65 - Between the Shadows
Time slipped by unnoticed. Minutes blurred into what might've been an hour.
The soft afternoon light slanted through the tall windows of Scarlett's office, casting long shadows across her drafting table.
Her hand moved instinctively over the paper, the whisper of graphite the only sound save for the faint hum of the city far below.
Her pencil flew with practiced ease, sketching the sweeping lines of a design that pulsed with emotion—frustration, pride, defiance.
Then—a knock. Firm. Not tentative, but not aggressive either. Just enough to demand attention without demanding authority.
"Come in," Scarlett called, distracted, her eyes still fixed on the page.
The door creaked open.
She looked up, and there he was. Ethan.
He stood in the doorway like he belonged there, the muted light brushing over his sharp features, softening them just enough to betray the man beneath the armor.
His suit was impeccably tailored, as always, but his tie hung a little looser now.
His presence filled the room effortlessly, the air around him bending subtly to accommodate the weight he carried.
"Oh... Ethan?" Her brow arched with a mix of surprise and wariness. She placed the pencil down with a touch of dramatic slowness, folding her arms over her desk as she leaned back. "What a surprise. To what do I owe the honor? Bored of your corner empire already?"
He stepped inside with that easy, unhurried grace that somehow made her want to throw something. His eyes roved over her office—the organized clutter of swatches, sketches, and coffee-stained inspiration boards—before settling back on her.
"Just checking on your progress." His voice was casual, but his gaze wasn't. "Wanted to see how the project's coming along."
Scarlett didn't miss the way his eyes lingered. He wasn't asking about work. Not really. Still, she handed him a stack of completed sketches without looking up, her fingers smudged with graphite.
"Here. Knock yourself out."
He accepted them but made no move to look.
Instead, he watched her. Really watched her.
The way she curled her hand around the pencil again.
The way her brow furrowed in concentration.
Her copper hair had mostly escaped the bun she'd twisted it into that morning, falling in errant curls around her face.
One tendril danced across her cheek as she leaned over the page.
A pencil was tucked behind her ear—or maybe in the bun itself, barely hanging on. She tapped another one absently against her forehead in thought, not noticing the faint grey mark it left behind.
Ethan couldn't look away.
There was something sacred about watching her create—a rhythm, a fire, an elegance she didn't even realize she had. This was the Scarlett he remembered. The one who made him fall before he even realized he was falling.
And then—
The door slammed open. The crack of heels on hardwood shattered the stillness.
Catherine.
She swept in like a storm wrapped in silk, immaculate in her dove-grey blouse and tailored slacks. Her expression faltered for half a beat when she saw Ethan, then quickly reset into practiced composure.
"Ethan," she said smoothly, though her voice had lost a degree of its usual cool. "What are you doing here?"
The question barely masked her irritation.
Ethan didn't even glance her way. "It's my company, Catherine. I can be wherever I want."
Scarlett let out a sharp bark of laughter, more real than she'd meant it to be. The absurdity of the scene amused her—the queen bee caught off guard.
Catherine's cheeks flushed, the crack in her fa?ade quick but telling. She turned to Scarlett, fingers tightening around a sheet of paper she held out.
"These are the additions Mr. Wellington wants. Include them in your designs."
Scarlett took the paper and scanned it. Her eyes narrowed.
"You're kidding. Catherine, this would mean reworking the entire concept. It's not just a few tweaks. And we both know the deadline you pushed was today."
"Client changes are non-negotiable," Catherine replied, her voice syrupy with forced civility. "Surely you can adapt. Isn't that what designers do?"
Scarlett bit down on her response, hard. She turned back to her drafting table, making a show of focusing on her work. Catherine lingered, unwilling to retreat.
Ethan broke the silence.
"If you're done here, Catherine, go back to your office."
The dismissal was quiet. Lethal.
Catherine flinched, just slightly. "Of course, Ethan." She looked at him for a beat too long, then turned on her heel and walked out, her steps quieter now.
When the door clicked shut, the room exhaled.
Scarlett slumped slightly in her chair, then spun to face Ethan, her irritation rekindling.
"She's doing this to sabotage me. You know that, right? This isn't about the client. It's about making me look incompetent."
Ethan moved toward her, slowly, then perched on the edge of her desk. His fingers brushed the paper from her hand, the contact featherlight but electric.
"Maybe," Ethan murmured, scanning the sheet with the slow, deliberate care of someone who wasn't just looking at lines on paper but at the storm brewing behind them.
His brow furrowed slightly, the corners of his eyes tightening.
Then—just barely—a smirk lifted one side of his mouth.
"But she's talented, Scarlett. Undeniably.
You might learn something from her, whether or not you want to admit it. "
He looked up, meeting her gaze with a tempered seriousness. "Try to see this as an opportunity. Don't let personal grudges cloud your judgment. It can derail more than just this project. It can damage how people see you—your professionalism, your control."
Scarlett sat still for a beat, absorbing the words that hovered in the quiet between them. He wasn't lecturing her—he never did. His voice held something quieter, weightier. Concern, perhaps. Or regret.
She glanced down at the paper again, then back up, her lips twitching in the shadow of a dry smile. "Maybe," she said, exhaling. "Maybe it's because there's something personal in it. Between us. Me and her."
Ethan tilted his head slightly, as if considering her in a new light.
He chuckled, the sound low, warm, and threaded with something almost fond.
"Good," he said, the word soft but deliberate.
"That means it matters. And when it matters, you'll fight harder to do it right.
Just don't let her dictate how you fight. "
His words lingered in the air like smoke—unspoken truths coiling in the space between them, neither of them quite ready to name what they were really talking about.
She studied him. He looked tired, despite the perfection of his outward appearance. There was something else there, too—regret? Uncertainty? She couldn't tell.
He stood and handed her the paper again, his gaze lingering for a moment longer than necessary.
"If you think these changes are unnecessary, take it up with Wellington directly. You've earned that right." He moved to the door, then paused with his hand on the knob.
For a second, it looked like he might say more. But he didn't. He just nodded.
And then he was gone.
Scarlett sat in silence, her fingers grazing the edge of the paper he'd just handed back. The room still carried the heat of his presence, a hum in the air that hadn't faded with his exit.
A small, reluctant smile tugged at her lips. She turned back to her sketchpad, eyes gleaming.
Not for Catherine. Not even for the client.
For herself.
And, though she'd never say it out loud—not even to herself—maybe for Ethan too.
—
Scarlett tucked her sketchpad into her leather messenger bag, stretching her arms overhead until her shoulders popped.
The office lights cast long shadows across her drafting table as the evening sun dipped below the city skyline, bathing the room in amber hues.
She'd spent hours hunched over her designs, losing track of time as she perfected every line and curve.
Rubbing the back of her neck, she glanced at the designs she'd already sent to Ethan's email—clean, modern layouts that balanced function and elegance.
A small smile played on her lips, satisfaction warming her chest.
The clock on the wall read 7:43 PM. Almost everyone had left for the day, the once-bustling office floor now silent save for the gentle hum of the air conditioning.
Just as she swung her bag over her shoulder and reached for her coat, her phone buzzed against the glass tabletop. The screen illuminated with her driver's name.
"Miss Scarlett," he said, his usually composed voice strained with tension. "I have an emergency at home. My daughter's been taken to the hospital. I need to leave right away." The fear in his voice was palpable, a slight tremor underlying each word.
Scarlett's brow furrowed momentarily before her expression softened. "Thomas, don't worry about me for a second," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "Go take care of your family. That's what matters."
"But Miss, it's late, and the weather—"
"I insist," she cut in, already mentally running through her options. "Please, go and be with your daughter. I'll manage just fine."
A heavy sigh of relief filtered through the phone. "Thank you, Miss Scarlett. I'm so sorry about this." The gratitude in his voice was unmistakable.
"Don't apologize. Just let me know how she's doing later." She ended the call and tucked her phone into the pocket of her tailored trousers.
Scarlett crossed to the window, pressing her palm against the cool glass.
Rain had begun to fall, gentle at first but quickly intensifying, droplets racing down the pane in zigzagging rivulets.
The streets below glistened, taxi lights blurring into streaks of yellow against the darkening city backdrop.
She could call a taxi, but the thought of standing in the downpour, likely getting soaked before one arrived... She bit her lower lip, then felt it curve into a slight smile as another thought materialized.
Without giving herself time to reconsider, she pulled out her phone again and pressed Ethan's contact. Her heart quickened just slightly as she waited.
The phone barely rang twice before his voice filled her ear—crisp, deep, with that hint of authority that always made her stand a little straighter.
"What?" No preamble, no unnecessary greeting. Typical Ethan.
Scarlett leaned against her desk, one finger absentmindedly tracing circles on its surface. "Ethan, can you take me home?" She aimed for casual, but even she could hear the slight note of hesitation in her voice.
Silence stretched between them for a heartbeat, then two. She could almost see him raising an eyebrow, his dark eyes narrowing slightly in that way they did when he was scrutinizing something—or someone.
"Are you still in Office? What happened to your car?" His voice was measured, neutral, revealing nothing.
She shifted her weight from one foot to another.
"My driver had a family emergency—his daughter's in the hospital.
I told him to go," she explained, absently tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
Before he could formulate what she was sure would be a perfectly logical reason to refuse, she added, "Ethan, will you take me or should I just call a taxi?
" The challenge in her voice was subtle but unmistakable.
Another pause. Scarlett held her breath, suddenly aware of how quiet the office had become around her.
"It'll take me some time to finish up." His voice had softened almost imperceptibly—something most people would never notice, but Scarlett wasn't most people. "If you don't mind waiting, you can stay in my office until I'm done."
Something in his tone made her stomach flutter in a way that had nothing to do with hunger. Warmth spread through her chest, and she couldn't help the smile that bloomed across her face.
"That's fine! I'll come up right now," she replied, unable to keep the lightness from her voice.
After ending the call, Scarlett hurried down the hallway toward the executive restroom, her heels clicking against the polished floor.
Inside, she stood before the mirror, critically assessing her reflection.
The day had taken its toll—her once-pristine blouse had a small coffee stain near the hem, and her carefully styled hair had begun to fall from its elegant twist.
She smoothed down her cream silk blouse, adjusted the delicate gold necklace at her throat, and loosened her hair completely, allowing it to cascade in soft waves past her shoulders.
From her bag, she extracted a tube of rose-tinted lip color, applying it with practiced precision.
The subtle shade brightened her complexion, bringing life back to her face after the long day.
Scarlett took a steadying breath, hands pressed against the cool marble counter. "You're being ridiculous," she muttered under her breath, hands gripping the edge of the marble counter. "It's just a ride."
When the elevator doors opened onto Ethan's floor, she was struck by how different it felt after hours.
During the day, it buzzed with activity—assistants hurrying between offices, phones ringing, the constant murmur of conversations and keyboards.
Now, it was eerily silent, the overhead lights dimmed to half their usual brightness, casting long shadows across the plush carpet.
Every office was dark and empty. Except one.
At the end of the corridor, a warm glow spilled from beneath Ethan's door, the only sign of life on the entire floor.
Scarlett hesitated for just a moment, straightening her shoulders before approaching.
Her knuckles rapped lightly against the polished wood, the sound unnaturally loud in the silence.
"Come in."
She pushed the door open, and there he was.
Ethan Blackwood sat behind his imposing mahogany desk, looking like he belonged on the cover of a business magazine.
His suit jacket was draped carefully over the back of his leather chair, the sleeves of his crisp white shirt rolled up to reveal tanned forearms. His burgundy tie hung loosely at his neck, the top button of his shirt undone in a rare display of informality.
One strong arm rested on the chair's armrest, fingers drumming a slow, deliberate rhythm, while his other hand held a thick file, his eyes scanning the pages with laser-like focus.
A single desk lamp cast amber light across his features, accentuating the sharp line of his jaw, the slight furrow of concentration between his brows, and the shadows beneath his cheekbones.
His dark hair, usually impeccably styled, had been ruffled, likely from running his fingers through it in thought—a habit Scarlett had noticed he only indulged when he believed no one was watching.
At the sound of the door, he looked up, his dark eyes meeting hers. They were deep and unfathomable, revealing nothing of his thoughts. Without a word, he tilted his head toward the leather couch against the wall—a silent invitation.
"How long will it take, Ethan" Scarlett said, her voice softer than she'd intended.
Ethan merely nodded, returning his attention to the documents before him. "I'll be done soon."
Scarlett settled onto the couch, smoothing her trousers as she crossed her legs at the ankle.
From this vantage point, she could observe him without being obvious.
The way his brow furrowed slightly when he encountered something that displeased him.
How he occasionally tapped his Mont Blanc pen against the desk, a subtle telegraph of his thoughts.
The thoughtful way he rubbed his jaw when contemplating a decision.
Minutes ticked by on the antique clock mounted on the wall.
Scarlett flipped through her phone, scrolling through emails without really reading them, her attention continually drawn back to the man across the room.
The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable—it was charged, alive with unspoken words.
She came across a video one of her friends had sent earlier, a compilation of dogs trying to understand magic tricks.
The first clip showed a German Shepherd tilting its head in utter confusion as a treat seemingly disappeared into thin air.
Scarlett pressed her lips together, trying to stifle her laughter, but a soft chuckle escaped despite her efforts.
Ethan's pen paused momentarily, though he didn't look up.
As she continued watching, her stomach suddenly let out a loud, unmistakable growl that seemed to echo in the quiet office. Scarlett winced, heat creeping up her neck.
Ethan looked at her then remained focused on his work, not acknowledging the sound, though she could have sworn his lips twitched slightly.
After a moment of awkward silence, Scarlett cleared her throat. "Ethan, do you have anything to eat around here?" She placed a hand dramatically over her stomach. "I'm hungry."
He finally looked up, his expression unreadable save for a slight arch of one eyebrow. "This is an office, Scarlett, not a canteen." His voice was dry, but there was something in his eyes—a glimmer of amusement, perhaps—that softened the words.
Scarlett's lips formed a small pout as she huffed, crossing her arms. "Fine. Be that way." Then, her face brightened as realization dawned. "Wait! I have snacks in my cabinet downstairs."
She sprang to her feet before he could respond, disappearing through the door with a swish of her hair. Less than a minute later, she returned triumphantly with a small bag of kettle-cooked chips clutched in her hand like a trophy.
"Crisis averted," she announced, settling back onto the couch with a satisfied smile.
She tore open the bag with delicate fingers, the crinkling sound impossibly loud in the quiet room. Popping a chip into her mouth, she resumed watching her video, occasional soft chuckles escaping her lips.
Ethan tried to focus on the quarterly projections before him, but his attention kept wandering to the woman on his couch.
The way she curled up in the corner, utterly at ease in a space where most people sat rigidly, afraid to breathe too deeply.
The elegant arch of her neck as she tilted her head back in silent laughter.
The loose tendril of hair that had fallen forward, framing her face in a way that made her look younger, more carefree.
Each time she laughed, his gaze would flicker toward her, drawn like a compass to the north. It was... distracting. Irritating, even. Or it should have been.
And then, as if sensing his attention, she looked directly at him, catching him mid-glance.
For a split second, Ethan felt his heartbeat falter, a rare moment of being caught off-guard. He swiftly turned back to his file, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly, annoyed at himself for the momentary lapse.
"Want some?" Scarlett offered, holding out the bag toward him, a playful glint in her eyes.
Ethan exhaled slowly through his nose. "No." The word was clipped, final.
She shrugged, unperturbed by his refusal, and continued munching.
The warmth of the office, combined with the rhythmic sound of Ethan flipping pages and the comfort of finally being off her feet, gradually lulled Scarlett into drowsiness.
Her blinks became longer, her head nodding slightly before she caught herself.
Eventually, she tucked her legs beneath her, rested her head against the arm of the couch, and drifted into sleep.
Ethan looked up sometime later, his eyes having drifted to the same paragraph three times without comprehension. The room had fallen unusually quiet, he realized. When his gaze landed on the couch, he understood why.
Scarlett was curled up like a cat, fast asleep.
Her phone had slipped from her fingers onto the cushion beside her, the screen now dark.
One arm was tucked beneath her head as a makeshift pillow, the other draped loosely over her waist. Her features, often animated in waking with expressions that shifted like quicksilver, were now peaceful in repose.
Her lips were slightly parted, her breathing deep and even, her long lashes casting faint shadows against her cheeks in the dim light.
For a long moment, Ethan simply watched her, a strange tightness forming in his chest. Then, setting aside the file, he stood and crossed the room with silent steps. He paused before the couch, towering over her sleeping form.
"Scarlett," he murmured, his voice low and surprisingly gentle.
She stirred, her eyelids fluttering before opening slowly, revealing eyes still hazy with sleep. Confusion flickered across her face before recognition dawned.
"Oh," she whispered, sitting up abruptly, smoothing her hair with one hand. "I fell asleep. I'm sorry." Pink tinged her cheeks as she straightened her blouse. "Are you done?"
The corner of Ethan's mouth quirked upward in what might almost be called a smile. "Thanks to someone, I had to finish early."
Scarlett's lips formed a perfect pout as she stood, gathering her bag. "You're welcome, then," she replied with exaggerated primness, though her eyes danced with humor.
They walked towards the elevator in comfortable silence, their footsteps syncing naturally.
Inside the elevator, they stood side by side, not speaking but acutely aware of each other's presence.
When their reflections caught in the polished doors, they made an striking pair—him tall and imposing in his business attire, her smaller but radiating a quiet confidence that matched his own.
The parking garage was nearly empty at this hour, their footsteps echoing against concrete. Ethan's sleek black Aston Martin—a machine of pure power and elegance—waited in its reserved space. He opened the passenger door for her, a gesture so automatic it seemed to surprise even him.
Scarlett slid into the butter-soft leather seat, the interior smelling of expensive cologne and the faintest hint of sandalwood. As Ethan settled behind the wheel, the engine roared to life with a purr that vibrated through the seats.
As Ethan settled behind the wheel, the engine purred to life beneath them. She turned slightly to look at him, one brow lifted.
"You always this chivalrous after hours?"
His hands rested on the wheel, gaze fixed ahead, but his voice held a quiet edge. "Only when someone eats chips on my couch."
Scarlett laughed—low, warm, real.
Outside, the rain danced on the windshield.
Inside, something unspoken shifted between them.
And neither of them said a word.
Not yet.