62 - Between His Hands
"Do you love him, Scar?"Andrian questioned.
The question dropped between them like the sudden absence of oxygen.
No buildup. No soft lead-in or gentle detour. Just the raw, open wound of it—exposed, unbandaged, waiting to bleed.
Scarlett inhaled—but the breath caught halfway. Her lips parted, but nothing came out. She didn't expect the question. Not from him. Not here. Not tonight.
Andrian studied her reaction with the precision of a man used to uncovering truth beneath polish. It wasn't the silence that told him everything. It was the struggle inside it.
Her pupils dilated—tiny, involuntary. The corner of her mouth twitched slightly, like she was fighting to piece together the right words. Her fingers tightened around the wrap at her collarbone, wrinkling the fabric. Defensive. Guarded. Her stance didn't scream guilt—it whispered fear.
Not fear of him.
Fear of being seen.
She could've said yes. It was the easiest response. The obvious one. It would've shut the question down cleanly.
But she didn't say it.
She didn't say anything at all.
And that silence—dense, trembling, weighted—was louder than any denial.
Andrian tilted his head slightly, as though studying a new angle. His gaze drifted—not with indecency, but with curiosity—from her eyes to her hands, the tension in her jaw, the minute shift of her weight as if she were caught between staying and bolting. Her silence didn't frustrate him.
It fascinated him.
Because now he knew.
He had his answer. Not in words, but in the avalanche of small, involuntary truths spilling from her body.
This wasn't the silence of a woman in love. This was the silence of someone trapped. Someone bound to something that no longer fit—and maybe never had
He took a slow step forward, gravel crunching Andrian saw it all—the twitch at the corner of her mouth as she struggled to fabricate a response. The pulse fluttered beneath her throat. The way her eyes glossed over, not with tears, but with something far more fragile: panic.
And then, the sound of an approaching engine interrupted the charged quiet between them.
Low at first, like a hum pressed against the edge of the night. Then louder. Closer. Headlights cut through the darkness at the far end of the long drive, sweeping across the trees in two broad beams of artificial day.
Scarlett turned toward the sound too fast.
Andrian clocked the sharpness of her pivot, the relief that flashed across her face—relief tinged with dread. A moment ago, she had been unraveling. Now, she was sewing herself back together in a hurry, stitching armor over raw skin.
She thought the interruption might save her.
But Andrian didn't stop watching.
Because he had already seen behind the veil. He had seen the flicker of a woman unsure of the story she was supposed to be living. And in that flicker, he found his leverage.
Scarlett might've believed she'd held it together.
But he was a man who made his empire by noticing what others missed. He had read every falter in her breath, every lie she hadn't spoken, and the quiet desperation behind her stillness.
And now he knew: the love story between Scarlett and Ethan Blackwood wasn't real.
Headlights spilled through the wrought iron gates, casting elongated shadows across the manicured lawn.
The gravel crunched under the weight of a sleek black Bentley gliding with the silent authority of something—or someone—that belonged.
Its paint caught the light like still water, and when it slid to a stop in the circular drive, the air itself seemed to pause.
Scarlett turned, her breath catching—this time not from Andrian's closeness, but from the unmistakable shape of the car. Her stomach coiled.
The driver's door opened.
Ethan stepped out with an effortless elegance born of habit. He tugged the cuffs of his tailored suit, fingers smooth, movements controlled. His face was composed—too composed. It was stillness before a storm. His gaze locked on them, darkening the moment he saw how close Andrian stood to Scarlett.
Not near the house. Not where she should be.
Andrian remained where he was. Then, in a subtle move charged with intent, he stepped even closer to Scarlett, the backs of his fingers brushing just behind her spine—near enough to be felt, a whisper of contact. He didn't touch her. He didn't have to. His presence was touching. The message.
Scarlett's spine stiffened.
Ethan didn't break stride when he reached them.
His pace was measured—unhurried—but every step carried the coiled restraint of a man walking toward impact rather than greeting. The polished leather of his shoes crushed against the gravel, sharp and rhythmic, each sound ticking down the seconds until something gave.
"Long night?" he asked at last.
The words were civil. The tone wasn't.
His gaze cut first to Scarlett—paused there a fraction longer than necessary, as if taking inventory—before sliding back to Andrian with surgical intent.
Scarlett tried to speak.
Nothing came out.
Her throat had dried to dust, every instinct screaming at her to answer, to get ahead of whatever this was about to become. But the air felt too thick, her chest too tight. The moment she opened her mouth, Andrian's voice slipped in smoothly, effortlessly—like he'd been waiting for it.
"It had its moments."
Calm. Even. Polished.
He didn't look at Scarlett when he said it.
He didn't look away from Ethan either.
Ethan held his gaze, the faintest smile ghosting across his mouth. "I'm sure."
The silence that followed was deceptively still—like water stretched glass-smooth before a storm tears through it. It hummed with everything unsaid. Questions without question marks. Accusations without names.
Then Andrian shifted.
Barely.
Just enough to place himself half a step closer to Scarlett.
Not protective.
Not overt.
But deliberate.
Lines weren't being crossed yet—they were being outlined.
"Well," Ethan said lightly, charm sharpened to a blade, "this is unexpected. Andrian—here, at this hour."
Andrian finally turned his head, expression cool, controlled. "Ethan." A nod. Precise. Calculated. "I was just dropping Scarlett off."
Ethan's smile widened, all teeth and no warmth. "How considerate." His eyes flicked briefly to Scarlett again before returning to Andrian. "Seems like you're more attentive to her needs than I am."
"I wouldn't say that," Andrian replied. "She needed a ride. I was available."
The emphasis didn't miss.
Scarlett felt it land in her ribs, felt the night tighten around them. Their voices stayed level, but the space between them crackled now—live, dangerous.
"Oh?" Ethan tilted his head, mock curiosity masking irritation. "Since when does the great Andrian play chauffeur?"
He stepped closer and slid an arm around Scarlett's waist.
To anyone else, it might've passed for affection.
To her, it was possession.
His hand settled firmly at her side—not painful, not rough—but unmistakable. A claim drawn in flesh and heat. Scarlett stiffened before she could stop herself, her pulse jumping under his touch.
Andrian noticed.
His expression didn't change, but his jaw tightened—just enough to fracture the calm.
"I don't," he said evenly. "I just don't leave people when they are with me."
Ethan's fingers flexed once at Scarlett's waist.
The smile on his lips never reached his eyes.
Ethan's smirk faltered. His fingers flexed slightly on Scarlett's shoulder.
"Well, she's home now," he said, a smile sharpening like a blade. "And now she has a husband to take care of her."
Before Andrian could respond, Scarlett stepped forward, pulling herself free of Ethan's arm. Her tone cut clean through the rising tension.
"Enough," she snapped. "Both of you."
Her arms crossed over her chest, her gaze flicking between them. "You sound like boys arguing over a toy."
Andrian exhaled a soft breath, half a laugh, shaking his head. Then he looked at her, his tone gentler. "I'll see you at work tomorrow, Scar."
She nodded, her voice quieter. "Thanks for the ride."
Andrian gave Ethan one last look—not hostile, but penetrating. Something flickered there: a quiet understanding, a warning. Then he turned and walked toward his car.
Ethan's smile was faint, polite—too polite. "Of course. It's kind of you to look out for her." His eyes lingered a beat longer than necessary. "But... she's got enough on her plate tonight. Best if she doesn't have to worry about anything else."
Scarlett felt it like a shift in gravity. Andrian's expression didn't change, but the tiny twitch in his jaw betrayed him.
"I see," he said carefully. "So you're... taking over now?"
Ethan stepped closer, voice dropping just enough for Andrian to hear the edge beneath the calm. "Let's just say... I've got it handled. You've got your own life to run, right?"
Andrian's eyes flicked to Scarlett, then back to Ethan. "Handled," he repeated, soft, almost dangerous. "That's what you call her?"
Ethan's jaw flexed once. No response, just a tilt of the head, a calm glance at Scarlett, and the faintest tightening of his lips. Everything he said had weight without having to say more.
Scarlett felt trapped between them—her heartbeat loud in her ears. Andrian's hand loosened on the door handle slightly, tension lingering in the muscles of his arm.
Ethan slid into the driver's seat, closing the door with a deliberate click. The engine hummed. The night felt smaller, charged, and impossibly tense.
Ethan stood in the dust of his own departure, jaw clenched tight, chest rising and falling like something barely restrained. The engine of his temper hadn't cooled—it had simply changed direction.
He turned.
Scarlett.
She was already there—framed by the door like a still from a dream he couldn't quite remember. Her coat hung open, her hair slightly tousled, lips parted but silent. She didn't move. Her eyes, cool and unreadable, met his without flinching.
That only made something sharper twist in him.
In two long strides, he was across the threshold. His hand closed around her wrist, firm and fast, pulling her in before she could brace herself. She stumbled slightly, the heel of her boot scraping across the marble.
The front door swung shut behind them with a heavy, echoing thud—final, like a gavel in a courtroom.
The silence that followed was weighty, stretched too tight.
Above them, chandeliers glittered with warm amber light, casting delicate patterns on the polished floor.
But the warmth felt wrong. The house was beautiful, yes—but in this moment, it was too large, too quiet, and entirely too cold.
Scarlett stood still in the foyer, her breath barely stirring. The faint imprint of his fingers lingered on her wrist—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind her who had pulled her in like a possession he feared slipping away.
Ethan was already moving. His stride was clipped, jacket flaring slightly as he tossed it carelessly over the back of the velvet armchair in the adjoining room. He didn't sit. Just turned sharply, eyes locking on her again like she was a puzzle he couldn't solve but couldn't leave unsolved either.
The silence between them thickened.
"What the hell was that?" His voice sliced through it, low but sharp, like a blade kept sheathed too long.
Scarlett flinched—but only barely. She tugged her wrist free, the motion quick, like she was brushing off a cobweb. "What are you talking about?"
"You know damn well what I'm talking about," he snapped, stepping closer. His voice vibrated with restraint, with the fury he hadn't given himself permission to let out. "I told you to call Thomas."
"It was late," she snapped. "I didn't want to bother him."
He laughed, bitter. "Bother him? He's paid to drive you whenever you need."
She lifted her chin. "So what?"
"So you call the Andrian!"
Scarlett folded her arms across her chest, a reflex more than a choice. Her eyes lifted to his, sharp and unyielding.
"I tried to get a taxi," she said evenly. "Andrian offered. I accepted. That's it. It wasn't a big deal."
Something in Ethan snapped—not loudly, not visibly, but enough that she felt it shift in the air.
"Not a big deal?" He stepped closer, invading the space she hadn't realized she was guarding. Too close. His voice dropped, roughened, stripped of polish. "You're my wife, Scarlett. There is no version of you doing anything that isn't a big deal."
Her breath stalled in her chest.
One second passed.
Then another.
When she finally spoke, her voice was cold enough to burn.
"Oh." A short laugh slipped out, sharp and humorless. "So now that matters."
Ethan faltered. Just for a fraction of a second—but she saw it. He hadn't expected resistance. Certainly not delivered so cleanly.
Scarlett didn't give him time to recover.
She stepped forward, closing the distance this time, the heat that had been coiled inside her for weeks—months—finally breaking free.
"Where was that concern when I stood alone in that hotel suite?
" Her voice rose, steady but fierce. "When you vanished without a word because Catherine needed you? Again."
"Scarlett—" he started.
"No." She lifted a hand, stopping him cold. "Don't. Don't even try." Her eyes glistened, but her voice didn't waver. "I waited for you, Ethan. I waited because I believed the man who told me he wouldn't just disappear."
His hands curled slowly into fists at his sides. Something dark and volatile churned behind his eyes.
"She needed help," he said at last.
The words fell flat. Even he seemed to hear how hollow they sounded.
Scarlett laughed again, brittle this time. "She's been pulling your strings for years. You know that." She tilted her head, studying him like a truth he'd been avoiding. "But you'd rather burn for her than admit it. You let her set you on fire and call it light."
That did it.
Ethan looked away.
The silence that followed wasn't empty—it was crowded. With things they'd never said. With things they'd said too late. With resentment, care, history, and the ache of something neither of them knew how to undo.
His jaw tightened. Then loosened.
He looked like a man searching for an exit in a room with no doors.
For a moment, neither of them moved. They just stood there, breathing the same air, sharing the same quiet fracture.
Then Ethan turned.
His footsteps echoed down the long corridor—measured, heavy, deliberate—until the sound of him disappeared into the stillness of the house.
Scarlett stayed where she was.
Arms still crossed.
Heart still racing.
And for the first time that night, truly alone.
She stayed there, rooted to the floor, the chill from the marble seeping through her boots and straight into her bones. One hand drifted to the wall beside her, steadying herself, fingers curling faintly against the wallpaper. Her eyes shimmered—but no tears fell.
Not yet.
She just stood there.
Trying to breathe.