51 - Before the Darkness Broke
Ethan didn't want to go to the office. He sat in the car longer than usual, one hand resting on the seat, the other loosely clutching his phone, though he wasn't looking at it.
The engine hummed softly in the silence.
When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a murmur.
"John, drive home."
John, his executive assistant for nearly a decade, looked up from the front passenger seat, blinking.
"Home, sir?" He glanced at the time on the dashboard.
"The London call is in 30 minutes. Want me to push it back?
"
Ethan didn't immediately answer. His eyes lingered on the entrance to the building ahead—all gleaming glass and steel—his hand still resting on the door handle like he wasn't quite sure whether to stay or bolt.
Then, almost inaudibly, he said, "Reschedule it.
"
John frowned, something unsettled flickering behind his eyes.
In nearly a decade, Ethan Blackwood had never postponed work without reason.
"Everything alright, sir?"
Ethan turned then—just enough for John to catch the fracture beneath the polish.
His expression remained controlled, unreadable.
.. but the exhaustion was there, seeping through the cracks.
"I just need a few hours."
That was all.
He stepped into the waiting black sedan, the door closing with a soft thud behind him.
John glanced back through the mirror, puzzled.
"Home, sir?"
Ethan nodded once, eyes fixed ahead.
"Yeah."
The city blurred past as the sedan glided through morning traffic, a blur of steel, glass, and motion.
But Ethan wasn't seeing any of it. He leaned back, head tilted slightly, one arm draped over the back of the seat.
His tie remained perfectly knotted, shirt crisp—but something about him was frayed.
Like a storm had passed through and left the structure standing, but gutted something inside.
His mind drifted backward.
Catherine.
She existed in sepia-toned memories now, golden and laughing under the summer sun.
Sixteen. Ridiculous cherry lip gloss that smelled like candy.
Notebooks covered in cut-out Vogue ads and ink sketches of dresses.
She used to dream out loud—Milan, boutiques, fashion weeks.
He used to dream about her.
He was just a boy then, all limbs and ambition, more invested in a perfect jump shot than Wall Street forecasts.
He'd climb into her bedroom window at midnight, sneakers in hand, just to watch old movies and talk about a future that felt tangible in her presence.
They made plans.
He remembered telling her he was going with her to Milan.
She'd launched herself into his arms, laughing, kissing him like forever was theirs to shape.
But then came the call.
His father.
Gone.
One moment flipping steaks in the backyard, telling stories with a beer in hand.
The next, collapsed on the patio. A heart attack, swift and merciless.
The funeral was a blur of pressed suits and silent tears.
The grief—raw, confusing, total.
Milan?
Forgotten.
Basketball? Pointless.
He had a mother who barely spoke for days.
A business that suddenly had his name attached to it.
A legacy that wrapped around his throat like a noose.
He asked Catherine to stay. Just for a while.
She couldn't.
Her voice was gentle when she said it, but it cut all the same.
"I can't give up my future, Ethan."
Three weeks later, she was gone.
No goodbye. No note. Just... absence.
And so he built walls. Brick by ruthless brick.
Late nights became normal. Work became an identity.
Emotion became inconvenient.
Until today.
Until she returned. All polished edges and professional grace, with those same eyes he used to lose himself in.
Something inside him shifted, like tectonic plates groaning beneath the weight of what was never said.
The penthouse greeted him in silence. The space was elegant, sterile.
Every piece of furniture is perfectly placed, every object expensive, every surface pristine.
A home designed by someone who understood aesthetics but had forgotten warmth.
He tossed his keys onto the marble credenza and walked toward the panoramic windows, the skyline glittering beyond.
Catherine faded, slipping back into memory.
Scarlett took her place.
Scarlett, with her quiet strength.
Her refusal to play the victim. The woman who married him not out of love, but necessity.
To save her father's failing company. To survive.
She never complained. Never played the martyr.
But he knew. He saw the sacrifices even when she tried to hide them behind perfectly painted smiles and composed boardroom speeches.
She never wanted this life either. But unlike Catherine, she stayed.
Ethan blinked. His reflection stared back at him from the window—sharp suit, tired eyes.
He turned away, unsettled.
Why was he comparing them?
The front door closed softly behind him at the estate.
A hush blanketed the marble floors. The only sound was the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock down the hall.
He loosened his tie, rolling his shoulders as he slipped off his jacket.
The day lingered on his skin like residue.
She was in the living room.
Scarlett.
Curled up on the leather sofa, one arm draped over the armrest, her copper hair tumbling over the side like a spill of molten gold.
Her eyes were closed. Peaceful. Or pretending.
Ethan didn't want to move away, stayed there for a moment.
After a pause he broke her silence.
"You said you had something else to do," he said, voice low as he stepped into the soft amber light moving towards her.
She didn't flinch. But her eyes opened on hearing his voice.
Her lips tugged into a faint smile, not quite mirthful.
"I changed my mind."
She sat up slowly, smoothing her skirt with graceful fingers.
A mask slipping into place.
He didn't respond, just turned and made his way toward the study.
Somehow, he knew she'd follow.
She did as always.
The study door creaked open a moment later.
Scarlett stepped inside, the scent of worn leather and cologne wrapping around her like a memory she didn't ask for.
Ethan was already seated, flipping through a file.
The lamplight threw shadows across his face, accentuating the sharp angles and the fatigue beneath his eyes.
She hesitated, then walked in. Her heels clicked against the wood, steady and deliberate.
"Looks like you came home early," she said, folding her arms as she leaned against the desk.
"Don't you have something to tell me, Ethan?
"
He glanced up, unfazed. "About what?
"
She held his gaze. "Catherine."
He leaned back slightly, brows arching.
"What about her?"
"Don't you know what I mean?
".
A flicker of amusement danced across his features.
"Are you asking if there's something going on between us?
"
She didn't blink. "Should I be?"
Ethan rose slowly, circling the desk with an almost lazy precision, stopping just in front of her.
"Why do you care?"
"Because people are noticing.
James mentioned it yesterday. And because, like it or not, we have a contract.
And that contract includes appearances."
Her voice was cool, but her hands gave her away—clenched slightly at her sides.
He noticed. Of course he did.
"Are you jealous, Scarlett?
"
She laughed, but it was hollow. "Hardly.
Just protecting my investment."
"Mm," he hummed, stepping closer.
"Right. Section four, paragraph three. I remember.
"
"Then remember this too," she said, planting her palm on his chest. "No more private meetings.
No more lingering looks. You're not allowed to be alone with other women.
"
"For the sake of our agreement?" he asked, voice low, laced with something unreadable.
"For the sake of your reputation. And mine.
"
He searched her face, his expression softening just slightly.
"There's nothing going on with Catherine," he said.
"Not now. Not anymore."
She watched him, skeptical.
Then, softly: "Is that the truth?"
"Yes.
"
Ethan studied her. That fierce fire in her eyes, the catch in her voice.
His smile was slow, tinged with something he didn't want to name.
"Is that what this is?" he asked softly.
"Contract enforcement?"
Before she could reply, the lamp beside them flickered—then went out, plunging the room into sudden darkness.
Scarlett's breath caught.
Ethan didn't move.
Neither of them did.
The silence that followed was heavier than the dark—thick with something unspoken.
Something is shifting.
Something dangerous.