30 - The Morning After
Golden light sliced through a gap in the heavy velvet drapes, casting narrow bars of warmth across the sprawling bedroom. It spilled over imported marble floors, brushed against hand-carved furniture, and finally reached the bed—lavish, towering, and far too large for one.
Scarlett stirred.
Her eyelashes fluttered, catching the sun like moth wings, and she reached across the mattress instinctively.
Cool silk met her fingertips.
She blinked fully awake, heart skipping as her palm swept over empty sheets—smooth, untouched. No warmth. No indentation. No trace of him.
A quiet tension spread through her chest.
Had Ethan come to bed at all?
Scarlett sat up slowly, the sheets sliding off her shoulders like water. Her gaze lingered on the untouched pillow beside her. The silence in the room was thick, oppressive, like the quiet before a storm. She glanced at the ornate bedside clock—its golden hands unmoved by the ache she felt.
7:00 AM.
A shallow breath escaped her lips, soft but hollow. One night into her marriage, and already the space beside her felt abandoned.
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed. The marble floor was icy against her bare feet, the chill running up her spine and tightening the muscles in her neck. She padded across the room, leaving the warm glow behind and disappearing into the en-suite bathroom.
Steam curled around her as the shower rained down in steady rhythm. The water was hot—almost scalding—but it couldn't touch the cold that had taken root in her bones. That chill wasn't physical. It was absent. Disappointment. A quiet grief that shouldn't belong to a newlywed.
Scarlett stood beneath the water, unmoving, eyes closed as droplets traced her cheekbones and jaw. She let them fall like tears and she refused to cry.
When she finally stepped out, her skin flushed pink and damp hair clinging to her back, she didn't reach for the designer wardrobe that spanned an entire wall. Dresses still hung untouched in garment bags, like costumes for a life she hadn't begun living.
Instead, she reached for his shirt.
Crisp. White. Slightly oversized.
The cotton smelled faintly of starch and cologne. It whispered of closeness—a kind that hadn't existed last night. She slipped it over her skin, rolling the sleeves to her elbows, the hem brushing her thighs.
A small rebellion. Or maybe a silent question.
The grand staircase creaked faintly under her steps. Every footfall echoed in the cavernous house—no, mansion—with its echoing halls and sterile opulence. There was no music. No movement. Not even the rustle of servants.
The silence was oppressive. The kind that made you aware of your own heartbeat.
Then—click. Click. Click.
A soft, rhythmic sound came from ahead.
She followed it like a thread, barefoot and cautious. The sound led her through high-ceilinged corridors until she reached the kitchen threshold.
She paused.
There he was.
Ethan Blackwood. Her husband.
He stood with his back to her, sculpted in stillness, stirring his coffee in precise circles. Three times clockwise. Pause. Three times counterclockwise. A ritual, efficient and practiced—like everything he did.
His suit was navy blue, tailored to an impossible degree. Not a wrinkle, not a hair out of place. Even at this early hour, he looked like a man carved from marble—untouchable and complete.
Scarlett's presence was quiet, but something in the air shifted.
He felt it.
Ethan turned.
And for a heartbeat—just one—something shattered behind his eyes.
He wasn't ready.
Scarlett stood in the doorway wearing nothing but his shirt, wet hair cascading over her shoulder, collarbones exposed, legs bare beneath the long hem. Light from the tall windows behind her gilded the edges of her skin.
His breath hitched.
His eyes flicked over her with sharp intensity. Her bare legs. The way the fabric clung to her damp skin. The hollow at the base of her throat.
His grip tightened slightly on the spoon.
He was shaken. A man who did not get shaken.
His jaw clenched as he forced his features into place, schooling every muscle back into something unreadable. The flicker in his eyes died behind a practiced indifference.
He turned fully toward her, face smooth, unreadable. Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. His expression remained composed—too composed.
"You're up," he said evenly, his voice low, neutral. But inside—his thoughts churned.
She looked like she belonged here. She looked like temptation served cold in the morning light. And he could not afford to want her. Not yet. Not like this.
The tension in the air tightened.
He turned back to his coffee.
Scarlett stepped further into the kitchen. His shirt brushed her thighs as she moved.
"I didn't see you last night," she said quietly.
A beat passed. A blink too long.
Then, coldly: "I had work to finish."
The weight of his avoidance settled between them.
Her lips parted. "Did you—" Her voice faltered, then steadied. "Did you sleep in the guest room?"
Something flickered in his eyes again—darker, colder. But his voice came low and precise, each word cutting clean:
"Why would I sleep in the guest room?"
Her brows lifted. "Because you weren't here."
"I never said I would be," he replied, tone deceptively calm. "We slept in the same room, Scarlett. That's what I agreed to. Nothing more."
Scarlett's heart kicked in her chest, her expression tightening.
Ethan didn't look at her. He sipped. Then answered with chilling finality:
"Your luggage is there."
That was all.
No explanation. No acknowledgment. Not even the courtesy of confirmation. Her wedding night was a blank line in his ledger, and she was just a detail to be filed away.
Scarlett swallowed, her throat dry. "Thanks," she murmured.
The silence stretched, fraying at the edges.
"Are you going to the office?" she asked, voice quieter than she intended.
A pause.
A single nod.
Then he reached for his phone.
Scarlett busied herself at the cabinet, retrieving a mug. The clink of porcelain was the only sound she made, though her hands trembled slightly as she filled it with coffee. Ethan was already speaking into his phone—his voice deep, assured, distant.
"The Singapore deal needs to close by Friday," he said, turning slightly away. "No delays. I don't want excuses."
Scarlett stood beside him, an afterthought in her own kitchen. She watched him from the corner of her eye—the tense line of his jaw, the way his brow furrowed slightly as he listened.
And yet, nothing.
She placed her half-filled mug in the sink with a sharp clink that made Ethan glance up—only for a second. Then his eyes returned to his screen.
Without a word, she turned and left the kitchen.
Upstairs, she transformed.
Her hair, once damp and unruly, now fell in soft, controlled waves past her shoulders. The shirt was gone, replaced with a silk blouse and a floral skirt that danced around her knees. A touch of mascara lifted her lashes. Rose-colored lipstick brought color back to her face.
Not armor, exactly.
But close.
When she returned downstairs, she felt his attention shift before she saw it.
Ethan glanced up from his tablet. His eyes traced her outfit, his expression unreadable—but his fingers stilled for half a beat around his coffee cup. A flicker of something passed across his face.
Then it vanished.
He looked back down.
Scarlett walked to the far end of the dining table and sat. A plate of artfully arranged fruit and pastries waited for her—prepared by unseen hands. She picked at it, chewing without tasting.
Across the room, Ethan's fingers tapped against his screen, the only sound between them.
Before she'd finished more than a few bites, he stood.
Collected his briefcase. Adjusted his cuffs.
He walked out without a word.
No glance. No goodbye.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Scarlett sat perfectly still, staring at the empty space he'd left behind. Her fork hovered midair, her grip tightening until her knuckles blanched.
Then she whispered to no one:
"What kind of man treats his wife like she's invisible?"
The question floated in the air for a moment before it sank beneath the weight of silence.
With a sharp push, she sent the plate skidding across the polished table. The porcelain scraped harshly against the wood. Her appetite was gone, replaced by something bitter and heavy.