56 - Deals and Desires
The subtle, drifting scent of jasmine from Scarlett's diffuser curled through the office like a secret, wrapping around her in quiet insistence.
It mingled with the rich, nutty aroma of freshly brewed coffee, layering the morning air with something intimate, almost conspiratorial.
Sunlight spilled across the polished mahogany desk in jagged, golden shards, catching the grain as if it had its own story to tell—stories of decisions made, power wielded, and lives balanced on the edge of a pen.
Scarlett sank into her ergonomic chair, the Italian leather cool against the silk of her blouse.
She closed her eyes for a heartbeat, letting herself inhale deeply, letting the tension in her shoulders unravel just enough to remember how to exist without always bracing.
Just breathe, she told herself. Just this.
Her fingers drifted over the desk, trailing across the smooth wood like she was searching for something to tether her to reality.
Then, with a deliberate flick of her wrist, she opened her laptop.
The startup chime rang—soft, precise, yet impossibly loud in the hush of the office.
Scarlett's heart skipped a beat, echoing in the quiet.
There it was.
The proposal.
Her breath hitched—a faint, sharp hitch that made her pulse drum in her ears. She leaned forward, emerald eyes narrowing, drinking in the screen. Every projection gleamed, every strategy sharpened to a lethal edge. Sleek. Perfect. Untouchable.
Her fingers hovered, then drifted down to trace the outline of the document. The memory of last night—her scattered notes, the half-formed ideas, the sleepless exhaustion clawing at her focus—rose unbidden, sharp and raw. And now... it was whole.
Ethan.
She didn't have to ask. No one else could have wrought order from chaos, no one else could have whispered logic and precision into her scattered thoughts. A quiet warmth kindled in her chest, threading through her ribs. Her lips curved, soft, secret, tinged with awe and disbelief.
Impulsively, she grabbed her phone. Fingers trembling with a cocktail of nerves and anticipation, she typed: Thanks for completing the proposal.
Across the building, Ethan sat in his corner office, glass walls framing a panorama of the city humming below.
Silence pressed against him, sharp, suffocating.
The message lit up his phone, and for a fleeting fraction of a second, the tension coiling in his jaw loosened, a breath he hadn't realized he was holding slipping out.
Not a smile, not really—but the faintest ghost of one tugged at his lips, quick and restrained. That was all he allowed himself.
Then he locked the phone and set it aside. No reply.
Back in Scarlett's office, Linda lounged in the plush visitor chair, one leg crossed over the other, tablet in hand. Pretending to review the schedule, of course. But Scarlett felt the eyes—quiet, precise, tracking every flicker, every twitch of thought.
"Okay," Linda said, setting her tablet down, leaning forward. Her voice dropped, sharp with curiosity. "Spill it. And don't even try to tell me it's the coffee. I've seen your coffee face. That was not a coffee face."
Scarlett blinked, lips parting, caught off guard. She straightened, smoothing her expression into professional armor. "It's nothing." She reached for the printed proposal, sliding it into her leather portfolio like it was a shield.
Linda arched a brow, sharp, teasing. "Right. Nothing. Just you sitting there with that kind of smile—the one usually reserved for candlelit dinners or surprise weekends in Paris. Let me guess... someone left you a rose?"
Scarlett exhaled, a laugh slipping through cheeks impossibly warm. She tucked a lock of chestnut hair behind her ear, trying to quell the heat creeping across her face. "He helped me. Ethan. He... finished the proposal."
Linda's gasp was theatrical, exaggerated.
"No. Way. Ethan? Ethan—the glacier? Mr. Ice-in-his-veins?
" Her grin widened, sharp as polished metal.
"That man terrifies junior execs with a glance and hasn't done a favor since the market crash of '08.
And you're telling me he helped you? Out of the kindness of his terrifying little heart? "
Scarlett rolled her eyes, biting back a smile. "I asked him. He didn't volunteer."
Linda leaned forward, fingers laced beneath her chin, eyes sparkling. "Oh, honey. You don't ask Ethan and get this unless he wants to give it. Face it. He's falling for you."
Scarlett rose, brushing an invisible speck from her skirt. "Shut up."
Linda's grin lingered. "Not denying it, though."
"I have to bring this to Catherine," Scarlett said, gathering herself, lifting the portfolio like armor.
Linda's smile sharpened into warning. "Good luck. That woman could smell blood in the Mariana Trench."
Scarlett paused at the door, nodded, then her heels clicked against the marble floor—a staccato countdown to the storm awaiting.
Catherine looked up as Scarlett entered, her ice-blue gaze slicing through the room. The office was stark—sharp lines, muted tones, not a single trace of softness.
Scarlett stepped forward, poised. "The Morgan acquisition proposal."
Catherine's crimson-tipped fingers lifted the folder, flipping through with meticulous slowness. Eyes scanning, lips pursed, a twitch betraying something beneath the frost.
Then silence fell, stretching, measuring.
"You did this?" Her voice snapped, brittle, like ice cracking underfoot.
Scarlett met her gaze, unblinking. "Yes."
Catherine tapped a single nail against the page. Once. Twice. Then, wordless, she rose. Chair scraping back with muted thud, proposal in hand. She turned on her heel and swept from the office, leaving a cold vacuum in her wake. Scarlett froze, the chill lingering like the echo of a storm's passing.
Ethan didn't look up when the door opened. He didn't need to. The atmosphere shifted, subtle, almost imperceptible—the kind that prickled at the back of your neck before a storm broke.
"What now, Catherine?" His voice low, flat, contained. Controlled.
A thick slap broke the silence—the proposal landing on his desk, Catherine's hand over it, fingers splayed like claws marking territory.
"Don't insult me," she snapped, brittle fury coiling beneath restraint. "You helped her, didn't you?"
His jaw tightened, a muscle flicking beneath stubble. "Yes."
A sharp, humorless laugh cut through the sleek office, bouncing off the glass walls like shards of ice. "You actually did it," Catherine said, voice low, cold, amused. "I almost... almost respect your nerve."
Ethan didn't move. Didn't flinch. Fingers resting lightly on the desktop, precise, controlled. Cold eyes lifted to meet hers—unblinking, unyielding, a silent challenge etched in steel.
Catherine's heels whispered across the polished floor as she circled him, predator and panther in perfect rhythm.
"You built this empire with grit. No shortcuts.
No weak links," she said, voice sharp as glass.
"And now you're letting someone else play with the keys—someone who doesn't even know which locks to open. "
"She's not someone," Ethan said, measured, deliberate, jaw tight, voice low but unshakable. "She's my wife."
The words landed like a hammer. Catherine's smirk twitched, a flash of calculation flickering behind ice.
"Your wife," she echoed, mockery curling around the syllables. "Convenient, isn't it? Strategic even. But let's be honest... you didn't marry her for love. Don't pretend."
Ethan's hands curled into fists on the desktop, knuckles whitening against the oak. Silence stretched, taut, electric.
Catherine leaned in slightly, breath brushing his temple—a subtle invasion, a provocation. Then she straightened, crimson nails tapping the wood as she slid a card across his desk. Sleek. Cold. Deliberate.
"Anyway, I just shared the proposal with Richard," she said, letting the name hang like a blade in the air.
"He seems... quietly impressed. So I told him that Scarlett will meet him and made him sign the deal.
Let's see if she's... prepared. But he leaves tomorrow," her eyes gleamed, sharp and merciless.
"If she can't handle it, maybe you need my help. "
Ethan's gaze dropped to the card, jaw tightening. Richard. Ruthless. The type of man who dismantled careers with a flick of a pen. Pride battled protectiveness, but he stayed still, letting Catherine leave, letting her smirk linger in the air.
Not a word. Not a summons. Not yet.
Minutes later, Scarlett entered, portfolio in hand, alert, poised. Catherine was gone—but the card lay there, sleek, daring her to touch it. Her pulse jumped as her eyes fell on it.
Fingers hovering, hesitation gripping her. The name printed in bold, clean letters coiled her stomach: Richard. She had heard whispers—the boardroom predator, ruthless and exacting.
Chest tightening, anxiety flaring. Only one day in town. Tomorrow... gone.
She looked up. Ethan leaned against the edge of the desk, unreadable. Calm, cold, measured. A silent tether, a subtle warning: this was hers to face.
Scarlett's hand closed over the card. Heart hammering, mind racing. Every instinct screamed caution. Every muscle poised. This wasn't a simple assignment—it was a test. Her first step into the storm Catherine had set in motion.
Glancing at Ethan, searching, questioning—his expression gave nothing away. The tension between them crackled, charged with something magnetic, dangerous.
Breathing deep, Scarlett straightened, chin lifted, turning toward the door. Heels clicked across the floor like gunshots in the quiet office—each step a declaration: she would face this challenge. Alone, for now.
Outside, the skyscraper gleamed under morning sun, steel slicing into sky, mirroring the ambition and danger inside. Scarlett paused, meeting her own reflection—calm surface, storm contained within. She clutched the card, Richard's name burning in her mind.
The lobby stretched cathedral-like, sunlight striking the marble in geometric shards. Espresso, leather, and metallic tang of air conditioning filled her senses.
Linda hovered nearby, quiet reassurance in stance. Scarlett gave a brief nod. You've got this.
Heels clicking, she approached the reception desk, fingers poised, voice sharp.
"I need to meet the CEO," she commanded.
The receptionist's fingers danced, paused, gaze cool, indifferent. "Do you have an appointment?"
"Yes. Under Blackwood Enterprises."
A beat. Frown. "I'm sorry, Miss. Nothing scheduled under that name. CEO meets visitors by appointment only." Velvet. Final. Like a drawn rope.
Scarlett's throat tightened. Anxiety slithered up her spine. She glanced at Linda, helpless shrug. Pull it together.
She dialed, fingers trembling. Voice sharp: "Catherine. Under what name did you book the appointment for Richard?"
A chuckle. "I never said I booked one."
"What?"
"Mr. Richard doesn't meet anyone without an appointment," Catherine added sweetly. "Hope you enjoy the wait." Line dead.
Scarlett's chest burned, slow, hot, sharp. Eyes flicking everywhere. She opened her mouth—then a voice cut through the hum of the lobby.
"Scarlett?"
Time stuttered. The world narrowed to that single syllable—low, warm, familiar. Breath snagged, heart stuttering.
She knew that voice.
And just like that, everything changed.