliation before any other sensation, this sick awareness of wanting, of the possibility of being seen wanting.
But she keeps her eyes on mine and waits.
I circle her.
We’re in my office, but it’s not quite right: the walls are higher, the ceiling vaulted, the windows stretched so wide the sky outside is more blue than any color that exists in the real world.
There's no furniture besides the desk and her chair.
She’s silent. She’s expectant.
“Why are you here?”
“Why do you think?” she smirks. “I don’t want professionalism, Ethan. I want the plane again.”
I don’t answer.
I don’t need to.
She knows, and I know she knows, and that’s why neither of us blinks.
I stand behind her while the light moves across the floor, elongating the shadows of her legs, which are so easily uncrossed when I push them apart with the slow pressure of my palm.
The fabric of her skirt is weightless, so that when I drag it along her thigh, it’s more a displacement of suggestion than of solid matter.
My mouth is on her neck in an instant, both hands cupping her breasts through the thin cotton, pressing her harder into the edge of the desk until she gasps… a gasp she means me to hear.
Her smile's savage.
She grabs my wrist and pulls my hand to her mouth with such naked urgency that it’s being devoured.
She bites hungrily, as if she’s needed this since before she met me, as if I’m her first and last meal.
I slide my hand up her thigh, parting the folds of her underwear, tracing the heat beneath with the blind precision of someone who never asks twice.
The sound she makes is indecent: a muffled yelp, instantly stifled by my fingers pressing deeper. She’s dripping; wet seems too small a word for it. I press the heel of my palm against her, and she grinds her hips into it, demanding, insistent, close to unseemly.
The need is mutual.
The desk creaks beneath her as I drive her harder, my hand and her body are twin levers on either side of a fulcrum, my lips on her jaw and the silk of her throat, my other hand pinning her wrists behind the small of her back.
She’s panting now, making sounds that never belonged in an office, not even in the most disreputable corner of a closed conference room.
She bends forward, and the blouse comes untucked, a line of bare skin running from her nape to the waistband of her skirt, and I want to mark it, claim it, so I run my teeth along that shallow hollow until she’s shivering, her whole body trembling.
Yes, surrender too, but only because she’s already won.
She turns and kisses me, wet and desperate, her tongue working looser, slurring in my mouth with a taste that isn't entirely hers or mine.
Addy clings to me; she pulls me in by the hair and scrapes her teeth along my ear, whispering a string of obscenities so urgent they collapse into sound. She’s begging now, but not for mercy, not for kindness, only for more. For annihilation, for release.
She erupts hard around my fingers, pulse fluttering in her throat, the sound of it, my name in a broken gasp, makes me want to tear the world apart, or at least the seams of her blouse. She's unbound now, muscles gone liquid, eyelids fluttering closed as the aftershock ripples through her.
I watch her come undone, the most competent woman I’ve ever interviewed, boneless and panting, dress shirt peeled open, body still arched for more.
And then she looks up at me, eyes glazed, as if she’s decided something monumental in the interval between peaks.
She says my name again, softer, a benediction or maybe a dare, and then she reaches, and my belt is gone, and my trousers drop to my knees.
She drags me out with both hands, greedy, daring me to stop her.
I don’t stop her.
She takes me into her mouth, tasting every ridge and contour and every beat of my pulse through her throat.
The tight wet of her mouth is almost unbearable. She’s not shy, not careful, or even civilized in the way she takes me in, all the muffled choking sounds and spit and the fierce pressure of her lips.
I palm her skull, her hair tangling in my fist. She sets a pace that’s half revenge, half devotion, right on the subtle edge of violence.
My entire body is strung wire taut, every muscle cabled behind my skin, desperate to stay upright against the onrush of sensation.
She pops off, gasping, strings of saliva stretching between us, and all I see is her eyes. Wild, bright, a depthless hunger.
She opens her mouth wider, letting me see the pink wet of her tongue, the way it stretches as she licks the head, the way her eyes never leave mine. It’s an implicit command: don’t look away.
She moans, rolling my name around her tongue as she works me deeper, and the vibration nearly undoes me.
I fuck into her mouth with a slow, inexorable motion, hips rising from the chair as the urge builds. She takes it, every inch, jaw flexing, saliva dripping to stain the front of her blouse.
I’m nothing but friction and pulse and the sound of slick, obscene devotion as she devours me.
It’s sudden. All at once, an electric urgency tears through me with zero warning.
I grab the edge of the desk, white-knuckled, and shoot into her mouth, wave after wave, until I forget where I am, who I am, what I’m meant for except this.
She swallows every drop, not flinching before she wipes her lips with the back of her hand, smiling in a way that says: you hired the right woman and you know it…