54 - Under Glass Ceilings
The morning light filtered through the ivory chiffon curtains, casting ribbons of golden warmth across the hardwood floor.
Dust motes danced in the sunbeams, creating an almost ethereal atmosphere in the otherwise austere room.
Scarlett stirred slowly, her eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks as consciousness gradually reclaimed her.
The pillow beneath her head felt unusually firm yet comfortably warm.
A familiar scent—sandalwood and something distinctly masculine—filled her nostrils.
Her breath caught in her throat as realization dawned. This wasn't a pillow at all.
She was resting on Ethan's arm.
Her eyes flew open, horror and mortification flooding through her veins like ice water as she slept on the floor.
Scattered UNO cards surrounded them on the floor, evidence of their late-night fun session.
Scarlett sat up abruptly, her heart hammering against her ribs with such force she was certain he could hear it.
She quickly averted her gaze from his face, noticing the way his dark hair fell across his forehead in sleep, making him look almost boyish—a stark contrast to his usual intimidating demeanor.
"S-Sorry," she mumbled, her voice still thick with sleep.
She tucked a rebellious strand of auburn hair behind her ear, a nervous habit she'd never managed to break.
"I don't know when I fell asleep." Heat crept up her neck, spreading across her cheeks in a telltale flush that she desperately wished she could control.
Ethan, now awake and watching her through half-lidded eyes, stretched languidly.
A low, husky chuckle escaped his lips as he rubbed the back of his neck, the muscles in his forearm flexing with the movement.
The morning light caught the expensive watch on his wrist, sending prisms of light dancing across the ceiling.
"Why are you blushing now?" His voice was deeper than usual, rough with sleep, yet his sharp hazel eyes glinted with unmistakable amusement. The corner of his mouth quivered upward in that infuriatingly attractive half-smile that made her stomach perform gymnastics.
Scarlett felt her blush deepen to what must have been an alarming shade of crimson.
Without dignifying his comment with a response, she scrambled to her feet, nearly tripping over the coffee table in her haste.
She gathered her scattered belongings with trembling fingers, painfully aware of his gaze following her every movement.
"I need to get ready for work," she managed to say, her voice steadier than she felt, before fleeing the room with as much dignity as she could muster.
Ethan stared at her until she vanished. Looks like the ice between Ethan and Scarlett starts melting.
Ethan strode through the main entrance with purposeful steps, his tailored charcoal suit fitting his broad shoulders perfectly.
His mere presence commanded attention, causing conversations to falter and heads to turn.
The subtle power he exuded wasn't something he cultivated—it simply existed, as much a part of him as the sharp intelligence in his gaze.
His secretary, John greeted him with a knowing smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. Today's bow tie was a vibrant teal that somehow worked with his conservative navy suit.
"You're late today, Mr. Blackwood," John observed, extending a steaming cup of black coffee—no sugar, no cream, just as Ethan preferred. "Everything alright?" His tone suggested he already knew the answer, or at least thought he did.
Ethan accepted the coffee with a slight nod of thanks, taking a long sip before loosening his tie slightly. "Overslept," he replied simply, the words clipped and dismissive.
John's smile widened, crinkling the fine lines around his eyes. "Oh?" The single syllable carried a wealth of insinuation.
"What?" Ethan asked flatly, lifting his gaze just enough to pin John in place.
John didn't answer immediately. Instead, a slow, teasing look spread across his face—the kind that came from years of knowing Ethan far too well. His eyes flicked briefly to Ethan's loosened tie, the fractional delay in his arrival, the faint distraction still clinging to him.
"Nothing," John said lightly, though the word carried obvious implications. "Just wondering if everything's... settled at home." His smile deepened, unmistakably amused, clearly sensing something had shifted between the newly married couple.
Ethan snapped his head up. "Mind your business," he said sharply, the edge in his voice slicing clean through the air.
John didn't flinch. If anything, he looked more entertained. He raised both hands in surrender, the grin still firmly in place as he smoothly pivoted. "Of course. Strictly professional."
He shuffled the papers on his desk, tone instantly all business. "The Wellington account files are on your desk, and Ms. Pierce called twice about the Morgan proposal."
Ethan was already scanning the documents, listening.
"Also," John continued, "Ms. Catherine asked me to arrange a meeting with the design team immediately. She's with them now."
Ethan stopped.
He looked up slowly. "Is that so?"
John nodded. "She said she wanted to brief them on French styling and get to know the team."
Ethan rolled his eyes, already turning away, coffee in hand.
The click of his Italian leather shoes against the marble floor echoed in the corridor, creating a rhythm that matched the steady pace of his thoughts.
The conference room was already full when he arrived.
Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the city skyline, the morning sun glinting off neighboring skyscrapers.
Catherine stood at the head of the polished mahogany table, her platinum blonde hair swept into an immaculate chignon, not a strand out of place.
Her crimson lips curved into a smile when she saw Ethan, though it didn't quite reach her ice-blue eyes.
"Ethan, how kind of you to join us," she said, her voice honey-sweet with an undercurrent of steel. "We were just getting to the exciting part."
He nodded curtly and took his seat, noticing Scarlett sitting across the table.
She was studiously avoiding his gaze, her attention fixed on the notepad before her, pen poised above the page.
Her chestnut hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail, emphasizing the delicate curve of her jawline and the subtle flush that still colored her cheeks.
Catherine continued her presentation, her tone brisk and efficient as she laid out a series of marketing strategies and design concepts.
Slides flashed on the screen behind her, each one meticulously prepared with graphs, projections, and mockups.
"These preliminary designs have tested well with focus groups," she explained, gesturing to a sleek prototype displayed on the screen.
"We need a comprehensive proposal drafted based on these plans, incorporating all the design elements and market research we've discussed. "
Catherine's gaze didn't stop at the screen.
It slid—slow, deliberate—across the long conference table, past senior designers, past seasoned strategists, past people who had built proposals for years.
And then it landed.
Scarlett.
The room seemed to hold its breath.
"Scarlett," Catherine said smoothly, her voice sweet enough to sting. "I'd like you to handle that."
For half a second, Scarlett didn't move.
Then the pen slipped from her fingers.
The sound was sharp against the polished wood—too loud in the sudden silence. Heads turned. Eyes lifted. Scarlett felt the heat rush to her face as every gaze pinned her in place.
"Me?" The word barely escaped her lips, thin and disbelieving, like she was afraid it might shatter if spoken too loudly.
Catherine's lips curved, controlled and precise. A smile practiced in boardrooms and battlefields alike.
"Yes," she said calmly. "That won't be a problem, will it?"
Scarlett swallowed.
"But—" She straightened in her chair, forcing steadiness into her spine even as her pulse raced. "I work for the design team, Catherine."
A pause.
Then Catherine tilted her head, feigning curiosity. "So what?"
The dismissal was surgical.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't dramatic. It was worse—casual, effortless, as if Scarlett's concern didn't even qualify as an obstacle.
Scarlett's fingers tightened against the edge of the table. Her eyes flicked instinctively to Ethan.
Confusion flashed there. Unease. A silent what is happening? she didn't dare voice.
But Catherine saw it.
She always saw everything.
Around them, the room shifted. Someone leaned back, lips pressed thin. Another designer exchanged a look with a colleague—disappointment, discomfort, recognition. This wasn't about workload. This was placement. Exposure.
Ethan noticed it all.
The way Scarlett's shoulders stiffened.
The way Catherine's gaze lingered a beat too long.
The way the assignment landed like a trap dressed up as opportunity.
Before Scarlett could speak again—before she could defend herself, or even understand how she'd been cornered—Catherine gathered her tablet and stood.
"Well," she said lightly, already done. "That's all for now."
She dismissed the meeting with a flick of her manicured hand, as if swatting away something insignificant.
Chairs scraped softly as people rose. Murmurs rippled low and cautious. Catherine walked out with unhurried confidence, heels clicking against the floor, satisfaction visible in the elegant swing of her stride.
Scarlett remained seated.
Alone at the table.
The weight of the assignment settled over her like a spotlight she hadn't asked for—too bright, too exposed—while the door closed behind Catherine with a soft, decisive click.
And just like that, the game had begun.
Ethan's office was quiet in the way only power could afford.
The blinds were half-drawn, slicing the late afternoon light into narrow bands across his desk. He sat behind it, jacket draped over the chair, sleeves rolled up, eyes locked on an open file. Numbers. Projections. Anything but the echo of that conference room.
The knock came once.
"Come in."
Catherine entered without waiting for an invitation.
She closed the door behind her, the soft click deliberate. Her gaze moved over him—how he didn't look up, how his attention remained fixed on the file in front of him.
"Seems like you're busy," she said lightly.
Ethan flipped a page. "What do you want now?"
The bluntness made her pause, just briefly.
She recovered quickly.
"I wanted to talk about Scarlett," Catherine said, stepping closer. "About the proposal."
His pen stopped.
But he still didn't look at her.
"I gave her that responsibility because I wanted to see what she's capable of," Catherine continued. "She's talented. I thought she deserved a chance to prove it."
"This isn't a talent showcase," Ethan replied evenly. "This is business."
He turned another page. "I prefer experts doing expert work."
Catherine smiled. "She is an employee."
"But it's not her role."
"Is that your professional opinion," Catherine asked softly, "or your husband's?"
That did it.
Ethan finally lifted his eyes.
The look was sharp. Controlled. Dangerous.
"I told you," he said, voice low, "we have people trained for this."
Catherine met his gaze without blinking. "And I told you—I'm evaluating potential. Sometimes pressure reveals more than comfort."
She leaned forward, resting her palms lightly on his desk. "Besides... the team already noticed."
His jaw tightened.
"Noticed what?" he asked.
"That she's different," Catherine said calmly. "That she gets attention. That she gets opportunities others don't."
Her eyes flickered, calculating. "Perception matters, Ethan. Especially when someone shares your last name."
Silence stretched between them.
"You could've reassigned it," Catherine continued, almost gently. "You still can."
Ethan didn't answer.
"But you won't," she added. "Because if you do, it proves exactly what everyone's already whispering."
He stood slowly.
"If there's nothing important," he said coldly, "you should leave."
Catherine straightened, smoothing her jacket.
"Oh, I will," she said. Then she smiled—slow, deliberate. "I just hope she lives up to your confidence. Failure is... very visible at this level."
She turned and walked out, heels echoing down the corridor.
The door closed.
Ethan remained standing.
The file on his desk lay forgotten.
For the first time since the meeting, something unsettled flickered behind his eyes.
Because Catherine was right about one thing—
Scarlett was already being watched.
Scarlett sat at her desk, staring at the blinking cursor on her laptop like it might suddenly tell her what to do. The empty document felt heavier than it should—like it was waiting to swallow her whole.
But she can hear what other people are talking about her. Since she was the CEO's wife it took many days to make her inclusive in the team. But this incident made everything back to square one. People think that she got this opportunity since she was the boss's wife.
A half-empty coffee sat forgotten beside her, gone cold an hour ago.
She'd gone through the presentation slides three times already, highlighting details, jotting down notes, then crossing them out again.
Marketing metrics, design language, projected ROI—it all blurred together into one giant question mark.
Her fingers hovered above the keys.
You don't belong here.
The thought crept in without warning, soft and cruel. She shut her eyes, pressing her palms into them until little bursts of color popped in the dark.
The office had long since emptied, the silence broken only by the occasional hum of the climate control system and the soft tapping of her keyboard. The clock on her screen showed 8:37 PM—she'd been at it for over twelve hours.
Just as she was about to slam her laptop closed in defeat, the door creaked open, spilling light from the hallway into the dimly lit room. Scarlett turned, squinting against the sudden brightness, relief flooding through her when she recognized the tall silhouette standing in the doorway.
Ethan stood there, his tie gone, the top two buttons of his shirt undone. His expression was a mixture of surprise and something else—concern, perhaps? His sharp gaze swept the room before settling on her hunched form.
"What are you still doing here?" he asked, glancing at his platinum wristwatch, genuine puzzlement in his voice.
Scarlett exhaled heavily, her shoulders slumping as the facade of competence she'd been maintaining all day crumbled. Her hair had escaped its neat ponytail, wisps framing her face, and dark smudges beneath her eyes betrayed her exhaustion.
"Ethan..." she pleaded, her voice small and vulnerable in the quiet room. Her eyes, wide and desperate, met him across the space between them. "Can you please help me?" The two words contained all her frustration, her fear of failure, her determination not to let Catherine win.