46 - Cooked for him
The office felt less like a workplace and more like a cathedral built to worship power.
Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across the far wall, framing the city in late-morning brilliance. Glass towers pierced the sky like monuments to ambition, sunlight glinting off steel and concrete. Everything below looked smaller from up here—people reduced to motion, problems reduced to scale.
At the center of it all stood Ethan Blackwood's desk.
A slab of polished obsidian, dark and unforgiving, positioned with ruthless precision to command both the room and the view beyond it.
To the right, sleek leather chairs formed an intimate cluster—designed for negotiation, persuasion, control.
To the left, a long conference table extended beneath a minimalist chandelier, every chair aligned with military discipline.
Nothing here was accidental. Nothing here was soft.
Scarlett stopped just inside the doorway.
Her fingers tightened instinctively around the leather strap of her portfolio, knuckles whitening as the scent of citrus cleaner, new leather, and expensive cologne filled her lungs. The room was brighter now. Cleaner. Transformed.
But the ghosts were still here.
This—this—was where her life had tilted on its axis. Where ink on paper had turned into a gilded cage. Where Ethan Blackwood had calmly rewritten her future with a contract disguised as salvation.
Her gaze lifted.
Ethan sat behind the desk, sunlight spilling over his broad shoulders, crowning him in gold like a monarch on a throne he had built himself.
His fingers moved across his laptop with ruthless efficiency, jaw set, brow furrowed in concentration so sharp it bordered on violence. He looked untouchable. Unmoved.
For one irrational second, she wondered if he even knew she was there.
Then his eyes lifted.
The impact was immediate—precise, unnerving. His gaze locked onto hers with surgical accuracy, as if he had sensed her presence long before she crossed the threshold. There was no surprise in his expression. No warmth. Just awareness. Calculation.
The silence between them stretched, thick with history. With things they had never said. With things they never could.
"Are you going to stand there all day," he asked at last, his voice smooth and low, edged with authority, "or are you coming in?"
Scarlett drew in a slow breath, steadying herself. She stepped forward, heels echoing against marble like punctuation marks in a sentence neither of them wanted to finish.
"You didn't mention the renovation."
One corner of his mouth lifted. Barely. "You didn't ask."
She bit back a retort, refusing to let him steer the moment. Instead, she let her gaze sweep the room again—anchoring herself, reminding herself she belonged here just as much as he did.
"So," she said evenly, "this is where I'll be working?"
"Not quite."
Ethan leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, studying her with deliberate nonchalance. "Your office is on the design floor."
His eyes didn't leave her face. "I hope you're ready to work."
Scarlett straightened, shoulders squaring as defiance sparked in her chest. "I hope you're ready for me."
There it was.
That flicker in his eyes—too quick to name, too dangerous to linger on. Surprise, perhaps. Or approval. It vanished before she could be sure.
He pressed a button on his desk.
"John," he said calmly, "please show Mrs. Blackwood to the design department."
"Right away, sir."
Ethan's attention returned to his screen, dismissal delivered without ceremony.
Scarlett stood there a moment longer, a dozen words pressing against her tongue. But the soft knock at the door stole the opportunity.
John entered with an easy smile, warmth radiating from him like a welcome she hadn't realized she needed. "Mrs. Blackwood? If you'll follow me."
She cast one last glance at Ethan.
He didn't look up.
"Scarlett."
She paused, spine stiffening. "Yes?"
"Don't disappoint me."
His tone was flat. Not a threat. Not encouragement.
A fact.
She met his gaze, lifting her chin, a cool smile curving her lips. "I wouldn't dream of it."
The hallway mirrored the office above—clean lines, architectural elegance, quiet confidence. Sunlight filtered through glass walls as John walked beside her, pointing out departments and amenities with easy familiarity.
"The building was fully renovated over the past six months," he explained. "Mr. Blackwood acquired it specifically for his expansion into fashion."
Scarlett nodded slowly, pieces sliding into place. "So he planned this before the... marriage?"
John's glance was brief. Knowing. "Yes, Mrs. Blackwood. This has been in motion for quite a while."
They stopped before a glass-walled conference room. Inside, a half-dozen people leaned over a sleek table, hands moving, voices animated with creative energy.
John's voice softened. "If I may say so—it's refreshing to have you here. Mr. Blackwood's ventures always succeed, but this one could benefit from someone with your perspective."
Something warm unfurled in her chest. She smiled, the tension in her shoulders easing just a fraction.
"Thank you, John," she said softly. "But please—call me Scarlett."
John let out a light chuckle, shaking his head, his eyes crinkling with good-natured apology.
"I'm afraid I can't do that," he said. "Not when you're my boss's wife."
Then, with a polite gesture toward the glass-walled room, his professionalism settled back into place. "Now—let me introduce you."
The door swung open.
Conversation died instantly.
"Everyone," John announced, "this is Mrs. Scarlett Blackwood. She'll be joining the design team effective immediately."
Scarlett stepped inside, pulse skittering beneath her skin as every gaze turned toward her. Curious. Polite. Guarded.
Names followed—Marcus. Sophia. Daniel. Elise. Vincent. Isabel.
She nodded to each, committing faces to memory.
Then the door opened again.
The temperature dropped.
Ethan entered like a storm contained in tailored navy wool. His suit fit him like armor, posture radiating authority so absolute it silenced even the hum of the building. He moved to the head of the table without pause, without hesitation.
"This company runs on discipline," he said. "We have twelve weeks until the preview event. Twenty until full launch. Every deadline will be met. Every standard will be exceeded."
His gaze swept the room—and stopped on Scarlett for half a second too long.
"You'll be working closely with the team."
And then he turned and walked out.
The door closed behind him with quiet finality.
Scarlett exhaled slowly.
The air had changed. Bodies stiffened. Expressions shifted.
She had become something else now.
A complication.
So she smiled.
"Please don't treat me like the CEO's wife," Scarlett said lightly, lifting her hands in a small, disarming gesture. "I have a fashion design degree and a real passion for this. Let's focus on what matters—the work."
She paused, then added with a wry smile, "And if it helps, I promise I'm far more likely to argue about fabric weights than boardroom politics."
A few shoulders eased. Marcus let out a short breath of a laugh before he could stop himself.
"Fair enough," he said, folding his arms. "What's your background, exactly?"
"Luxury ready-to-wear," Scarlett replied without hesitation. "My thesis focused on sustainable textiles in high-end tailoring. I'm especially interested in how structure can soften movement—how power can still feel wearable."
Sophia's eyes flicked up from her tablet, interest sparking despite herself. "You worked with recycled silks?"
"And organic wool blends," Scarlett said, warmth creeping into her voice now that she was on familiar ground. "They behave beautifully if you respect them. Fight them, and they punish you."
That earned a small, knowing smile from Sophia.
Isabel shifted in her seat, clearly torn between nerves and curiosity. "Do you... sketch by hand or digitally?"
"Both," Scarlett said. "Hand sketches for emotion. Digital for precision. I can show you some drafts later if you want."
Isabel's smile was quick but genuine. "I'd like that."
Marcus nodded slowly. "Alright then," he said, tapping the table once. "Let's talk silhouettes. The preview needs a statement piece."
Scarlett exhaled quietly, tension loosening in her shoulders.
The nods that followed weren't just polite anymore.
They were cautious—but open.
And for the first time since she'd stepped into the room, Scarlett felt the smallest crack in the wall begin to form.
By lunchtime, the distance was undeniable.
When Scarlett entered the cafeteria, the hum of conversation dipped—just slightly. Enough to notice. Enough to sting.
She gathered her tray in silence. Grilled vegetables. Soup. Bread.
She chose a table by the windows.
Alone.
Across the room, laughter bloomed—Isabel and Sophia, Marcus animated, Daniel nodding along. Not exclusion. Not cruelty.
Caution.
Scarlett stirred her soup, appetite draining with each passing minute. The clink of cutlery, the scent of coffee, the blur of voices all faded into white noise.
She hadn't come here to make friends.
But isolation was a bitter companion.
The day ended better than it began.
Progress was made. Ideas flowed. Respect—earned, if not yet freely given.
"Heading out?" Marcus asked as she packed her things.
She smiled. "It's been a day."
"You did well," he said simply. "You've got talent."
Her chest warmed. "Thank you."
Outside, her car waited. Thomas opened the door, and she sank into the plush leather, exhaustion seeping into her bones as the city blurred past.
At the mansion, silence greeted her.
She went to the kitchen.
Cooking dinner wasn't submission.
It was a bridge.
She sent the message to Ethan before she could second-guess herself.
Come over for dinner.
Then she cooked.
The front door creaked open as she set the final plate.
Ethan paused in the doorway, jacket draped over one arm, tie loosened. His gaze swept the table. The food. Her.
"You're just in time," she said, nerves threading her voice.
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then he nodded—and walked toward his study.
Her heart dipped.
But later, he came back.
They sat across from each other.
He ate.
And when he said thank you, the way her face lit up did something dangerous to him.
Once alone in his study, Ethan leaned back in his chair, his fingers pressing against his temple.
He exhaled slowly, staring at the ceiling as an unfamiliar weight settled in his chest. Scarlett.
She was everywhere—in his office, in his home, in his thoughts.
And worst of all, she was slipping past the defenses he had spent years fortifying.
Ethan prided himself on his control. Emotions were distractions, attachments were weaknesses, and kindness often came at a cost. He had built his life around discipline and ruthlessness, ensuring that nothing and no one could shake him.
Yet, somehow, without even trying, Scarlett was unraveling the very foundation of his existence.
She wasn't supposed to matter. Their marriage was nothing more than a contract—a necessity to maintain his family's legacy. She should have been just another obligation, another task to manage. But from the moment she stepped into his world, she had refused to play by the rules he had set.
Scarlett was... different.
She carried warmth like it was stitched into her very being.
She smiled too easily, laughed too freely, and treated people with a sincerity that was utterly foreign to him.
She didn't try to command respect with power or status—she simply earned it by being herself.
And people gravitated toward her because of it.
Ethan had seen it today. The way the employees had relaxed around her, the way she had dissolved their hesitation with just a few words. How was it so effortless for her? How could she connect with people so easily when he had spent his whole life keeping them at a distance?
And then, there was tonight.
He had fully intended to ignore her dinner invitation, to shut her out like he always did.
But when he had seen her sitting there, alone at the dining table, something inside him had shifted.
Maybe it was the way her shoulders had slumped just slightly, or how she had quietly eaten the meal she had so carefully prepared.
Maybe it was the sheer contrast between them—her openness and his cold detachment.
Whatever it was, it had made his feet move before he could stop himself.
Sitting across from her, watching her expression flicker between surprise and cautious hope, he had felt something stir in him. It was unfamiliar, unsettling. And yet, it wasn't entirely unwelcome.
Then, he tasted the food. It had been good—delicious, even—but it wasn't just the flavor that caught him off guard. It was the fact that someone had cooked for him. Not out of duty or expectation, but because she had wanted to.
And he had told her so.
The words had left his mouth before he could think better of it, and the way her face had lit up in response had made something tighten in his chest. A simple 'thank you' shouldn't have affected him, but it did. Because Scarlett wasn't used to his praise. She wasn't expecting kindness from him.
And maybe that was the problem.
Maybe, deep down, he didn't want her to stop expecting it. Maybe he didn't want her to give up on him, even when he had done everything to keep her at arm's length.
Ethan clenched his jaw, running a hand through his hair. This wasn't supposed to happen. He wasn't supposed to feel this pull toward her, wasn't supposed to care if she smiled at him or if she felt hurt by his distance.
But he did.
And that terrified him.
Because if Scarlett could break through his carefully built walls this easily, what else was she capable of? Would she make him want things he had long since buried? Would she make him question the cold, lonely existence he had accepted as his reality?
And worst of all—would he be able to stop her?
Ethan scoffed under his breath, shaking his head. It didn't matter. He wouldn't allow himself to become vulnerable, not even to her. She might have cracked his armor tonight, but he would reinforce it. He had to.
Because if he didn't...
He might not want to be cold anymore.
And that was a risk he wasn't sure he was ready to take.