41 - Dance with me
The hum of polite conversation dimmed as the string quartet shifted into a brisker, livelier waltz.
Golden light softened in the grand ballroom, dipping to a warm honeyed glow.
Candle flames flickered on polished tables, casting shifting shadows that danced alongside the elegantly dressed couples already moving toward the center of the floor.
Scarlett lingered at the edge, her glass barely touched, fingers curling loosely around the stem.
She didn't need to look to know the crowd was swaying in practiced unison—steps measured, smiles polished, the kind of effortless grace she never quite mastered.
Dancing had always been something she endured, not enjoyed—enough to navigate a polite circle but nothing to dazzle this polished audience.
Her gaze traced the sweep of satin skirts and the crisp lines of tuxedos, the music wrapping around the dancers like an invisible thread binding them together. Her weight shifted quietly from one foot to the other; the familiar hum of self-consciousness settled in her chest. Watching was easier.
Without warning, a shadow fell across her view. Scarlett didn't turn, but the unmistakable scent of expensive cologne and subtle musk whispered against her senses. Ethan.
He stood tall, blocking the dance floor from her sight, his sharp blue eyes cutting through the dim light with an intensity that made her pulse hitch. Without a word, he lifted a hand—palm open, an unspoken command.
"Dance with me."
The words felt like a challenge—less a request than an expectation. Scarlett blinked, startled, heart fluttering unevenly. She gripped her glass tighter, the cool surface grounding her. "I'd rather not."
His eyebrow rose, deliberate, unwavering. Scarlett had learned to read every flicker on his face—small shifts hidden in the way his jaw tensed or the faint tightening around his eyes. "That wasn't a request," he said quietly, voice low but ironclad.
Before she could summon a protest, his hand closed around hers, long fingers entwining with hers. The warmth of his grip was steady, insistent. His thumb brushed against the pulse at her wrist, deliberate and slow—a silent claim.
"Ethan, I—"
"Scarlett." His voice was softer now, almost a caress, thick like aged whiskey but edged with quiet authority. "It's just a dance."
She searched his face—no answer there, just calm control and something darker, a challenge or perhaps an invitation she wasn't ready to accept. A reluctant sigh escaped her lips, and she let herself be led.
Stepping onto the floor, the world around them blurred into a wash of sound and color. Ethan's hand settled possessively at the small of her back, fingers spreading wider than necessary, pulling her closer than the dance required. The shiver that raced down her spine was beyond her control.
His other hand found hers, firm but gentle. Their bodies brushed, close and warm—too close for strangers, fitting instead the mold of a married couple, even if their union was little more than a formality.
The waltz took over, and Scarlett found herself moving with surprising ease, slipping into the rhythm Ethan led with flawless confidence.
His steps were sure and precise, guiding her with subtle pressures, unspoken directions.
Beneath her touch, his strength was undeniable, his presence intoxicating in its controlled power.
As they spun through the dance, Scarlett's eyes lifted to meet his.
"Why did you do that earlier?" she murmured, voice barely above the music. "Act like the perfect husband... the protective one."
Ethan's hold didn't falter. His fingers pressed into the fabric of her dress, grounding them both. "Do what?" he asked softly, breathing warm near her cheek.
"Acting like it mattered—like you cared."
A flicker crossed his face, gone before she could read it. His mask slid back into place: calm, unreadable, but the tension in his jaw spoke louder than words.
"Because we have to," he said flatly. "To the world, we're a couple."
Scarlett let out a bitter laugh, the sound light but sharp. "Just an act. That's all it ever was."
He didn't reply, steering her through another turn with the same fluid precision—but his movements were stiffer now, less natural.
"Is that all it was to you?" Her gaze didn't waver, searching for any crack, any sign of something real beneath his cold exterior.
"An act." His voice was a single word, hard and final.
Something inside her deflated, a hope she hadn't known she held crumbling in an instant. She'd imagined—foolishly—that maybe his possessiveness was more than pretense. Instead, his indifferent answer sealed the truth.
"Of course." Her voice trembled, more vulnerable than she intended. "How could I expect anything else?"
Ethan's jaw tightened, the muscle twitching beneath his skin. His eyes sharpened, boring into hers like a challenge. Scarlett refused to look away, even as her heart thundered beneath her ribs.
"Tell me something," she whispered, voice low, intimate in the space between them. "Did you even think, for a moment, that maybe I didn't need your protection?"
His grip on her waist tightened just enough to remind her of his strength. "You shouldn't have to deal with men like him."
She tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly. "So you did it for me?"
His silence spoke volumes. The absence of words was its own answer.
Scarlett chuckled—dry, humorless. "No. You did it for yourself."
Darkness deepened in Ethan's gaze, dangerous and sharp. His fingers flexed possessively. "What exactly do you mean?"
"You didn't like seeing another man talk to me." Her voice was quiet but cutting, slicing through their dance like a knife.
He said nothing for a long moment, then leaned in, lips brushing close to her ear. The breath against her skin sent a jolt through her.
"Careful, Scarlett." His voice was velvet wrapped in warning. "Don't mistake obligation for something else."
Her throat tightened, breath caught. The intensity was overwhelming—threat and invitation tangled in every gesture. Yet she didn't retreat.
Pulling back just enough to meet his gaze head-on, she whispered firmly, "And you shouldn't mistake this marriage for something it's not."
The air between them crackled like static, electric and dangerous. Ethan's eyes darkened to stormy blue, smoldering with something fierce and unreadable. Scarlett held his stare, searching for a glimpse behind the mask—but found only controlled emptiness, a wall too high to scale.
Their movements remained seamless, flawless to any onlooker. But beneath the grace, tension pulled tight like a coiled spring. Ethan's hand lingered on her waist, his fingers sometimes tightening as if afraid she might slip away.
The music swelled around them—rich strings filling the space with unspoken emotion neither dared to name.
For a brief moment, Scarlett let herself get lost in it: the warmth of his hand, the effortless harmony of their bodies moving as one, the strange dissonance between physical closeness and emotional distance.
As the final notes drifted away, their steps slowed, bodies still close—closer now than at the start. Applause erupted, shattering the fragile spell.
Scarlett blinked, suddenly aware of the other couples, the watching eyes, the heat of Ethan's hand still resting on her back.
Her breath hitched as their gazes locked again—an unspoken exchange passing between them, charged and fleeting. The world grew loud around her, the sound of clapping fading into a pounding heartbeat.
She stepped back, breaking the spell, but before she could put distance, Ethan's grip closed around her wrist—strong enough to halt her, gentle enough to avoid pain. A shiver ran through her.
"Don't make it too obvious," he murmured, breathing warmly in her ear. "People are watching."
Scarlett froze, heart pounding like a caged bird. Time stretched taut between them, heavy with promise and threat.
Then, as suddenly as he caught her, his fingers trailed along her inner wrist—soft, fleeting—and released.
The ghost of his touch lingered, invisible and branded on her skin.
The evening blurred onward in a haze of polite chatter and obligatory smiles.
Ethan drifted through clusters of men, his tall frame commanding attention as he wove between groups, engaging in sharp, intense business discussions.
More than once, his eyes locked with Scarlett's across the room—brief, electric connections before he vanished again into the crowd.
Midnight chimed from an ornate grandfather clock, but the gala showed no signs of slowing. A few guests began to slip away, faces wearied by the endless social dance.
Scarlett felt exhaustion press into her bones, the weight of the day settling like lead. Her gaze drifted to Ethan—relaxed in posture, sharp in focus, hands moving as he emphasized a point to two older men.
Her shoulders sagged. The thought of waiting for him much longer made her want to sink into a chair and disappear.
As if summoned by her thoughts, a small group of women approached, their gowns whispering silk, jewelry sparkling under candlelight like stars caught in fabric.
"You should sit with us, dear," said one—a silver-streaked woman with kind eyes and a gentle accent. Her smile held warmth and understanding. "Those men? They love their long talks. Especially when they think they have someone to impress."
Laughter bubbled around Scarlett, soft and genuine, and for a moment the night felt less like a trap.
She settled into the circle, sipping a fresh glass of wine as conversations fluttered around her—faint snippets of gossip, shared jokes, and the quiet solidarity of women who knew the game all too well.
Her mind drifted back to the dance, to Ethan's touch, and the tangled web they both navigated.
Just as the comfort began to bloom, a sharp voice cut through the gentle murmur.
"Scarlett!"
Scarlett barely had time to register the call of her name when Ethan appeared beside her table. Tall, composed, and dressed in a dark tailored suit that seemed to absorb the room's light, he radiated that quiet, unshakable confidence that always preceded a shift in tone.
He didn't say much. Just extended a hand toward her, fingers relaxed but waiting.
"Scarlett. It's time to go."
The women around her fell silent, then chuckled softly, some murmuring appreciatively.
"You're a lucky one," said Marianne, eyes twinkling. "Most husbands wouldn't bother showing up at all."
"Or they'd be too busy talking business and pretending we don't exist," another added with a knowing smile.
Scarlett smiled politely, slipping her hand into Ethan's. His touch was firm, warm—but devoid of affection.
As he guided her through the crowd and toward the exit, the women's voices trailed after them like a curtain falling.
"That one's a keeper."
She wasn't sure whether it sounded like praise or prophecy.
______________
The door shut behind them with a soft click, isolating them from the noise and music. The car's interior was dim, smelling faintly of leather and something expensive. Scarlett adjusted her dress, her fingers tugging absently at the silk.
Ethan said nothing.
She glanced at him. He sat like a statue—gaze forward, one hand resting loosely on his thigh, the other scrolling through his phone. His jaw was clenched, the light from the screen sharpening the coldness in his features.
Scarlett exhaled slowly, then spoke. "You didn't need to come storming in like that."
His thumb continued swiping. "I didn't storm."
"You didn't even let me say goodbye."
"You'd had enough."
Her eyes narrowed. "You always decide that for me, don't you?"
At that, he looked up—briefly. "We were done."
Silence thickened between them, but she wasn't done. Not yet.
"They weren't that bad. I was just... talking."
"I didn't ask what you were doing," he said flatly.
Scarlett folded her arms across her chest. "Right. Because it doesn't matter."
He turned to face her fully now, tone calm, but clipped. "Scarlett, we weren't there for you to make friends."
Her breath caught. "So I'm just a decoration?"
His expression didn't change. "You're my wife. You're expected to be presentable and polite. That's all."
She stared at him, stunned by the cold bluntness. "You're unbelievable."
"You knew what this marriage was," he said, voice lower now. Not angry. Just final. "Don't pretend you didn't."
Scarlett laughed under her breath—short, bitter. "No. I just didn't realize how far that definition would stretch."
Ethan didn't reply. His gaze had already returned to the window. The conversation was over, even if her pulse was still pounding with words she hadn't said.
The car turned into the hotel's circular driveway. White columns. Marble steps. Everything grand and silent and expensive.
As the car stopped, Ethan stepped out without a glance at her. A moment later, her door opened—he'd walked around and waited, one hand extended, wordless and cool.
Scarlett hesitated. Then placed her hand in his once again.
But this time, it felt less like a gesture of unity and more like an obligation—like closing a deal neither of them had signed willingly.
They entered the lobby together.
Perfect posture. Perfect poise. Perfect strangers