29 - The Wedding Night
The city lights blurred into streaks of color as the car glided through the darkened streets.
Silence pressed down between them, thick and unyielding, like a heavy curtain neither dared to lift.
Scarlett's fingers twisted in her lap, knuckles pale and taut.
She stared out the window, watching the kaleidoscope of neon and amber fade behind them, carefully avoiding the man beside her.
It was strange—almost out of place—to see Ethan Blackwood driving.
A man of his wealth and stature usually had others to handle such details.
His secretary, John, was always at the wheel when Ethan worked in the backseat, absorbed in calls or documents.
But tonight, Ethan sat rigid behind the wheel, his sharp profile occasionally lit by passing streetlights, jaw clenched beneath a shadow of stubble.
Scarlett's heart beat unevenly as the glittering skyline slipped away, replaced by darker, quieter roads. Where were they going? The question hovered, fragile and uncertain, until she finally broke the silence.
"Where are we going?"
Ethan's grip on the steering wheel tightened for a moment. His steel-gray eyes never wavered from the road. "You'll see," he said, voice low and clipped, as if the two words settled the matter completely.
Scarlett swallowed the rising unease and turned back toward the window.
Outside, the glow of streetlights grew sparse, casting long, distorted shadows across empty asphalt.
The lingering scent of her wedding bouquet clung faintly to her skin—a bitter reminder of the ceremony that had shifted her world just hours before.
The car slowed to a gravel crunch. Ethan parked in front of a sleek, solitary building that rose like a silent sentinel from the night. Its modern glass fa?ade reflected the moonlight, revealing clean lines and stark geometry against the dark.
Without a word, Ethan stepped out, his tall frame moving with measured grace. The click of his Italian leather shoes on stone punctuated the stillness. Scarlett hesitated, heart hammering, before gathering the hem of her heavy wedding gown and stepping into the cool night air.
Inside, the house was breathtaking—and unsettling.
Marble floors stretched beneath minimalist furnishings in cream and charcoal, arranged with precise geometry. Recessed lighting cast soft pools of light across abstract artwork, but the space felt empty, hollow. No photographs, no personal mementos—just a showroom of cold perfection.
"For such a big house, it's awfully empty," Scarlett murmured, tracing a finger along the cool granite countertop.
Ethan hung his charcoal blazer with meticulous care, his broad shoulders rigid beneath a crisp white shirt. He didn't look at her as he said, "I don't like people around me. The maid comes before I arrive and leaves before I do."
His gaze swept over her with an unsettling mix of scrutiny and dismissal. Scarlett's breath caught—this was the man she'd married: brilliant, distant, and untouchable. A man who built empires on strategy, not sentiment.
Her thoughts barely formed before he added, "Your luggage will arrive tomorrow."
That was all. No explanation, no invitation. He turned sharply and disappeared down a polished hallway, footsteps echoing into silence.
Scarlett sank onto the ivory sofa, the cool fabric offering little comfort. She closed her eyes, trying to process the surreal reality of being wed to a stranger—an arrangement sealed by vows that already felt hollow.
A door clicked. Opening her eyes, she caught sight of Ethan crossing the room in dark sweatpants and a fitted black t-shirt that clung to his athletic frame. Their eyes met—brief, electric—before he slipped into a study, the door thudding shut behind him.
Time stretched heavy and slow. The diamonds at her neck, once sparkling with promise, now felt like chains. The wedding gown's boning dug mercilessly into her ribs.
Unable to bear it, Scarlett rose and began to explore the house—her new gilded cage.
Each room reflected the same austere perfection: no signs of life, no clutter, no warmth. The house seemed frozen, perpetually staged for a photoshoot that never arrived.
Finally, she reached the master bedroom—a cavernous space dominated by a king-sized bed draped in charcoal silk. Floor-to-ceiling windows promised breathtaking views by dawn. The pristine marble and chrome bathroom gleamed like a gallery.
She turned to the imposing wardrobe, desperate to shed the torturous gown. Sliding open the panels revealed row after row of men's clothing—immaculate shirts, tailored suits—each hung with surgical precision.
Scarlett closed the panel, opened the others. Nothing. Her gown scratched at her skin, digging into her ribs and hips. She pulled at the zipper but couldn't reach it. Her fingers ached from trying. She stared at the mirror—flushed, disheveled, aching—and hated the reflection.
She pressed her forehead to the cool glass and stood there, breathing. The silence mocked her. She was a bride with no wedding night. A wife with no welcome.
Minutes passed.
Then, slowly, deliberately, she opened the wardrobe again and reached for one of Ethan's dress. The fabric was soft between her fingers—cotton and something finer. She hesitated, heart thudding.
Would he be angry?
Probably.
But there was no one else to ask. And she was tired. So unbearably tired.
She slipped out of the gown with difficulty, the corset leaving red lines across her torso. Pulling on a soft, oversized black t-shirt, the fabric engulfed her slender frame, falling to mid-thigh. She rolled up the sleeves, creating messy cuffs that shattered the room's pristine order.
The scent of him clung to the fabric—woodsmoke, musk, something darker. It wrapped around her like a whisper.
A loud growl from her stomach reminded her she hadn't eaten since the reception. Food had been the last thing on her mind amid forced smiles and hollow congratulations.
Her bare feet padded softly to the kitchen. The refrigerator offered little: a half-empty water pitcher, a few bruised apples, and condiments. The pantry held only a loaf of artisanal bread and imported coffee beans.
"Maybe I should order something," she whispered, the absurdity dawning immediately. She didn't even know the address, let alone if delivery came this far.
Resigned, she toasted bread and sliced apples, arranging them on a small plate. It wasn't the feast she'd imagined after her wedding, but it would have to do.
As she sat at the kitchen island, quietly chewing, footsteps approached.
Ethan appeared, a document loosely held in one hand. His eyes widened for a fraction of a second at the sight of her in his clothes. Surprise flickered, then hardened into displeasure.
For a split second, his expression broke—surprise flaring, then... something else.
She watched his gaze flick from her messy hair to the oversized shirt. His shirt. The shadows in his eyes deepened.
"What the hell are you doing?" he barked, slamming the paper onto the counter.
Scarlett jolted upright, nearly toppling the plate. "I—I couldn't sleep in the dress," she stammered, shrinking beneath his stare.
"You should've asked," he snapped. "Don't touch my things without permission."
But his voice faltered, conflicted. Because even now, even in anger, he couldn't look away. Her bare legs, her small frame swallowed in his shirt—she looked fragile, like something stolen from a softer world.
The heat in his chest was not just anger. It was confusing. Hunger. Fear.
Scarlett's voice was steadier now. "You weren't available."
A beat passed. His jaw clenched, then loosened. Something behind his eyes wavered.
"Don't do it again," he muttered, and turned away.
She didn't respond. Not as he left. Not when the echo of his steps faded. She simply sat, staring down at the apple slices she no longer wanted.
Scarlett lowered her gaze to the half-eaten toast. The untouched apple slices mocked her diminished appetite.
Ethan exhaled slowly, tension visibly draining from his frame. He retrieved a bottle of water from the fridge, leaning against the counter as he drank deeply. His eyes flicked to her meager meal.
"That's all you're eating?" His tone was neutral but carried a hint of concern.
"I wasn't hungry," she replied, chewing deliberately.
He observed her for a moment, inscrutable as ever. "I don't eat here. There's barely anything to cook."
"I'll have the maid stock the kitchen starting tomorrow."
Without another word, he turned and disappeared down the hallway. The scent of sandalwood and musk lingered long after his footsteps faded.
In the solitude of his studyroom, Ethan ran hands through dark hair, jaw clenched tight. His heart thundered with a betrayal he could not control.
The image of Scarlett, swathed in his shirt—her bare legs, delicate collarbones, tangled auburn hair—etched itself deep in his mind.
Boundaries blurred, control slipped. This was a marriage of convenience, a merger of assets and families. Nothing more.
But the pull she exerted was real. Terrifying.
He forced himself to breathe, to focus on the weight of reports waiting on his desk.
Yet the vision of emerald eyes and soft curves lingered—etched behind closed lids, impossible to banish.
After hours lost in a tangle of papers and contracts, Ethan finally closed his study door with a soft click.
The grandfather clock in the hall marked midnight with a solemn chime.
His steps felt heavy, weighed down by exhaustion that settled deep in his bones.
Yet the fatigue was only skin-deep. Inside, his mind raced in restless loops, replaying fragments of the day—the meetings, the terse agreements, and the impossible reality waiting beyond the door.
At the threshold of their bedroom, he hesitated, his hand lingering on the smooth wood of the doorframe. Moonlight poured through the uncurtained windows, flooding the room with a cool, silvery glow. It traced delicate patterns on the floor, flickering gently with the sway of shadows.
He sat on the edge of the bed, still dressed, his back against the headboard. His eyes roamed her features. She was beautiful. Achingly so. And the shirt she wore—his shirt—made something twist inside him.
He hated how it felt. How right it looked on her.
His gaze fell on Scarlett. She lay curled atop the covers, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, the other resting lightly on the silk sheets.
Her auburn hair spilled across the pillow like molten copper, strands catching the moonlight in fiery gleams. Her eyelashes cast faint shadows against her cheeks, and her lips parted slightly with each soft, steady breath.
Vulnerable. Unaware. So achingly real in this quiet moment, far from the storms she stirred when awake.
Ethan couldn't look away. He leaned back and closed his eyes.
There was no desire in the steady pull he felt—something sharper, more dangerous: a curious ache that settled in his chest, stubborn and unfamiliar.
Her peaceful face stood in stark contrast to the chaos she'd dragged into his carefully ordered life.
He crossed the room with silent steps, careful not to disturb her sleep.
Sliding down onto the mattress opposite her, still fully dressed, he let his back rest against the headboard.
From this angle, he watched the gentle rise and fall of her breath, the slight flutter of her eyelids hinting at the private worlds she visited in dreams he couldn't reach.
Weeks ago, everything had been clear. His life mapped out in neat, predictable lines—free of surprises or complications.
Now, those lines had blurred, tangled by a marriage neither of them sought from the heart but forged in boardrooms and contracts.
The absurdity of it all was sharp in his mind.
Yet he had agreed, recognizing the cold advantage it granted.
What unsettled him most wasn't the legal bind or the arrangement itself, but the quiet disquiet her presence stirred inside him. The way his practiced detachment cracked beneath her steady resilience. The way his mind betrayed him with thoughts of more than strategy and obligation.
As the night deepened, Scarlett shifted slightly, inching closer as if drawn by his warmth.
The subtle movement sent a jolt through him—a flash of something long buried beneath ambition and calculation.
She remained oblivious, her breath even and soft, while inside Ethan, old emotions stirred, restless and unwelcome.
A soft sigh escaped his lips, his eyes fixed on the darkness beyond the moonlit room. Resignation tangled with a thrill he dared not name. Sleep would evade him tonight, crushed beneath the weight of possibilities he hadn't yet dared to face.
Beneath the silver wash of moonlight and tangled sheets, two strangers bound by vows neither fully understood shared the first of many nights beneath the same roof—each carrying secrets and desires too fragile to voice, even in the quiet sanctuary of night.