61 - Do you love him?
The door shut with a hollow thunk, and for a moment, Ethan just sat there in the darkened backseat, the ambient hum of the city wrapping around the car like fog.
The smell of Catherine's perfume—jasmine, vanilla, and something sharper underneath—filled the confined space.
He stared out the window, jaw tight, watching Scarlett shrink in the rearview mirror, her silhouette still rigid on the hotel steps.
He hated himself for walking away.
The amber glow of the hallway lights cast long shadows as Ethan guided Catherine into her apartment.
His grip was firm yet careful against her waist, his callused fingers tensing each time she swayed.
The faint scent of her perfume—jasmine and something sharper—mingled with the lingering traces of alcohol on her breath.
Catherine leaned heavily against him, her designer dress rumpled, her steps unsteady on the hardwood floor that creaked beneath their weight.
"Almost there," Ethan murmured, his voice low and controlled, betraying none of the turmoil churning inside him.
The door to her bedroom was ajar, revealing Egyptian cotton sheets in disarray across her king-sized bed.
Moonlight spilled through half-drawn curtains, painting silver streaks across the room.
With practiced movements that spoke of familiarity he wished he didn't possess, Ethan lowered Catherine onto the mattress.
Her body sank into the plush surface, dark hair fanning out against the pale pillowcase.
His hands lingered for a heartbeat too long before he straightened, the muscles in his jaw working beneath his skin. The gold band on his left hand caught the dim light as he pulled away, a silent reminder he couldn't ignore.
The air between them felt charged, heavy with unspoken history. Ethan turned toward the door, his leather shoes silent against the plush carpet. Three steps—that's all it would take to walk away from this moment, from her.
"Ethan."
His name on her lips stopped him cold. Reluctantly, he glanced over his shoulder.
"Are you really unconscious," he muttered, voice flat, "or are you still pretending?"
Catherine gave a soft snort and shifted against him, not bothering to lift her head. "I knew you wouldn't leave me like that," she said lazily. "You never could."
Ethan didn't respond.
Catherine slowly, brushing the red smear from his shirt with a feigned apology. "Oops," she whispered, voice thick with satisfaction. "Guess I ruined your perfect look."
"You're not fooling anyone, Catherine," he said, low. "Not me. Not Scarlett."
"Oh, Scarlett," she sighed, dragging out the name like a yawn. "So dignified. So graceful. So... untouched."
His shoulders tensed.
Catherine leaned closer, her voice coiling around his ear. "Tell me something, Ethan. Has she ever looked at you the way I do? Really seen you? Or does she just like the idea of the man she married?"
He didn't answer. He didn't need to.
Catherine smiled.
Catherine had propped herself up on one elbow, her fingers curled around his sleeve like a lifeline. Her emerald eyes, though glazed, held a desperate clarity that made his stomach tighten.
"Please..." she whispered, her voice carrying across the stillness between them. "Stay with me."
The plea hung in the air, fragile and dangerous. Ethan's expression hardened, the lines around his mouth deepening as he wrenched his arm free with a sharp, decisive moment. Something dark flickered across his face—not just irritation, but a flash of something that resembled fear.
"What the hell are you doing, Catherine?" His voice cracked like a whip in the quiet room.
She sat up fully now, the expensive silk of her dress sliding against her skin as she moved. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders in dark waves, framing a face that had once been his entire world. The vulnerability in her expression made something in his chest constrict painfully.
"Ethan, I want to be with you again," she confessed, each syllable dripping with raw desperation. Her hands twisted the edge of the bedsheet, knuckles whitening. "I know you still feel the same way. I can see it in your eyes every time you look at me."
The muscle in his jaw jumped as he clenched it tighter. "You're wrong." The words came out clipped, precise, each one deliberately placed like stepping stones across troubled waters. "Whatever we had is over. It's been over for a long time."
Her lips parted slightly, a retort forming, but Ethan cut her off with a slashing gesture that silenced the room.
"I have a wife waiting for me at home," he continued, his tone dropping several degrees colder. The wedding band seemed to weigh heavier on his finger as he spoke.
The mention of Scarlett transformed Catherine's expression.
The soft pleading in her eyes crystallized into something harder, sharper.
She wasn't accustomed to rejection—a woman who had always gotten what she wanted through charm or manipulation.
But as his words registered, her features contorted in a fleeting display of shock before settling into a cold mask of anger.
The realization seemed to burn through her: Ethan had chosen Scarlett. The thought etched itself across her face like acid on metal.
"That's the thing about you, Ethan," she whispered. "You always wait for a better time. But it never comes, does it?"
The cab pulled to a stop in front of her building—sleek glass, sharp edges, and a concierge who raised his brows but said nothing as Ethan stepped out and helped her to the curb.
Catherine clung to his arm, but he didn't return the gesture. He walked her to the door like an escort fulfilling a contract, not a man lingering with temptation. She turned to him before the doorman opened the glass panel.
"You know you'll have to choose eventually," she murmured, her voice almost tender. "And when you do, you'll have to live with it."
He looked at her, then. Really looked.
She was beautiful. Dangerous. Familiar. But not what he wanted.
Not anymore.
"I already chose her," he said quietly.
Catherine blinked, startled just enough to betray the truth: she hadn't expected that answer.
And neither had he.
Without another word, Ethan turned on his heel and strode out of the room.
The door closed behind him with a soft click that somehow sounded more final than any slam could have.
In the hallway, he paused, drawing a ragged breath that did little to steady him, before continuing toward the elevator with measured steps that belied the chaos in his mind.
The security system registered the license plate with a discreet flicker of green on the gate's panel. No need for questions tonight—all guests had been pre-cleared. With a soft mechanical sigh, the iron gates began to part, swinging open in near silence.
Blackwood Mansion waited beyond, stately and aloof in the moonlight.
Its arched windows glowed faintly, scattered like eyes across the dark face of stone.
A cobblestone driveway unspooled like a ribbon through meticulously sculpted grounds—trees trimmed with unnatural precision, hedges cut so cleanly they looked drawn on.
Soft amber garden lights cast long, stretching shadows between the trunks.
Inside the car, silence thickened.
But silence never lasted long in Andrian's presence.
"So," he said casually, eyes forward. "You were with Ethan when you came to Greece?"
The question hit like a jolt.
Scarlett froze—then forced a laugh that didn't reach her eyes. "Yes. I was with him." She lifted her chin. "I insisted he take me on his business trip, but he was too busy with meetings." Her voice hardened just slightly. "He promised he'd take me back. For a real vacation."
She reached for the seatbelt, fingers fumbling. The urge to flee surged through her. She tried to open the door too soon. Failed.
Andrian saw everything. The tightness around her eyes, the slight tremble in her lower lip before she pressed them firmly together.
Andrian's mind raced, piecing together the fragments of her story against what he already knew.
The timeline didn't match. He'd been in Greece himself around that time—had seen her sketching alone at a small café in Oia, her face peaceful, free in a way it wasn't now.
There had been no Ethan hovering nearby, no mention of a fiancé when they'd briefly spoken about the light in Santorini.
And Andrian never forgot a face, especially not one as striking as Scarlett's.
The contradiction intrigued him. Made him want to peel back the carefully constructed layers of her marriage to see what truth lay beneath. But one thing he knows is that this marriage is not made of love.
He started, voice light, almost amused, "Ethan always leaves parties that early, or was tonight a special occasion?"
Scarlett's brows lifted slightly. "He had some calls to take."
"Ah," Andrian said, nodding, drawing out the sound like he half-accepted it, half-filed it away. "The glamorous world of late-night finance."
"He's busy," she said, a little too quickly, then softened her tone. "Always is."
Andrian hummed noncommittally. "Busy men... usually come with busy silences."
Scarlett glanced at him sideways. "What's that supposed to mean?"
He shrugged, lips tugging into a faint, teasing smile. "Just talking. I'm not judging. But a man leaves his wife behind at a party filled with her colleagues and half the media elite... I don't know. Seems strange. I wouldn't."
She blinked. "Wouldn't?"
"Leave," he said simply. "Especially not if I had someone on my arm."
The compliment hung in the air—not overt, not inappropriate, but gently weighted. Scarlett gave a short, breathy laugh, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
Her smile faltered.
Andrian didn't press. He let the silence do it for him.
Her hand shook as she tried the seatbelt again. The click eluded her. Nails scraped plastic. Her jaw tightened.
"Scarlett," he said gently. "Breathe."
She hesitated.
He leaned over, brushing her hands aside. The seatbelt clicked free. He didn't pull away.
Their faces hovered too close.
Cedar. Bergamot. Champagne.
Time stilled.
Her breath caught. Lashes fluttered. Mansion lights kissed her cheek in a thin halo. Her lips parted—
Then she broke.
The door flew open. She escaped the car like it was suffocating her.
"Thanks for the ride," she called, falsely breezy, heels striking gravel as she hurried away, voice pitched high and falsely breezy, her heels clicking sharply on the gravel as she started toward the house.
The night air greeted her with a bite. She clutched her wrap more tightly around her shoulders, not because of the cold, but to hold herself together.
Behind her, the car door shut softly.
"Scar."
Just one syllable.
But the way he said it—quiet, firm, laced with something heavier than mere familiarity—froze her mid-step. She didn't turn. Not immediately. Her shoulders tightened, fingers curling into the soft fabric at her chest. Only after a long moment did she face him.
Andrian stepped away from the car with the easy grace of a man who was used to being watched—and to watching in return.
One hand came to rest lightly on the roof, fingertips brushing the cool metal, while the other slipped into the pocket of his tailored coat.
The movement was unhurried, but deliberate, like everything else about him.
The overhead sconces lining the gravel drive cast a soft, golden glow, catching on the sharp edges of his profile.
The light gilded the contours of his face—cheekbones cut clean, jaw locked in a pensive line—while the rest fell into shifting shadow.
The effect was cinematic, but there was nothing performative in his stillness.
He wasn't looking at the house. His attention, quiet and razor-focused, was fixed on Scarlett.
She hadn't made it far. She stood with her back half-turned to him, her wrap clutched tightly around her shoulders, the silk catching light like water.
Her movements were clipped, the tension in her posture unspoken but unmistakable.
She hadn't expected the question he'd thrown at her before she could walk away—and now, she didn't know how to walk back.
Andrian's gaze moved over her, not lecherous, not even romantic—but forensic.
Absorbing. Every angle of her hesitation gave him something.
The slight way her shoulders stiffened. The pause of breath before she turned.
The slow pivot, cautious and controlled, like she was rehearsing composure and barely keeping her balance on the script.
He didn't speak yet. He let silence do the heavy lifting.
And in that stillness, he read her.
The way she avoided his eyes at first—guilt. Or fear. Possibly both. The way her fingers gripped the edges of her wrap, tugging it tighter—not because of the cold. A defense mechanism. The telltale flutter in her throat, a swallow she thought might go unnoticed. But it didn't.
Andrian took a slow step forward, gravel crunching beneath his shoes with a satisfying rhythm. He didn't crowd her—he didn't need to. His presence alone filled the space between them, charged and watching.
His expression was unreadable to anyone else. But behind his eyes, his mind worked quickly, precisely.
Scarlett Blackwood was unraveling—quietly, carefully—but unraveling all the same.
The too-glossy version of her marriage that was sold to the public, the perfect gowns and poised photos, the way she said "he's busy" like it was a prayer and an excuse all at once—it all cracked under the weight of her silence.
Andrian wasn't pushing her, not really. He was observing. Measuring how much she would give away on her own. A test of tension.
He could see it now—the marriage wasn't a partnership. It was a fa?ade with polished edges, held together by mutual appearances and strategic detachment. And she was tired. Tired of making it look effortless. Tired of swallowing things she didn't say.
He saw something else, too.
Scarlett had looked at him—back in the car, just before she fled—with a kind of desperation. Not romantic. Not even entirely emotional. It was something quieter. A flicker of being seen. Of being recognized in a way Ethan clearly hadn't managed in years.
Andrian didn't smile. Not fully. But a subtle shift pulled at the corner of his mouth. A promise—unspoken, almost imperceptible.
He would keep asking the right questions. He would find the gaps in her story, in her loyalty, in whatever thread still tethered her to a man who clearly didn't understand the woman he had.
And when he did, he wouldn't hesitate.
Because Scarlett wasn't the kind of woman meant to be caged by a cold marriage and polite silences.And yet his eyes... his eyes burned.
Andrian's eyes didn't leave hers. They tracked her every twitch, every flicker behind her gaze. He didn't rush. He didn't need to.
Instead, he slowly peeled his hand away from the car and took a single step forward.
Not aggressive.
Measured. Grounded. Like someone moving through silk, not air.
The gravel shifted beneath his soles with a low crunch that sounded louder in the quiet night than it should have.
He took another step, then another—his long strides smooth, unbroken, deliberate.
Each pace closed the distance between them, not just physically, but emotionally, psychologically. The air grew thinner.
Scarlett didn't move.
Her breath hitched the closer he came. Her hands, still clutched around the edges of her wrap, tensed just slightly—as if they might form fists. But she didn't flinch. That was the part that intrigued him most.
She wasn't shrinking away.
She was bracing.
Andrian reached her, stopping just shy of intimate proximity. A breath away. No more than two feet between them now—close enough that the subtle scent of her perfume, jasmine layered over something darker, almost peppery, stirred against the collar of his coat.
He didn't speak. Not yet.
Instead, he studied her. Slowly. Unapologetically.
His gaze swept across her features—not in lust, but with acute, unblinking attention. The slight strain in her jaw. The flush rising beneath her skin. The flicker of her pulse at the base of her throat, fluttering like a trapped bird. Her eyes tried to meet his but darted away too quickly.
Her defenses were rising like a tide—but they were too slow to mask what he'd already seen.
He tilted his head slightly, narrowing his eyes—not in judgment, but in something far more intimate. Comprehension.
And then, after a pause so long it nearly became a silence of its own, he leaned in just the smallest degree—not enough to touch, but enough to shift the atmosphere between them.
His voice, when it came, was low. Gentle. Almost too soft for the weight of what it carried.
"Do you love him, Scar?"