43. Chapter Forty-Three
I hang up the phone without speaking a word. It rings again, but I don’t even think about picking it up. That was Ethan’s father calling. I’m sure of it. I don’t know how I know, but I know, and he apparently knows me as well. I’m “the bitch,” and the man has not even met me. I hug myself, blood swishing in my ears, the beat of my heart magnified tenfold, uncomfortably present in my chest. My first reaction to what feels like an attack and belittling of me as a person is a need to withdraw and leave. But after pacing the room several times, I’ve found logic. That caller wasn’t Ethan, but he was another example of just how shitty the people in his life are, and not the people he chooses to have in his life either—case in point, Harper. This is about the ones forced upon him—his family.
Ethan just told me to stop putting him on a pedestal. That man on the phone put me in the sewer. I wonder how many times he did that to Ethan himself. Between his brother, Anna, and his father, it’s no wonder Ethan’s a control freak, but it’s incredible that he has the gentleness in him and fairness I’ve seen as well. Nothing Ethan has said or done makes me feel as if he wants me to leave .
Come to Paris with me.
I want to go to Paris with him.
I’m not leaving.
Well, except to go to the store and get a morning after pill. Ethan and his wealthy self might not be freaking out about baby Ethan, but I am. I want kids, but I don’t want them because I trapped a man who does not have the good sense to not be trapped. Only he does. I know he does. He’s simply let his guard down with me, and I want to be worthy of that trust.
I grab my purse and head to the door, only to realize I don’t have a key to the room. I have no choice but to call Ethan. I pace again, and then decide on a text: I don’t have a key to your room. I have to go to the drugstore, so I’ll probably just pack up and go back to my room for now.
He calls almost immediately. “Don’t leave,” he says without prelude. “I’ll have the front desk bring you a key.” His voice softens. “Sorry, baby. I’ve got hell going on and wasn’t thinking.”
“I’m fine. I hate I had to bother you.”
“You’re absolutely not bothering me. If I didn’t have to go to this meeting, I wouldn’t.”
“A man called the room phone.”
“Oh fuck. You answered?”
“Yeah. I think it was your father. I didn’t reply to him. He didn’t know it wasn’t you, so he probably thinks you hung up on him.”
He’s silent a beat. “What did he say?”
I sit down on the bed and sigh heavily. “I don’t think I want to repeat it.”
“That’s what I was afraid of. He’s a bastard, Sofia. I wish I could tell you that would change, but it won’t. Ever.”
“But you’re not. That’s what matters.”
“I can be when I have to be. Ask your father.”
“Brutally honest is not the same as being a bastard. ”
“Isn’t it though?” he asks, his tone stark, as if this is an admission, not a question. “I’m more like him than I want to be.”
“I don’t think you are, or I wouldn’t be here.”
“You make me want to live up to that blind faith in my character.”
“Then you will,” I say. “You have with me. You didn’t let me put me on hold.”
“No. And I won’t. I gotta go. I’ll try to be as fast as possible. See you soon.” He disconnects.
Thirty minutes later, I have a room key and flowers—lilies. I love lilies. The card reads, They are not anywhere near as beautiful as you are inside and out, Sofia .
I am warm inside as I set them on the dining room table, a centerpiece of freshly opened blossoms as delicate as the connection I share with Ethan. I don’t kid myself into believing everything with Ethan will be sweet-smelling flowers, and I’m afraid of being hurt. I am, but as my mother always said, “Fear is the number one enemy that steals your happiness.” Ethan called me on my fear already. He was right. He saw that truth in me, and that tells me he sees me . I think he needs me to see him, too.
I tear myself away from my thoughts and the flowers and change into my gym clothes. I’ll run to the drugstore and workout, and hopefully have time to shower before Ethan returns. A few minutes later, I hit the street and end up walking the wrong direction. I’m lost in New York City, but I eventually get my morning after pill. I find a Starbucks, order a drink, and then hold it in my hand, a little weirded out about taking it. There’s no baby. This just stops there from ever being a baby. It’s the right thing to do.
It's the right thing to do.
I pop it in my mouth and down it with my white mocha, standing immediately and heading for the door. There is no reason to linger on what I’ve done. It’s not my time for a baby. I have a career on the verge of greatness. But one day…
Thankfully, I manage to return to the hotel without another wrong detour, hit the gym, and then stop by the hotel store for a water. I’m just walking past the hotel coffee shop when I stop dead in my tracks as I find Anna and Ethan standing inside the doorway in what looks like a heated conversation. She then turns and starts walking this direction. I dart into the enclosure that leads to the bathrooms, praying she doesn’t head this direction. With relief, I watch her head for the front door and exit. But that relief is short-lived as I watch Ethan exit the coffee shop and rush by me.
“Anna!” he calls out, and as I step out behind him, I watch as he exits the hotel in her pursuit.
Oh God. Oh no. My hand presses to my belly. He went after her. I think he still loves her.
I pant out a breath and whirl around, aware now that I’m in the wrong place with the wrong man. Business and pleasure do not mix. They never have and never will. I all but run to the elevator, and as I wait for the car to close, part of me wants Ethan to appear and explain all of this to me. But he doesn’t appear. When I’ve packed my bag and he’s still not in the room, my fears are confirmed. He left with her, and I’m the unfortunate mistake back in his room. The “bitch” in his room.
I write him a note:
Ethan, business and pleasure don’t mix. We both know it’s true. We both know this was a mistake. But thank you for everything.
Goodbye, Sofia.
I stare at what I’ve written, “Thank you for everything,” and cringe. I wonder if he’ll think I’m thanking him for the flowers or the orgasm, or something else? Whatever. It doesn’t matter. I head for the door, and then downstairs, and I hate how much a part of me still wants him to show up and whisk me off of my feet and back into his bed.
But he doesn’t.
THE END…