21 - Beneath the Surface
After the photoshoot concluded, Scarlett retreated to the private dressing room, the door clicking shut behind her with finality.
She exhaled deeply, her shoulders slumping as if released from invisible strings.
Her fingers worked deftly at the tiny pearl buttons running down her spine, each one a step away from the performance she'd just endured.
The wedding gown slid from her shoulders with a whisper, pooling at her feet like spilled moonlight.
She stepped out of the circle of fabric, suddenly feeling lighter—more herself.
With practiced ease, she changed into her usual attire: a sage green silk blouse and high-waisted cream trousers, an outfit that spoke of quiet confidence instead of bridal submission.
She fastened her pearl earrings, studying her reflection in the mirror. A faint flush lingered on her cheeks. Whether it was from the heat of the gown or Ethan's unexpected touch during the shoot, she wasn't sure.
A soft knock interrupted her thoughts.
"Ms. Landon? Is there anything else you need?" came the attendant's voice.
"No, thank you. I'll be out in a moment." Scarlett took a deep breath, gathering herself.
When she emerged, the boutique staff looked up, their expressions lighting with admiration.
"Scarlett, that dress is absolutely stunning!" gushed a young woman with copper hair twisted into a sleek updo. "I've never seen anything quite like it."
Scarlett smiled, genuinely this time. "I designed it myself," she admitted, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
A hum of appreciation rippled through the room.
"Your talent is undeniable," said another woman, eyes bright. "The lace, the silhouette—the way it moves is just... timeless and bold all at once."
Scarlett's heart swelled. This was real—her work, her design. A part of her that no contract or arrangement could touch.
But the moment didn't last.
She felt it before she saw him—a quiet shift in the room, an awareness prickling across her skin. Turning slightly, she caught sight of Ethan standing just a few feet away, hands in his pockets, gaze fixed solely on her.
How long had he been there?
His face was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—something that traced the lines of her blouse, the curve of her waist. Not the cool appraisal she was used to, but a quiet, simmering intensity.
He said nothing, letting silence stretch between them. The boutique staff faded into the background, their chatter dying under the weight of his presence.
Finally, he spoke. "Are you ready?" His voice was deep, his question more a directive.
Scarlett nodded before her voice could find footing. She turned to the staff, professional warmth returning.
"Thank you all so much for today. The experience was wonderful."
With one last smile, she followed Ethan toward the exit, catching the faint scent of his cologne as she passed—sandalwood and something darker, more elusive. The boutique door closed behind them with a soft chime.
The sleek black Bentley waited at the curb, its engine purring like a contented beast. The driver stepped forward and opened the door. Ethan offered a nod, and Scarlett slipped into the leather interior, smoothing her trousers as he joined her.
Silence settled between them.
Usually, these car rides were filled with the tap of Ethan's fingers on his phone, clipped conversations, and the hum of high-stakes business. Today, his phone sat untouched beside him. Instead, his fingers tapped an irregular rhythm against his knee, eyes fixed on the passing cityscape.
Scarlett studied his profile from the corner of her eye—the clean line of his jaw, the shadowed stubble, the slight furrow between his brows. He seemed elsewhere, not in the usual cold, calculating way—but unsettled, preoccupied.
She shifted slightly, her movement loud in the quiet cabin. Still, he didn't acknowledge her. Not with a glance, not with a word.
The tension was unfamiliar—almost charged. Maybe the photoshoot had affected him too, blurred the sharp boundaries between arrangement and something else.
The car rolled to a gentle stop in front of her studio, a converted warehouse nestled between art galleries and industrial lofts. She reached for the door handle, hesitated, then turned to him.
"Thank you for the ride," she said softly.
Ethan didn't look at her. His jaw twitched. "I'll have John coordinate further details."
Business. Always business.
Scarlett nodded, lips pressed tight. She stepped out, the door closing behind her with a hush. The Bentley pulled away almost immediately, leaving her in the warm hush of late afternoon.
She let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
"Just business," she murmured. "Nothing more."
And yet her waist still tingled where his hand had rested.
The bell above the boutique studio jingled cheerfully as Scarlett stepped inside, greeted by the scent of fabric, perfume, and possibility. Here, in her space, everything felt vibrant and true.
She barely made it three steps before Linda barreled toward her, curls bouncing, eyes shining.
"There you are! I've been pacing like a maniac! Tell me everything—fitting, photoshoot, and the part where you stood next to Mr. Cold-as-Ice himself."
Scarlett laughed, tension melting under the warmth of her friend's presence. She set her bag down and began unpinning her hair.
"It was... fine," she said vaguely. "The dress turned out well. The photoshoot was professional."
Linda crossed her arms, unconvinced. Bracelets jingled as she cocked a brow. "Professional? Scarlett, you're marrying Nick Blackwood. The man whose gaze could freeze lava. Don't give me 'fine.' Give me scandalous."
Scarlett sighed and pulled out her phone, opening the gallery of preview photos. She handed it to Linda, who promptly gasped.
"Oh. My. God." With each swipe, her eyes widened. "Scar, these are next-level. Like, royalty-meets-runway."
She held up a photo—Ethan's hand resting on Scarlett's waist, their eyes locked.
"You two look like a real couple. The kind that makes people sigh dramatically."
Scarlett shook her head and retrieved her phone. "Photos can lie."
Linda tilted her head, her playful smirk softening. "You know... I think it might work out. You and him."
Scarlett stilled. "Don't do that. Don't romanticize this."
Linda leaned on the counter. "I'm serious. There's something there. I saw it in the pictures. The way he looked at you—it wasn't just posed."
Scarlett busied herself with a stack of fabric swatches, voice cool. "Whatever it is you think you saw, it doesn't mean anything."
Linda wasn't buying it. "Okay. But have you considered that maybe he's not as heartless as he seems? Maybe he just doesn't know how to show what he's feeling."
Scarlett paused. "He doesn't see love as anything more than a liability."
"People say things they don't always mean," Linda said gently. "Especially when they're scared."
Scarlett scoffed. "Ethan Blackwood? Scared? The man eats corporate takeovers for breakfast."
"Emotions are a different battlefield," Linda replied with a shrug. "He might be a general in the boardroom, but in the heart department? Total rookie."
Scarlett didn't respond. She didn't want to entertain the possibility, not even for a moment. But the image lingered—the heat in his gaze, the press of his hand, the pause before he spoke.
Linda gave her shoulder a squeeze. "Just think about it. You might be exactly what he needs."
Scarlett forced a laugh. "You're such a romantic."
Linda grinned. "Well, someone around here has to believe in love. Might as well be me."
But even as they shifted into talk of fabrics and upcoming clients, Scarlett couldn't shake the memory of Ethan's eyes on her. Of all the emotions to linger, it was hope that unsettled her most.
And hope, she reminded herself, was always the most dangerous emotion of all.