Chapter 8 Ethan
ETHAN
It's been twenty-four hours since Jade's mother's unwelcome appearance, twenty-four hours of tension thick enough to cut with a knife.
I move silently through the main floor, checking doors, windows, monitoring systems. The new security upgrades I installed earlier this week are working perfectly: motion sensors, reinforced locks, additional cameras covering previously blind spots.
From a technical standpoint, the house is now a fortress.
Order in the chaos. It's something I've always relied on.
But technology can only do so much when the threat comes dressed as family.
Yesterday's confrontation between Jade and her mother replays in my mind as I walk. The cold fury in Jade's voice. The hurt barely concealed beneath it. The way she'd looked at her mother like she was facing an enemy, not flesh and blood.
Our conversation afterward had been brief, clinical.
I'd relayed what Catherine told us about the note, no way to identify the sender, the same menacing message: "Tell Little Doll I'm coming home.
" Jade had listened with that carefully constructed mask in place, asking precise questions, revealing nothing of the turmoil I knew had to be churning beneath the surface.
She'd maintained that composure throughout our meeting, only the slight tremor in her hands betraying her distress. Then she'd excused herself, retreated to her room, and we'd barely seen her since.
As I approach the kitchen, I notice a sliver of light beneath the door.
Jade's awake. This has happened the past few nights.
I push the door open quietly, unsurprised to find Jade seated at the island counter, laptop open before her.
She startles when she notices me, quickly closing her laptop with a snap that seems overly defensive.
"Sorry," I say casually. "Didn't mean to startle you."
She forces a small smile. "Just going over some photos." Her voice is carefully neutral. "Making your rounds?"
"Last check before I turn in," I confirm, noting the dark circles beneath her eyes, the slight pallor to her skin. She hasn't been sleeping. "You're up late."
"Couldn't sleep," she says with a dismissive shrug. "Just catching up on some work."
The abrupt way she closed her laptop suggests otherwise, but I don't press. Client privacy is part of the job, even when my instincts tell me something's off.
"Couldn't sleep myself. Thought I'd make something. You want in?" I ask, moving toward the refrigerator without waiting for her answer.
She gestures vaguely to the stove across from her. "Mi kitchen es su kitchen."
I snort. "God help us all, Mateo's rubbing off on you."
I pull the milk from the fridge and reach for the cinnamon in the spice rack. "When I was a kid," I say casually, "my mother used to make warm milk with cinnamon when I couldn't sleep. Said it was the cure for nightmares, heartbreak, and insomnia."
"Does it work?" She sounds skeptical, but there's a hint of genuine curiosity beneath it.
"Every time." I pour milk into a small saucepan, add a stick of cinnamon, and set it on the stove to heat slowly. "Whenever I make this now, I add a splash of bourbon."
As soon as I say it, I regret it. Her stint in rehab flashes in my mind. And here I am casually talking about booze.
But before I can backpedal, she surprises me.
"It wasn't alcohol," she says quietly. "My rehab, I mean."
"I'm sorry," I say quickly. "I wasn't thinking."
To my surprise, she laughs. A short, bitter sound with no real humor in it. "You can mention alcohol, Mr. Cross. I'm not going to fall apart."
I hesitate, caught off guard by her directness. "I didn't mean to imply..."
"Yes, you did," she interrupts, but without heat. "Because you've read the tabloids. Seen the headlines. 'Ice Queen in Rehab.' 'Model Meltdown.' Whatever creative alliteration they came up with that week."
She isn't wrong. I've done my research on every client I take on, and Jade Sinclair was no exception. The difference is, I'm usually better at hiding what I know.
"The tabloids aren't known for their accuracy," I offer carefully, turning my attention back to the warming milk.
"No," she agrees. "They're not. For instance, I wasn't in rehab for alcohol."
I look up, meeting her eyes across the island. She holds my gaze steadily, challenging me to ask the obvious question. So I do.
"What was it, then?"
"Xanax," she says simply. "Prescription. My mother's preferred method of control since I was fourteen. Said it would help with anxiety before shoots. Before interviews."
"She kept giving it to me," Jade continues. "Told me I was too 'high-strung,' too 'difficult.' That no one would want to work with a girl who had opinions. Or boundaries. By the time I was sixteen, I couldn't go a day without it."
The casual way she describes it makes it all the more disturbing. I continue stirring the milk, giving her space to continue or not. Her choice.
"When I got emancipated at sixteen, I checked myself into rehab. Not because I was out of control, but because I wanted to be free of her influence completely. Including the chemical kind."
"You were legally emancipated?" I ask, though I try to keep my surprise minimal. It mustn't be common knowledge, since it didn't appear in our background research.
She nods. "Filed the paperwork myself, with Gloria's help. Went before a judge and everything. Made the case that I was financially independent and that staying under my mother's guardianship was detrimental to my wellbeing. The judge agreed."
I pour the warm milk into two mugs and slide hers across the counter. She cradles it like it's a lifeline. "That takes courage," I say, meaning it. "At sixteen, most kids are just trying to survive high school."
"I wasn't most kids." She wraps her hands around the mug, inhaling the cinnamon-scented steam. "By sixteen, I'd been working for four years, supporting my mother, my manager, and half a dozen hangers-on."
"Is that why you keep your mother at a distance?" I ask.
Jade takes a sip of her drink. "My mother saw me as an investment, not a daughter. When I told her..." She hesitates. "When I needed her protection, she chose money over me. So now I give her money, and in return, she stays away."
"Until yesterday," I observe.
"Until yesterday," she agrees. "Which means either she's telling the truth about receiving that note, or..."
"You don't think she's telling the truth?"
Jade sighs. "I don't know what to think anymore. The timing is suspicious. First the attack in New York, then the note Gloria received, now this. It feels... coordinated."
"We're looking into all possibilities," I assure her.
We sip in silence. It's the closest we've been without conflict. It's... nice. Quiet. Real.
"This is good," she admits. "Your mother's recipe?"
"One of the few things she passed down that was actually useful." I allow myself a small smile. "My family's not big on healthy legacies."
"Mine either," she says dryly. "What about your father? What did he pass down?"
"My father was in the military. Four tours in Vietnam, then twenty years pushing papers at the Pentagon. He passed down discipline, duty, and an inability to express emotions properly." I take a sip. "He had very specific ideas about what made a man."
"Such as?"
"No weakness. No emotions. Those were strictly for civilians and women. Discipline and silence were his love languages."
She nods. "Sounds like we both had parents who saw emotions as something to be controlled or exploited. Your father taught you to suppress them, my mother wanted me to perform them for the camera. Neither one actually cared how we really felt."
There's something refreshing about her bluntness, her unwillingness to sugarcoat. It's the most genuine she's been since we arrived.
She eyes me over the rim of her mug. "So this miracle drink cures heartbreak too, huh? Hard to believe someone like you would need that particular remedy."
"Someone like me?"
Her cheeks flush. "You know. Attractive, commanding, successful. I'd imagine you're usually the heartbreaker, not the heartbroken."
The unexpected compliment catches me off guard. "Appearances can be deceiving," I say.
"Preach!" She tips her head, watching me. "So... why did you leave military life?"
I blink. "What?"
"The military," she clarifies. "You don't seem like the type to quit unless something pushes you."
I exhale. "Yeah. Something did."
I look down at my mug. "My marriage didn't survive the job. Being gone half the year, and emotionally MIA the other half... not great for relationships."
She doesn't say anything, just watches me.
"Also, it didn't help that she was cheating on me with my commanding officer. So, it wasn't all military she objected to. Just me, I guess."
"Emotional damage!" She says with a funny expression while I look at her puzzled and amused.
"It's a TikTok thing... You know... Emotional Damage!" She repeats, blushing.
"No, I don't know," I respond, laughing.
"Well..." She starts slightly, "It's a thing young people say. You older people wouldn't know about it."
"Hey, I'm not that old. I'm 36!" I say with feigned indignation, noticing the amusement dancing in her eyes.
She composes herself and changes the subject. "Is that why you started this company?"
"Partly. I'd already been considering leaving. The betrayal just accelerated things. Declan and I had talked about it for years. Mateo joined us later."
"You're more like family than coworkers."
"We've been through a lot. You learn quickly who you can trust with your life."
We fall into silence. For once, it's not heavy. It's... comfortable.
Then she asks, almost in a whisper, "Do you think they'll try again? Whoever attacked me?"
I want to say no. But I don't lie.
"I don't know. But we'll be ready. We won't let anything happen to you."
She nods, gaze dropping to her mug. "Because it's your job..."
Her lashes are too long. Her posture too weary. I want to reach out. I want to touch her. I don't.
I hesitate. It is a job. But...
"You should try to get some sleep," I say softly. I stand, offer my hand. "Let me walk you to your room."
She doesn't argue. We walk in silence. At her door, she pauses.
"Thank you," she says. "For the drink. The talk. For... trying to see me."
That one sentence hits harder than it should. Like she just handed me something fragile and dared me not to drop it.
Without thinking, I brush a loose strand of hair from her cheek.
Her cheek brushes against my hand, warm and soft.
The sound she makes, barely a breath, goes straight to my gut.
Something primal stirs. Something dangerous.
She leans into the touch. For one heartbeat. And for one heartbeat, I lean in too...
Then I step back. "Jade," I murmur. "We shouldn't."
Her eyes shutter. "Of course. I'm sorry."
"No. I'm the one who should apologize."
She nods once. "Goodnight, Ethan."
"Goodnight, Jade."
As her door closes, I linger in the hall.
I did the right thing. I kept it professional.
But as I walk back through the quiet house, every part of me is still replaying the moment I almost didn't. I walk away because it's what I'm supposed to do.
But every step feels like I'm leaving something behind I wasn't ready to lose.