42 - The Honeymoon Ends
The gravel crunched beneath the tires of the sleek black sedan as it wound up the long driveway toward the Blackwood estate. Evening sunlight gilded the treetops, casting fractured shadows over the windshield, but inside the car, the air was weighted and still.
Scarlett sat rigid in the passenger seat, her hands folded neatly in her lap, resisting the urge to fidget.
The return from their honeymoon had passed in silence thick enough to choke on.
No laughter, no idle chatter—just the low hum of the engine and the unspoken tension vibrating between her and Ethan.
She stole a glance at him. Ethan's profile could've been carved from stone—sharp jaw, steel-gray eyes fixed on the road ahead, lips pressed in a line that said everything he didn't. He wore his suit like armor, the platinum wedding band on his finger glinting unnaturally in the light, a foreign object on a man who seemed too controlled for sentiment.
His fingers tapped once against his lips, a restless, unconscious motion that betrayed his otherwise calm fa?ade.
She'd seen flickers of warmth during their time away—a laugh over fresh seafood by candlelight, the way his hand lingered at the small of her back while guiding her off a boat, a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes when he didn't think she was looking.
But they were only that—flickers. Sparks.
And just as quickly as they'd appeared, they'd vanished behind that smooth, impenetrable exterior he wore so well.
The mansion came into view, rising from the manicured estate like something out of a gothic novel. Grand. Imposing. Cold.
Ethan parked beneath the columned portico and cut the engine. For a long moment, he didn't move. He stared straight ahead, hands still gripping the wheel like it was the only stable thing in his world. Scarlett waited for him to speak, to acknowledge her, to acknowledge anything.
Finally, he murmured, voice flat and almost inaudible, "We are back home."
It wasn't sweet.
Before she could respond, her phone chimed. She dug into her purse, grateful for the interruption. Her mother's name lit the screen.
Ethan glanced at it, then gave a dismissive wave. "Go ahead. I'll have Bernard bring in the luggage."
He pushed open his door and stepped out without waiting for a reply.
Scarlett answered the call as she emerged into the brisk air. "Mom, hi."
"Scarlett, darling!" Her mother's voice burst from the phone, warm and uncontainable. "We've been dying to hear about the honeymoon! Was it magical? Did you eat that ridiculous seafood tower?"
Scarlett stepped into the grand foyer, heels clicking against Italian marble, the scent of lemon polish and antique wood enveloping her.
She tucked a copper strand of hair behind her ear and forced a smile.
"It was lovely. The ialands were stunning—crystal-clear water, picture-perfect weather. We got some much-needed rest."
The lie tasted bitter on her tongue.
There was a rustle on the other end of the line, followed by her father's voice. "And Ethan?" His voice carried the gruff edge of protective skepticism. "He is treating you right?"
Scarlett's gaze lifted. Across the open-plan living room, Ethan stood at the bar.
His back to her, he poured whiskey into a crystal tumbler with surgical precision, as if the simple act required all his attention.
The setting sun spilled through the tall windows, casting his silhouette in sharp relief against the gleaming floors and curated decor.
"Yes, Dad," she said, carefully modulating her voice. "Everything's... fine."
She hesitated. "The merger—I mean, the marriage—is going as planned."
The slip made her wince.
Her parents continued, chirping away about family dinners and gallery invitations, asking surface-level questions she answered with pre-rehearsed ease.
She spoke about the food, the excursions, the sunsets.
Not a word about the icy silence, the emotional whiplash, the creeping dread that the man she married wasn't the man she imagined.
"We're just so proud of you," her mother gushed. "You saved our family darling."
Scarlett's smile faltered as her fingers clenched slightly around her phone.
Another call buzzed in—Linda. The screen flashed insistently.
"Sorry, Mom. Boutique emergency. I'll call you tonight. Love you."
She switched calls. "Linda?"
"Scarlett!" Linda's voice came sharp and panicked. "I need you—now. The decorators are stalling, the fabric vendor needs a decision on the silk order, and I have no idea how to handle the media walkthrough reschedule. Please tell me you can come."
Scarlett didn't hesitate. "I'll be there in an hour."
She turned toward the stairs, mentally cataloging what to wear, what files to grab—
"Where are you going?"
The voice stopped her mid-step. It was low, casual—but the kind of casual that bristled with warning.
She turned slowly. Ethan leaned against the mahogany bar, one hand curled around his glass, the other tucked into his slacks. He looked relaxed. His eyes told another story entirely.
"I'm going to work," she said, lifting her chin.
He set his glass down with deliberate care. The crystal clink echoed.
"You're not going to work."
Her brows knit. "Excuse me?"
"You're my wife now, Scarlett." He took a slow step forward. "Do you really think people will take me seriously if you're managing... some boutique?" He said the word like it was a disease.
Scarlett blinked, stunned by the sheer audacity.
"Ethan," she said carefully, "fashion isn't a hobby. It's what I've worked for—schooled for—scraped for. I didn't marry you to erase myself."
He moved closer, slow and steady. "You don't need to work. You'll have everything you want, right here." He gestured vaguely to the opulence around them—the marble floors, the art, the curated life.
She let out a bitter laugh. "Everything you think I want."
Something in her cracked. She took a step toward the stairs. "I'm going. I don't need your approval Ethan."
His hand shot out and caught her wrist—not hard, not enough to bruise, but enough to remind her he could.
"You'll regret this," he said quietly.
Scarlett looked him dead in the eye. "We'll see."
She yanked her arm free and marched to the door, grabbing her keys from the crystal bowl. The heavy front door slammed shut behind her like a punctuation mark.
By the time she pulled into the modest strip mall where the boutique stood, her pulse still thrummed in her ears. She took a long breath in the driver's seat, knuckles white against the wheel, adrenaline coursing through her.
The sun cast the storefront in a warm, fading glow. Above the door, the half-installed sign gleamed: Scarlett's Designs. Almost there. Almost real.
Linda paced in front of the building, phone to her ear, gestures frantic.
Something was wrong.
Scarlett stepped out. Linda spotted her instantly, ended the call, and rushed over. Her ponytail was unraveling, makeup smudged, panic radiating off her in waves.
"Scarlett!" she gasped. "We're being kicked out. The whole building was sold—new owners want us out immediately. The landlord tried calling you—"
"What?" Scarlett staggered slightly.
Linda nodded furiously, tears in her eyes. "All our inventory, the renovations, the cutting table—he said there's nothing he can do."
Scarlett whipped out her phone and dialed the landlord. Her hand trembled.
"Scarlett," Mr. Anderson answered, sounding genuinely regretful. "I've been trying to reach you."
"We have a five-year lease," she snapped. "You can't just—"
"I know. I'm sorry. The offer was too good. I tried negotiating your stay under the new ownership, but they refused."
"Who bought it?" Her voice dropped.
Silence. Then, reluctantly: "Blackwood Enterprises."
A chime. Scarlett heard the name correct. Her heart dropped as she heard the buyer's name.
Her breath hitched.
"Scarlett?" Linda asked, voice trembling. "Who bought the building?"
Scarlett stared ahead, fury blooming in her chest like wildfire.
"My husband," she said, voice cold and flat.
She turned, stormed to her car.
"Scarlett, wait! What are you going to do?"
Scarlett slammed the door shut. "Go to war."
The engine roared to life.
As she peeled out of the lot, tires screeching, her rage crystallized into something sharp, deliberate, and dangerous.
The honeymoon wasn't just over.