60 - Where she Stood Alone
The pool party had been nothing short of opulent—an indulgent swirl of champagne bubbles, string quartets over thudding basslines, and laughter that spilled like confetti across the glittering surface of the hotel's infinity pool.
As twilight deepened into night, the city lights blinked to life beyond the grand windows of the Blackwood Hotel, a kaleidoscope of color shimmering beneath the stars barely visible above the urban glow.
Inside, the grandeur continued. The hotel's marbled lobby stretched beneath towering ceilings, where gilded chandeliers cast a honeyed light that danced across polished floors and mirrored the slow movement of evening gowns and leather dress shoes.
The scent of chlorine still clung faintly in the air, mingling with notes of citrus perfume, cold champagne, and the underlying musk of exhaustion.
The last guests had trickled out, their laughter fading into the warm night as uniformed staff moved like shadows, collecting crystal flutes and wilting floral centerpieces.
At the center of the lobby, beneath an extravagant arrangement of orchids and hydrangeas the size of a small car, stood Scarlett and Ethan Blackwood.
Scarlett shifted her weight subtly, the silk of her black dress whispering against her skin.
The dress—cut to perfection—clung to her frame like it had been poured on, and though her hair had started to unravel from its formal twist, the few strands now framing her face only softened her polished composure.
Her lips, painted in a muted rose, were slightly parted as she spoke.
"Should we leave?" she asked, her voice low and smooth, a contrast to the echo of distant clinking glasses. She glanced at the delicate gold watch on her wrist, brows arching just slightly.
Ethan didn't get a chance to answer.
The sharp, deliberate staccato of heels striking marble interrupted the quiet, slicing through it like a knife through fondant. Scarlett knew the rhythm before she even looked. She didn't need to turn—she could feel it. That unmistakable shift in air pressure, like a storm drawing near.
Catherine.
She approached with the slow elegance of someone well-aware of every eye in the room.
Her crimson gown shimmered like liquid fire, cut scandalously low at the back, hugging curves that Scarlett suspected had been enhanced more by intent than nature.
Each step was calculated. Purposeful. A performance choreographed for one man's attention.
"Lovely party, Ethan," Catherine purred, her voice all velvet and danger. "Wasn't it just divine?"
Her eyes—heavily lined and feline—locked onto his with brazen familiarity, lips curving into that too-practiced smirk. It was a smile that had razored edges, and yet people always mistook it for charm.
Ethan's jaw tensed. His hand, resting loosely at his side, twitched before he placed it lightly on Scarlett's lower back. The gesture was subtle—so subtle it might've passed unnoticed. But not to Scarlett.
"Successful," he said, nodding once. His voice was even, but there was a thread of steel running through it, as if he was holding something back. "Everything went according to plan."
Catherine's gaze shifted, sweeping over Scarlett in a slow, unhurried inspection. She took in every detail of the dress, the hair, the heels. Her smile tightened, her chin tilting as diamond earrings caught the chandelier's glow.
"Your dress is beautiful, Scarlett," she said, the compliment delivered with surgical precision.
Scarlett met her gaze without flinching, eyes cool and unreadable. She could almost admire the effort. Almost.
"Thank you," she said evenly, letting a half-smile play at her lips. "Yours is... unforgettable."
Catherine's smile twitched—whether from amusement or irritation was impossible to tell.
"Thanks," she said shortly, her tone clipped.
A moment of silence stretched between them, charged and brittle. Then Catherine exhaled loudly, her hand pressing to her temple with theatrical delicacy.
"I think," she murmured, staggering half a step forward, "I drank a little too much..."
Scarlett didn't move. She watched. Listened.
Ethan reacted instinctively, stepping in to catch her as Catherine pitched forward with practiced clumsiness.
His hands closed around her bare arms, steadying her as she slumped into him—too easily, too conveniently.
Her fingers found his lapel, nails biting gently through the fabric like an anchor she had no intention of releasing.
"Whoa, careful," he muttered, shifting his grip. His brows pulled together, frustration flickering across his features before vanishing beneath a practiced mask.
Scarlett's stomach tightened.
Catherine gave a soft, breathy laugh, then let her body go slack, collapsing against him completely. Her head landed squarely against his chest, leaving a faint smudge of red lipstick on his shirt.
"Catherine?" Ethan's voice sharpened. "You okay?"
"Oh my god," Scarlett said quietly.
Her face betrayed it all—she could see it. The performance. The timing.
Still, she stepped forward, hands lifting. "Let me—"
"She's out Scarlett," Ethan interrupted, not unkindly, but firm. His eyes found hers—apologetic, yet resolute.
Her gaze narrowed, heat flaring behind her ribs. "She's not completely out. You can ask someone to drop her—"
"Scarlett."
His voice dropped. Low. Unyielding.
"I need to take care of her. Call Thomas and go home".
The words landed like a slap.
Her spine straightened. Shoulders squared. Pride rising on instinct.
Before she could argue, he was already moving, Catherine's limp body secured against him.
The doorman stepped forward without a word, opening the glass doors with seamless discretion.
Scarlett moved to intercept, heels biting into marble. "Ethan, wait—"
He sidestepped her with effortless grace, his expression unreadable but final.
"What," he said, barely above a whisper. "Just let it go tonight."
A taxi pulled up like clockwork, its headlights briefly illuminating Catherine's form, draped like a fallen star in his arms. Scarlett reached out again, almost reflexively—but stopped.
Ethan was already sliding Catherine into the backseat, her body folding far too smoothly for someone unconscious.
Her head lolled to the side, then settled—conveniently—on his shoulder.
He didn't look back.
The door clicked shut with a sound that echoed like finality.
Scarlett stood there, her arms hanging useless at her sides as the cab pulled away from the curb. She didn't realize she was holding her breath until her lungs began to ache.
The night around her was too quiet now. Too still. The warm breeze skimmed over her bare shoulders, but it felt cold. Everything felt cold.
He left. With her.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for her phone, the screen lighting up her face in soft blue hues. She stared at Thomas's contact for a moment, her thumb hovering.
Then she swiped away.
No. Not tonight.
Instead, she opened a taxi app and booked her own ride. The thought of facing Thomas's polite, pitying silence in the rearview mirror made her stomach twist. Let the staff gossip. Let them wonder.
Scarlett inhaled sharply, the breath hitching in her throat before she forced it down. A shiver passed through her, though the night air was still warm.
She turned away from the street, the lobby now nearly empty behind her. The scent of lilies drifted from the towering floral arrangement. Music still played faintly from somewhere deep within the hotel—a slow, melancholic piano, echoing through polished halls like a memory that wouldn't let go.
Her reflection in the marble caught her eye.
Perfect dress. Perfect makeup. Perfect wife.
And utterly alone.
From the shadowed entryway, a quiet voice spoke her name.
"...Scarlett."
But she didn't turn.
Not yet.
A familiar voice cut clean through the noise in her head—low, smooth, laced with that signature accent that turned even the simplest phrase into something dangerously elegant.
"Scarlett."
She turned sharply, the satin hem of her gown whispering against her legs, a shimmer of silver catching the light as the fabric flared around her. Her heart jumped—not just from the surprise of hearing her name, but from the man who spoke it.
Andrian stood a few feet away, framed by the soft glow of amber sconces and the rhythmic pulse of city lights far below.
He looked effortless, maddeningly so. Midnight blue blazer worn like second skin, collar open just enough to suggest rebellion without carelessness.
Hands tucked into his pockets, posture relaxed, but the set of his jaw and that ever-watchful gaze betrayed something far more focused.
He wasn't just observing. He was reading her.
Scarlett blinked, her expression shifting fast—from startled to composed in a heartbeat. She drew in a breath, straightened her back, and raised her chin just slightly, the practiced grace of someone used to being watched.
"Andrian," she said, smoothly. "What are you doing here?"
He gave a soft scoff, tilting his head, dark hair falling over his brow in a way that made him look unexpectedly younger—if one could ever call Andrian Richard young. "I should ask you that," he said. "Why are you out here alone?"
His eyes flicked over her—brief, but unmissable—then beyond, to the empty space where Ethan had stood. His silence wrapped around the moment like velvet.
Scarlett paused—not long enough to give herself away, but long enough for the silence to stretch.
Just long enough for Andrian to notice.
Her fingers tightened around her phone, the smooth glass grounding her as she lifted her gaze again. "Something came up," she said, light and casual, a smile slipping into place with practiced ease. "I told Ethan to take care of it. You know me—I can manage on my own."
Andrian didn't answer right away.
He studied her.
One brow rose slowly, not in challenge, but in quiet disbelief. His attention lingered where she didn't want it to—on the slight hitch in her breath, the way her weight shifted on her heels as if she were bracing against something invisible.
He'd already seen the truth.
From the bar above, his glass of single malt abandoned on the rail, he'd watched it all unfold. Catherine's calculated collapse. The way she clung to Ethan as though gravity itself had betrayed her. Ethan's hesitation—brief, damning—before he followed.
And then Scarlett.
Standing alone in the aftermath.
Perfectly composed. Impeccably still.
And unmistakably left behind.
But he said none of that.
Instead, his voice dropped into something smoother, teasing. "Got a taxi yet?"
Scarlett gave a tight smile, shaking her head slightly. "I did. It should be here soon."
Andrian's mouth curved into a smirk that deepened the lines at the corners of his eyes. "Cancel it," he said with that maddening calm. "I'll arrange a more... handsome driver."
He slipped one hand from his pocket, revealing a sleek car key fob, spinning it once between his fingers like a coin. It clicked faintly in the quiet.
Scarlett narrowed her eyes, the green in them darkening. "I can manage, Andrian."
"I don't doubt that," he replied easily, a spark of mischief glinting in his gaze. "But I'm not offering."
His voice was soft, yet the undercurrent of authority in it was unmistakable. The trace of accent curled around his vowels like silk on steel.
She exhaled—half sigh, half laugh—frustrated and reluctant. "No, Andrian."
He tilted his head, mock wounded, a boyish note entering his voice. "Scar. Come on. Let me take you home."
It was the way he said her name—Scar. No one called her that. Not even Ethan. And it wasn't just a nickname; it was a claim, subtle and dangerous.
She wanted to say no again. Wanted to maintain that last sliver of distance. But the cold from the concrete beneath her heels was creeping up her spine, and truth be told—she didn't want to be alone tonight.
"Fine," she murmured, voice low. She pulled out her phone and canceled the ride with two precise taps.
Andrian's smile shifted—less smirk now, more real. A glimmer of warmth.
He turned, lifted his hand—and as if on cue, a black Aston Martin glided to the curb, its engine humming like it was barely contained. The valet climbed out reluctantly, tossing a longing glance at the driver's seat before handing over the keys.
Andrian tipped him generously, then walked to the passenger door and opened it with exaggerated charm. "Your chariot awaits."
Scarlett slid into the seat, the interior a cocoon of leather and polished chrome. She braced for the door to close and the chauffeur to drive her off into the night.
But instead, Andrian moved to the driver's side and folded his tall frame behind the wheel.
Her brows lifted. "You're driving?"
He grinned, adjusting the rearview mirror until their eyes met in it. "Didn't I say the driver would be handsome?"
She rolled her eyes. "You're impossible."
His laughter rumbled low and easy, vibrating through the quiet hum of the cabin. "So I've been told."
The city blurred past the windows, neon signs and rain-slick streets reflecting off the windshield in fragmented color. Neither of them spoke at first, letting the silence stretch. But it wasn't uncomfortable—just charged.
After a few minutes, his voice broke the quiet. "You okay working with me, Scar?"
He didn't look at her when he asked. Just kept his eyes on the road. But the question landed with weight.
She glanced sideways, studying his profile—the sharp cheekbones, the strong line of his jaw. "Of course," she said smoothly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "How could I say no to fashion?"
A pause.
Then, as if the thought just occurred to her: "Wait. Why do you keep calling me Scar?"
He shrugged, nonchalant. "I like it."
"I don't," she replied, a touch too quick.
"Then good," he said, flashing a grin.
She opened her mouth to retort, but stopped. There was something disarming in how he said it—like he was trying to unravel her one thread at a time.
He turned serious again, tapping his fingers thoughtfully against the wheel. "Your work... it's impressive," he said. "The collection you showed me yesterday? You've got vision. And a kind of raw edge most designers are scared to show."
Her eyes widened slightly. "Thank you," she said, the words more genuine than she expected. She felt her shoulders loosen, just a little. "That means a lot."
Andrian adjusted his grip on the wheel, eyes still forward.
"You know what stood out the most?" he said after a moment. "You don't design to be liked."
Scarlett glanced at him again. "Is that supposed to be a compliment?"
"It is," he replied without hesitation. "The industry is full of people chasing approval. Trends. Buyers. Influencers. You design like you're answering a question only you can hear."
Her lips parted slightly, caught off guard.
He continued, voice calm, measured. "That blue-and-white line—everyone sees Santorini, but what you actually captured was solitude. Space. The kind of quiet that lets you breathe again." He paused, then added, "That's not something you fake."
Scarlett's fingers curled in her lap. "Most people told me it was too... restrained. That it wouldn't sell."
Andrian huffed a soft laugh. "Of course they did. Safe sells fast. It also dies fast." He glanced at her this time, just briefly. "You don't strike me as someone who wants to disappear in a season."
She looked out the window, the city blurring into shadow and light. "I used to think I didn't have a choice."
His jaw tightened at that, though he said nothing right away.
The light changed. The car rolled forward.
And as Scarlett watched the road unfurl ahead of them, she couldn't tell which unsettled her more—the honesty in his voice, or the quiet sense that he was seeing parts of her she'd spent a long time hiding
He drummed his fingers against the leather-wrapped steering wheel, a thoughtful rhythm that matched the turn signals as they navigated a corner.
"I remember you wanted to open your business, but why didn't you start your own brand?
" The question was direct, probing beneath the polished surface she presented to the world.
Scarlett's throat tightened. For a moment—just a fleeting moment—she thought about telling him the truth.
About how Ethan had systematically crushed her dream, positioning himself as her savior while forcing her to work under his thumb.
About the subtle threats, the manipulations, the gilded cage she now found herself in.
But instead, she smiled tightly and said, "I wanted to, but right now, my husband needs my support with Blackwood Industries. So I put my passion on hold." The words tasted stale on her tongue, like something rehearsed too many times.
Andrian didn't look convinced. There was something about the way she said it—like reading lines rather than speaking from the heart. His eyes narrowed slightly, catching the way her fingers nervously twisted the wedding band on her left hand.
He studied her for a moment before asking, "So, how long have you been married?" Though he already knew the answer.
Scarlett glanced out the window, watching raindrops begin to speckle the glass as they drove through a sudden shower. "A month," she answered, her voice soft, almost lost beneath the rhythmic sweep of the wipers.
Before she could press further, they arrived at the imposing gates of Blackwood Mansion.
Andrian's expression remained carefully neutral, but his next question came swiftly, strategically placed when the car stopped in front of the mansion. "So... you were with Ethan when you came to Greece?"
Scarlett was shocked at the question, her fingers clenched in her lap, crumpling the delicate fabric of her dress. She realized, a second too late, how careless she'd been with her words the day before—mentioning her time in Santorini, the inspiration behind her blue-and-white collection.
She hadn't been thinking clearly, still stunned by Andrian's unexpected job offer after seeing her designs.