69 - It bothers me
Back at the office, Scarlett channeled her emotions into productivity.
Her pencil flew across paper, refining designs, solving problems of structure and flow, transforming concepts into creations that would soon exist in three dimensions.
By late afternoon, her desk was covered with finalized sketches, each one a small victory.
She gathered them carefully, sliding them into a leather portfolio.
Her stomach twisted as she realized her next task-showing them to Ethan.
As creative director, he had final approval on all designs.
Part of her wanted to put it off until tomorrow, but the ticking timeline of their upcoming launch wouldn't allow for procrastination.
With a deep breath, she made her way back to his office, knocking with more confidence than she felt.
This time when she entered, Ethan sat behind his desk while Catherine occupied a chair across from him, legs elegantly crossed, skirt riding high on her thigh.
Their conversation cut off abruptly at Scarlett's entrance.
"The final sketches," Scarlett announced, moving forward to spread them across Ethan's desk.
She kept her voice professional, gaze focused on the papers rather than the people.
Catherine rose, heels clicking against the hardwood as she circled the desk to examine the designs.
"The hemline on the evening gown should be lower," she said, tapping a red nail against one sketch.
"And the neckline on this piece needs to be more dramatic if we want press coverage.
"
Scarlett bit the inside of her cheek, nodding stiffly as she made notes in the margins.
Catherine wasn't wrong-her suggestions had merit-but that made them even harder to accept.
As Scarlett gathered the sketches, tucking them back into the portfolio, Catherine turned to Ethan with a smile that transformed her face, softening its sharp edges.
"Ethan, can we go for dinner? We could continue our discussion about the Milan expansion.
"
Scarlett's fingers fumbled, nearly dropping the portfolio.
She didn't wait to hear Ethan's response, couldn't bear to see his likely acceptance.
She mumbled something about implementing the changes and hurried from the room, heart pounding in her ears.
Back in her office, she threw the portfolio onto her desk and paced the small space, hands clenched at her sides.
"How dare he?" she muttered, anger overtaking hurt.
"He made such a scene when I went to lunch with Adrian-interrogated me for hours, practically accused me of corporate espionage.
But he's going to dinner with his ex-girlfriend?
"
The hypocrisy burned. Scarlett pulled out her phone, thumb hovering over Ethan's contact information.
Call him out? Demand an explanation? The impulse was strong.
She pressed the call button before she could talk herself out of it.
One ring. Two. Three. Four.
Voicemail.
Scarlett exhaled sharply, disconnecting without leaving a message.
She stood motionless for a long moment, then gathered her things and left without saying goodbye to anyone.
The apartment felt cavernous in the quiet of evening-walls too still, shadows too deep.
Scarlett drifted from one room to another, barefoot on cold hardwood floors, the hush pressing in on her like a second skin.
The overhead lights cast a dull glow, but it only made the emptiness feel sharper, more pronounced.
She pulled her hair up into a messy bun and changed out of her work clothes with mechanical motions, exchanging her fitted blouse and skirt for soft leggings and an oversized sweater that hung off one shoulder.
It should've felt like comfort, like home.
Instead, it felt like waiting.
Dinner arrived in a paper bag that crinkled too loudly when she peeled it open.
Thai-his favorite, not hers. She pushed the containers around, took a few bites, then let the rest go cold on the coffee table.
The television flickered in the background, voices rising and falling, laugh tracks sounding eerily out of place in the sterile room.
She checked the clock more than once.
9:43. 10:15. 10:59.
By 11:30, she was curled up on the edge of the bed with a novel open in her lap, the pages unturned for the last half hour.
The bedside lamp cast a soft pool of light over her legs, while the rest of the room remained dim, the shadows long and stretching.
Then-finally-the front door opened.
Her heart gave a quiet, traitorous jump.
Heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway, slow and measured.
The sound paused just outside the bedroom, and for a beat, Scarlett didn't breathe.
Then the door creaked open.
Ethan stepped inside.
His tall frame filled the doorway like he was bringing the whole outside world with him-city smells, late-night exhaustion, the weight of a day lived far away from her.
He said nothing. Just crossed the room, silent but not stealthy, and moved to the closet.
The soft swoosh of fabric accompanied him as he draped his suit jacket over one arm, loosened his tie with a practiced tug, and began to undress with quiet efficiency.
Scarlett watched him, her gaze steady over the rim of her book though she hadn't read a word in hours.
She didn't speak right away, unsure whether her voice would come out too brittle or too soft.
But the silence was worse.
"Work's keeping you late a lot these days," she said at last, her tone even-carefully measured, like she was laying a card face-down on the table.
Ethan paused mid-button. His back was still to her.
"Yeah" he said, his voice low, rough from the day.
He turned to face her, one eyebrow raised.
"Is that a problem?"
She closed the book softly and let it rest in her lap, fingers curling around the cover.
"I don't know," she murmured, and then looked up at him.
"But it bothers me."
There was a beat of stillness-long enough for the hum of the heater to fill the silence.
Ethan's expression shifted. Not dramatically.
Just enough. A subtle narrowing of his eyes, a faint crease forming between his brows like he hadn't expected her to answer that way.
He looked at her for a long moment, eyes dark and unreadable.
Then, as if deciding something, he exhaled quietly and turned back to the closet.
Scarlett watched his shoulders rise and fall with his breath, his movements a little stiffer now.
"You don't even call or text," she said, voice quieter this time, but not weak.
Ethan tugged the shirt from his shoulders and dropped it neatly into the hamper.
"Didn't realize I needed to update you."
"That's not what I said.
"
"No, but that's what you meant."
She sat up straighter, the blanket falling away from her knees.
"I mean I don't know what's going on with you anymore.
And why are you behaving like this? And.
.. I...hate guessing."
His jaw clenched slightly.
He still hadn't looked back at her.
"I'm tired, Scarlett.
"
"So am I." Her voice cracked-not loudly, but enough for her to feel it echo inside her chest.
This time, he turned around.
Their eyes locked, and for a moment, neither moved.
His face was unreadable-cool, maybe even cautious.
But there was something else underneath, something flickering too fast to name.
He walked a few steps closer, then stopped.
Not at the edge of the bed, but not far either.
Close enough for her to see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the weariness that no amount of sleep ever seemed to fix lately.
He looked away then, down at the floor like it held some answer he didn't want to say aloud.
A muscle in his jaw twitched, but he said nothing.
"Ethan," she said, and the name landed between them like a stone dropped into water.
He met her gaze again. There was something behind his eyes now-something rawer than frustration, something that looked an awful lot like fear.
But the words never came.
Instead, he ran a hand through his hair, then turned away, crossing the room to the bathroom without another word.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Scarlett sat in the silence that followed, her hands clenched in the folds of her sweater, heart pounding in her ears.
The book lay forgotten. And the space between them-once full of shared mornings, casual touches, and inside jokes-felt like a chasm neither of them knew how to cross.
Not yet.
Scarlett lay still, the silence between them stretched so tight it felt like it might shatter with a breath.
The low hum of the city slipped in through the windows-distant horns, the faint wail of a siren fading somewhere far below.
Life, relentless and oblivious, marched on outside.
But here, in this bedroom, the air had gone still.
Heavy.
The covers rose and fell gently with each breath she took, though her chest felt constricted, as if grief had nested there and wouldn't loosen its grip.
Her eyes were open, unfocused in the dark, lashes damp against her skin.
She didn't wipe them. Didn't move.
Catherine's laugh echoed in her memory-light, polished, just a little too loud.
That faint, cloying perfume, sweet like decay, had lingered on Ethan's jacket after he got home.
Scarlett had caught it the moment he passed her in the hallway.
And that look Catherine gave her-over the shoulder, lips curved in satisfaction, like she'd won something.
And Ethan, standing beside her, jaw tight, voice clipped: "What do you want?
"
Scarlett had flinched inwardly, even if she hadn't shown it.
That tone used to be reserved for boardroom interrogations, not for her.
He used to look at her like she was the center of the room.
Now he barely looked at all.
Her fingers curled tighter into the duvet.
The soft cotton twisted between her fists, grounding her.
She should've said something. Really said something.
Slammed the door, thrown the damn takeout against the wall.
Anything to cut through this unbearable fog.
But what would she be admitting?
That she'd broken their rules first?
That somewhere along the line, she'd started reading into the way his hand lingered on her back, the way his eyes softened when she laughed?
That she'd imagined something real growing between the silences?
No strings. No complications. That had been the agreement.
So then why did it feel like something vital had been ripped from her?
Her throat tightened. She blinked against the darkness, hoping exhaustion would eventually smother everything.
But her mind kept circling the same jagged edge, over and over-his voice, Catherine's smirk, her own reflection in the conference room glass: tired, fading, unwanted.
The ache settled deep. Persistent. Like a bruise you keep pressing, just to feel something.
Ethan lay beside her, flat on his back, the ceiling looming above him like a blank page he couldn't write on.
He stared up at it anyway, as if answers might appear in the shadows cast by the streetlamp outside.
Scarlett hadn't moved in a while. Her breathing was soft and even, but not peaceful.
He'd learned to tell the difference.
He let out a slow breath, barely audible.
His fingers twitched against the sheets.
That line-"Looks like your work is taking longer than usual.
" He could still hear the way she'd said it, quiet, cool, but threaded with something brittle beneath the surface.
Not anger. Not quite.
Disappointment.
That was worse.
He knew how she must've felt seeing Catherine at the event tonight-her standing too close, laughing at nothing, her hand brushing his sleeve like they were still something.
It had felt rehearsed. Like Catherine had waited for Scarlett to walk in before turning up the volume on her performance.
And he'd stood there. Frozen. Watching Scarlett's eyes take in everything.
Catherine. Him. The space between.
And then he'd said- "What do you want?
"
He closed his eyes, jaw tightening.
The words had tasted like metal, bitter and sharp.
What had he meant to say? That it wasn't what it looked like?
That Catherine didn't mean anything anymore?
That she never really had?
The truth was, Catherine had always been easy.
Predictable. Polished on the outside, ambitious to the bone.
She played the game because she liked the rules.
Scarlett... Scarlett made him feel too much.
Too fast.
And lately, those feelings had started slipping out in dangerous ways-in the way his gaze lingered on her laugh, in the ache he felt when she walked out of a room.
He turned his head, slowly, to look at her.
She was facing away, curled into herself beneath the covers, as still as a painting.
Her shoulders were tense, pulled in tight.
She wasn't asleep. He could tell by the way her fingers gripped the blanket, white-knuckled and tense.
He wanted to reach out. Say something.
Break the silence.
But he didn't move.
What if he said the wrong thing again?
What if she didn't want the truth?
What if he wasn't ready to admit that he did?
His hand hovered inches above the space between them, uncertain.
Then he let it fall back against the mattress.
He remembered her that morning at the warehouse-her eyes lighting up over bolts of silk and cashmere, her fingers trailing reverently across the fabric like she was touching something sacred.
That was the Scarlett he'd first been drawn to.
The one who saw beauty in small things, who brought color into rooms without trying.
He used to be able to make her smile like that.
Now he could barely get a glance.
He turned onto his side, facing her back.
Close enough to feel the warmth radiating off her, but not close enough to bridge the distance that had grown between them.
His voice, when it came, was rough and uncertain, almost a whisper.
"Scarlett..."
She didn't respond.
Didn't shift.
She slept already. He winced.
The silence fell again, heavier now, full of frayed threads.
Morning broke softly, slipping through the sheer curtains in pale threads of gold.
The city outside stirred to life-early traffic murmuring down the street, the distant grind of a garbage truck, someone's dog barking two floors down.
The apartment was quiet, the kind of stillness that felt careful, as if sound might disrupt something fragile.
Scarlett blinked against the light, lashes fluttering, her body heavy with the remnants of a night she hadn't truly slept through.
Her head rested in the crook of her arm, the sheets tangled around her waist. She stayed still for a moment, breathing in the warmth of the bed, half-hoping it might offer comfort she didn't quite deserve.
Last night came back in fragments-sharp edges and quieter wounds.
Ethan's voice. Her silence. That unbearable space between them.
She rolled onto her back with a soft sigh, eyes tracing the faint pattern on the ceiling.
God.
Her chest tightened with a hot prickle of embarrassment.
She'd said too much-felt too much. And worse, she'd let him see it.
Let him know he still had that kind of hold on her.
That wasn't supposed to happen.
They'd agreed on boundaries for a reason.
Clean lines. But she'd crossed them with every unspoken look, every breath held too long when he stood too close.
Scarlett rubbed her temples, frustration curling in her gut like smoke.
She'd handed her vulnerability over without even realizing it.
And for what? A man who couldn't even meet her eyes when it mattered?
But it wasn't just shame crawling under her skin now.
No-there was something else. Something sharp.
Steady.
Resolve.
Catherine.
That smug, saccharine smile.
The way she'd hovered by Ethan's side like a claim, like she knew exactly which buttons to press and how to twist the knife.
Scarlett sat up slowly, her hair falling in waves around her shoulders.
Her gaze swept the room-Ethan's side of the bed already cold and empty, his absence humming like a low note beneath everything.
Of course he was gone.
But that didn't matter.
Not right now.
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet meeting cool hardwood.
The air carried the scent of lingering cologne and the faintest trace of bergamot from her pillow.
She inhaled once, then stood.
In the mirror across the room, her reflection stared back: eyes shadowed, lips pressed into a firm line.
Still beautiful, but dulled. Dimmed.
That wouldn't do.
She reached for her robe, wrapping it around herself with a quiet deliberateness, like she was armoring up.
She didn't have the energy for another confrontation-not today-but she could reclaim something else.
Her dignity. Her focus. Her self.
If Catherine thought she'd won, she was wrong.
Scarlett might've been bruised last night, but she wasn't broken.
Not by a woman who played games behind perfect lipstick and calculated touches.
And not by a man who hadn't figured out what he really wanted yet.
She crossed the room to the vanity, tying her robe tighter around her waist. The brush glided through her hair with long, even strokes, each pass smoothing more than just tangles-each pass piecing her back together.
She caught her own eyes in the mirror.
"No more crying in the dark," she whispered under her breath.
"No more waiting."
A moment passed.
Then she lifted her chin, the faintest glint of steel behind her gaze.
She might've fallen for Ethan. Maybe deeper than she'd ever intended.
But she wasn't going to beg for love-or attention.
If he wanted to drift, let him.
She wasn't going to lose herself just to hold on to someone else.
And she sure as hell wasn't going to lose to Catherine.
Not now. Not ever.