72 - Where His Armor Cracked
The drive back to the mansion was charged with unspoken words.
Rain continued to fall, though less violently now, tapping against the windows like impatient fingers.
Ethan's knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his jaw clenched so tight that a muscle worked visibly in his cheek.
Scarlett leaned her head against the cool glass of the passenger window, suddenly feeling impossibly tired.
The events of the day seemed to press down on her with physical weight.
Her eyelids grew heavy once more, and despite her best efforts to stay alert—to prepare for the confrontation that surely awaited them at home—she drifted into unconsciousness.
When Ethan glanced over to speak to her, the words died on his lips.
In sleep, Scarlett's face had flushed an unnatural pink.
Concern replaced anger as he reached across to touch her forehead, his fingers recoiling from the heat radiating from her skin.
"Scarlett," he said, trying to wake her.
"Scarlett, you're burning up."
She stirred but didn't fully wake, murmuring something unintelligible before settling back into feverish sleep.
Ethan pressed harder on the accelerator, cutting through side streets to reach home faster.
Once there, he didn't hesitate. He lifted Scarlett from the passenger seat, cradling her against his chest as he carried her into the mansion and up the sweeping staircase to their bedroom.
Her head lolled against his shoulder, her breath coming in quick, shallow pants that sent fear coursing through him.
"It's okay," he whispered, though he wasn't sure if he was reassuring her or himself.
"I've got you."
He lay her gently on their bed, immediately reaching for his phone to call the family doctor.
The conversation was brief and to the point—Ethan Blackwood didn't ask for favors; he simply expected results.
The doctor promised to arrive within thirty minutes.
While waiting, Ethan dampened a washcloth with cool water, placing it on Scarlett's forehead.
He unbuttoned the top buttons of her blouse to help cool her, his fingers suddenly clumsy with concern.
This was unfamiliar territory for him—being the caretaker rather than the one cared for.
When the doctor arrived, his examination was thorough but quick.
"One hundred and two," he announced, reading the thermometer.
"She's caught quite a chill, and the stress hasn't helped.
" He glanced at Ethan, a hint of accusation in his professional demeanor.
Ethan accepted the prescription without comment, listening intently to the doctor's instructions.
If her fever didn't break within 24 hours, she would need to be hospitalized.
The gravity of the situation settled on him like a weight.
After seeing the doctor out, Ethan headed to the kitchen.
He'd made porridge for her.
Back in the bedroom, he sat on the edge of the mattress, bowl in hand.
"Scarlett," he said softly, brushing damp hair from her forehead.
"You need to eat something before taking your medicine.
"
Her eyes fluttered open, glassy with fever.
"Ethan?" she whispered, confusion evident in her voice.
"Yes, I'm here." He helped her sit up slightly, propping pillows behind her back.
"Just a few bites."
With infinite patience, Ethan fed her one small spoonful at a time.
When she turned her head away after the fifth bite, he didn't press.
It was enough to take the medicine, which he helped her swallow with small sips of water.
Throughout the evening, Ethan maintained a vigil by her bedside.
Every hour, he checked her temperature, changing the cool compress on her forehead when it grew warm.
He researched fever management on his tablet, absorbing information with the same intensity he usually reserved for market trends and investment opportunities.
When Scarlett grew restless, murmuring in her sleep and fighting against imagined constraints, Ethan spoke to her in low, soothing tones—words of reassurance he would never have imagined himself capable of before this moment.
He held her hand when she reached out blindly, her fingers curling around his like a lifeline.
At some point, exhaustion claimed him too.
He dozed off on the chair beside the bed, his tablet sliding from his lap onto the carpeted floor with a soft thud.
Files he'd brought home from the office lay scattered across the bedside table, completely forgotten in favor of more pressing concerns.
Scarlett woke briefly during the night, the fever having broken enough for lucidity to return.
Through half-lidded eyes, she observed Ethan asleep in the uncomfortable chair, his face for once unguarded in sleep.
Vulnerability and strength coexisted in his features in a way she rarely witnessed when he was awake.
The moment he stirred, sensing her gaze upon him, Scarlett quickly closed her eyes, feigning sleep.
She felt his cool hand against her forehead, and heard his sigh of relief as he registered her reduced temperature.
The damp cloth was removed, and she felt the mattress dip as he stood.
A glance at the bedside clock revealed the late hour—2:30 AM, the glowing digits announced.
To her surprise, instead of returning to the chair, Ethan carefully climbed onto the bed beside her.
With a gentleness she wouldn't have thought him capable of, he took her hand in his, their fingers intertwining naturally.
When his breathing evened out into sleep once more, Scarlett allowed herself to open her eyes.
She studied his face in the dim light filtering through the curtains, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth despite everything.
Sleep reclaimed her soon after, the medicine pulling her back into darkness.
But something had shifted between wakefulness and dreams—a realization that perhaps Ethan Blackwood wasn't entirely the cold, uncaring man he pretended to be.
—
Morning light streamed through the partially opened curtains, painting golden stripes across the bedroom floor.
Scarlett stirred, her body aching but her mind clearer than it had been the night before.
She turned her head to find Ethan fully dressed in one of his impeccable suits, adjusting his cufflinks as he watched her.
"Scarlett," he said, moving to sit on the edge of the bed.
"How are you now?"
She pushed herself up against the pillows, testing her strength.
"Feeling better, Ethan." A pause, weighted with unspoken emotions.
"And... Thanks for yesterday."
Something flickered across his face—relief, perhaps, or something deeper he wasn't ready to name.
"Don't come to the office today. Take a rest."
As Scarlett opened her mouth to protest—to insist she was well enough to work—Ethan gently pressed his fingers to her lips, silencing her.
The unexpected tenderness of the gesture caught her off guard.
"It's your boss's order," he said, a hint of his usual authority returning, though softened around the edges.
"Obey it."
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak with his fingers still ghosting across her lips.
When he withdrew his hand, the phantom sensation lingered, warming her skin.
After Ethan left for work, the mansion felt cavernous in its emptiness.
Scarlett forced herself to eat the breakfast that had been prepared for her, knowing her body needed nourishment to heal.
The warm shower afterward helped clear the last cobwebs from her mind, hot water sluicing away the remnants of fever and bringing her fully back to herself.
Dressed in comfortable shorts and a soft t-shirt, her hair still damp from the shower, she wandered through the quiet rooms. Without work to occupy her, time stretched before her like an empty canvas.
She eventually settled on watching a movie, gathering snacks from the kitchen to create a nest of comfort on the living room sofa.
The movie failed to hold her interest, her thoughts continually drifting back to the events of the previous day—to rain-soaked streets and Andrian's gentle care, to Ethan's unexpected tenderness as he nursed her through the night.
The contrast between the two men, and her own complicated feelings for each, left her restless and distracted.
At 11:15 AM, she reached for her phone and typed a message to Ethan: "When will you come home?
"
His response came quickly, as if he'd been waiting for her contact: "Just now I came to office, Scarlett.
"
"I'm bored," she admitted, imagining his slight smile at her candid confession.
"Did you have medicine and food?" he asked, his concern evident even through text.
"Yes, I had both," she replied.
The conversation petered out naturally, neither having more to say yet both reluctant to end the exchange.
Eventually, Scarlett set her phone aside and tried to focus on the movie again, only to be lulled into sleep by the combination of medication and the quiet drone of dialogue from the screen.
She wasn't sure how long she'd slept when her phone's ringtone jolted her awake.
Ethan's name flashed on the screen, and she answered with a sleepy but genuine warmth.
"Ethan..." Just his name, but carrying a wealth of meaning in its intonation.
"Did you have your lunch and medicine?
" His voice was businesslike, but she could detect the undercurrent of concern beneath the professional facade.
"No, Ethan. Just now woke up." She rubbed sleep from her eyes, checking the time on the wall clock.
"Did you have your lunch?"
"About to," he replied.
"Don't forget to take medicine."
After hanging up, Scarlett sat motionless, phone still in hand.
The care in Ethan's voice surprised her, especially in light of their argument.
"You are not anyone to me." The words still stung, resurfacing like a bruise pressed too hard.
How could the same man who had dismissed her so coldly now inquire about her meals and medicine with such evident concern?
To distract herself from the circular thoughts, she turned to the TV again, selecting a romantic drama series from the streaming service.
The first episodes dragged on, but as the characters developed and their stories intertwined, she found herself increasingly invested in their fictional lives and loves.
She was so absorbed in the show that she didn't immediately register the sound of the front door opening.
When she looked up, Ethan stood in the doorway, arms laden with files and what appeared to be takeout bags.
A quick glance at the clock confirmed it was only 3:50 PM—hours before he typically returned home.
"Ethan, you came early today," she observed, surprise evident in her voice.
He approached, setting the food packets on the coffee table before her.
"I thought you were bored," he said, a teasing note entering his voice.
"So I came. If you don't want me here, I can leave.
" The playful threat was belied by the warmth in his eyes.
Curiosity piqued, Scarlett opened one of the bags.
Her eyes widened as she recognized the distinctive packaging of her favorite Korean buns—a treat she rarely indulged in but had once mentioned to Ethan in passing months ago.
"Ethan, did you buy these for me?" she asked, hardly believing he'd remembered such a small detail.
He shrugged, affecting nonchalance. "Then who else would I have bought them for?
"
The simple acknowledgment that he'd thought of her—had gone out of his way to bring her something specifically chosen to please her—broke something open inside Scarlett.
Without thinking, she launched herself from the couch and threw her arms around him, pressing her face into the expensive fabric of his suit.
"Thank you so much," she whispered, her voice muffled against his chest.
After a moment's hesitation, Ethan's arms came around her, returning the embrace.
His hand moved to the back of her head, fingers threading gently through her hair in a gesture so tender it made her breath catch.
Reality crashed back suddenly, and Scarlett pulled away, cheeks flushing with embarrassment at her impulsive action.
Ethan allowed her retreat without comment, simply heading to their bedroom to change into more comfortable clothes.
When he returned, he sat beside her on the couch, reaching for one of the Korean buns and taking a bite.
"Not bad," he admitted, though his usual preference was for more refined cuisine.
They settled into watching the drama together, Scarlett enthusiastically filling him in on the characters and plot developments she'd learned over the afternoon.
Her hands moved animatedly as she spoke, eyes bright with engagement, looking for all the world like a child explaining her favorite cartoon to an indulgent parent.
"So the main character thinks she's marrying for convenience," Scarlett explained, pointing at the screen, "but you can see in his eyes that he's already falling for her.
Classic enemies-to-lovers trope, but they're doing it well.
"
Ethan found himself more captivated by her enthusiasm than the actual plot.
The way her face lit up when discussing the characters' motivations, the unconscious way she leaned closer to him when pointing out details on screen—these small moments felt more precious than any business deal he'd ever closed.
As the afternoon wore on, Scarlett began to show signs of fatigue.
She rubbed her eyes, blinking slowly as the extended screen time took its toll on her still-recovering system.
"Scarlett," Ethan said, setting aside the files he'd been attempting to review.
"Your eyes are already tired. Stop looking at the screen and get some sleep.
"
She set down her phone, which she'd been using to look up information about the actors between episodes.
"How long do I need to sleep?" she asked, a petulant note creeping into her voice.
"Until you're fully recovered," he replied, his tone brooking no argument.
Scarlett crossed her arms over her chest, a gesture that made her look younger and more vulnerable despite her show of defiance.
"Fine," she said, standing and walking toward the bedroom with exaggerated dignity.
Ethan watched her go, shaking his head with fond exasperation.
The sight of her small rebellion—so different from her usual composed compliance—stirred something protective and tender within him.
Later that evening, as they prepared for bed, something had shifted between them.
The events of the past day had stripped away some of the careful barriers they'd built around their relationship.
They lay in the large bed, no longer maintaining the careful distance that had characterized their previous nights together.
Instead, they found themselves facing each other, hands intertwined between them on the silk sheets.
In the darkness, with only the faint glow of the city lights filtering through the curtains, they looked at each other with a new understanding.
Ethan's thumb traced gentle circles on the back of Scarlett's hand, a unconscious gesture of comfort and connection.
Her breathing was steady now, no longer labored with fever, but she remained wakeful, studying his face in the dim light.
"Ethan," she whispered, her voice barely audible in the quiet room.
"Hmm?" he responded, his own voice soft and drowsy.
"Thank you," she said again, but this time it carried the weight of everything—not just the Korean buns or the care during her illness, but for staying, for holding her hand, for proving that perhaps his cruel words from the day before hadn't been the complete truth.
He squeezed her hand gently in response, the gesture saying what words couldn't convey.
In the darkness, with their defenses lowered by exhaustion and intimacy, they both acknowledged that something fundamental had changed between them.
As sleep finally claimed them both, their hands remained intertwined—a bridge across the space that had once divided them, a promise of possibilities neither was quite ready to voice aloud.
The rain had stopped hours ago, leaving the world outside washed clean and new.
Inside the mansion, two people who had spent months circling each other like wary strangers finally allowed themselves to rest in each other's presence, their synchronized breathing the only sound in the peaceful night.
In his own apartment across town, Andrian stood at his window, looking out at the clear sky and thinking of the woman who had briefly found refuge in his home.
His promise to himself remained unchanged—he would not give up on Scarlett, would not let Ethan's possessiveness be the end of the story.