78 - Breakfast for Her
Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs as she bit her lower lip, tasting the faint metal of blood. She cursed herself inwardly, fingers twisting in the fabric of her dress.
Why did you say that? her mind screamed. Why now? Why is that?
She looked down, unable to meet his searching gaze, her chest rising and falling rapidly beneath the thin fabric of her dress. Her silence was answer enough, more damning than any words could be.
Ethan's jaw tightened, a muscle twitching beneath the skin.
Without another word, he turned back to the steering wheel, hands gripping it like an anchor in a storm.
He started the car again, this time pressing the accelerator harder than before.
The engine roared to life, tires spinning briefly on wet pavement before finding purchase.
They sped through the darkening road, windshield wipers fighting the now-heavy rain. Tension clung to the air like fog, suffocating in its intensity. The miles stretched in painful silence, marked only by the occasional flash of lightning illuminating their rigid profiles.
Neither spoke a word until they reached the iron gates of the mansion.
The moment the car stopped in the circular driveway, Ethan stepped out, not sparing her a glance.
Rain immediately soaked through his shirt, plastering it to his skin, but he didn't seem to notice.
His long strides carried him swiftly up the stone steps and through the massive double doors, water trailing in his wake across the marble foyer.
He disappeared into his study at the end of the hall, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind him with decisive finality.
Scarlett remained seated in the car, the leather seat beneath her suddenly cold and unyielding. Her fingers twisted in her lap, throat tight with unspoken words. Through the rain-streaked window, she watched the light appear beneath his study door, a thin golden line in the darkness.
She had expected... something. A denial. An explanation. Even anger would've been better than that cold silence that cut deeper than any shouted accusations.
He just left, she thought bitterly, the realization settling heavy in her chest. Didn't even try to explain.
Her eyes stung with heat, but she blinked the feeling away, forcing herself to breathe through the tightness in her chest. With trembling fingers, she gathered her purse and phone, pushing open the car door to face the downpour.
—
In the study, Ethan stood rigidly before the crackling fireplace, both hands braced against the edge of his mahogany desk.
Rainwater dripped from his hair onto important documents, but he made no move to dry himself.
His brows were furrowed deeply, gaze dark as it bore into the grain of the wood beneath his splayed fingers.
The amber light from the fire cast long shadows across the room, highlighting the tension in every line of his body. His reflection wavered in the glass-fronted bookcases—a stranger even to himself.
She thinks I still have feelings for Catherine? That I want to be close to her?
The thought grated against him like sandpaper on raw skin.
In all his thirty-four years, he had never cared about anyone's opinion of his personal life—not until now. But Scarlett's words had struck something raw and unprotected, a nerve he hadn't known existed.
Because deep down... she wasn't entirely wrong.
He knew Catherine had her own intentions.
She always had, from the moment they'd met again after years.
She lingered a little too long after shooting.
Found excuses to touch his arm, to brush imaginary lint from his jacket.
Flashed that rehearsed smile he no longer believed—the one that never quite reached her calculating eyes.
And he let her. Because it was easier than confronting the truth. Easier than admitting he was losing control of something far more dangerous than his company's direction or his public image.
But to Scarlett? He didn't owe her explanations. He couldn't allow himself to. That wasn't part of their arrangement.
She's just part of this agreement, he reminded himself harshly, pushing away from the desk to pace the length of the Persian rug. This isn't about emotions. It never was.
And yet... her eyes, when she had looked at him with that mix of pain and fire in the car—it haunted him now. The vulnerability there, raw and unguarded, so at odds with the sharpness of her words.
He ran a hand through his damp hair, sending droplets scattering across the leather-bound books lining the walls. His shirt clung uncomfortably to his skin, but the discomfort was nothing compared to the storm raging inside him.
–
Upstairs, Scarlett paced the bedroom, her bare feet silent against the plush carpet. She'd changed into silk pajamas, but comfort eluded her as frustration simmered in her chest, rising with each step like steam from a kettle.
"Why did you say that, Scarlett?" she muttered to herself, running her hands through her still-damp hair. "Why does it bother you so much when he's with her?"
She stopped before the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching lightning fork across the sky, briefly illuminating her reflection in the glass. Her eyes were red-rimmed and accusing, her normally composed features twisted with something like despair.
"Come back to your senses," she whispered harshly to her reflection, pressing a palm against the cool glass. "This marriage—it's a business deal. Nothing more. And when it's over, you go back to being who you were."
The words hung in the air, hollow as a promise made with crossed fingers.
Because what hurts more than seeing Ethan with Catherine... was him choosing silence when she needed something—anything—from him.
A word. A denial. The truth.
And he gave her nothing.
She clenched her jaw, hands balling into fists at her sides, nails digging crescents into her palms. No. She needed to say it properly. This wasn't how tonight should end—not with this weight crushing her chest, not with this poison in her veins.
Without thinking further, she turned and strode toward the door, her steps determined, her silk robe billowing behind her like a battle flag.
—
She pushed open the study door without knocking, the heavy oak swinging inward with a soft groan.
Ethan looked up sharply from where he stood by the fireplace, glass of amber liquid held forgotten in one hand.
The firelight played across his features, highlighting the sharp angles of his face, the tight set of his jaw.
His shirt had dried somewhat, but still clung to the contours of his chest. He said nothing, just watched her enter with those unfathomable dark eyes.
"Ethan," she began, voice tight as a wire. She stepped fully into the room, leaving the door ajar behind her. "Can we talk?"
He didn't answer—didn't nod, didn't refuse. Just stood there, watching her with unreadable eyes that reflected the dancing flames.
She moved closer, her bare feet silent on the antique rug. The scent of rain still clung to her skin, mingling with the woodsmoke and whiskey that permeated the study. Her voice softened, vulnerability bleeding through despite her best efforts.
"I'm sorry. I... I overreacted earlier," she said, the words tumbling out too quickly, trying to mask the emotion trembling beneath them.
Her fingers twisted the silk belt of her robe nervously.
"It's your life. You can spend time with whoever you want.
" She swallowed hard, fighting to keep her voice steady.
"I know I don't have the right to tell you otherwise. "
Ethan said nothing, but his gaze remained locked on her, sharp and penetrating. The glass in his hand caught the firelight, sending amber reflections dancing across the wall behind him.
Scarlett shifted her weight, growing increasingly uneasy under the weight of his silence. She bit her lower lip, teeth worrying the tender flesh as words trembled on the tip of her tongue.
"Don't you have anything to say?" she asked quietly, her voice barely audible above the crackling of the fire and the persistent drumming of rain against the windows.
He gave the slightest nod, a barely perceptible movement, but still didn't speak. His eyes never left her face, searching for something she couldn't name.
The silence stretched between them, elastic and unbearable. Scarlett's shoulders slumped slightly, defeat settling over her like a shroud.
"Hm. Okay," she murmured, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the room. "Then... I'll go to bed."
She turned, heart heavy as lead in her chest, and walked out—her footsteps echoing down the hallway like distant thunder.
Behind her, Ethan stood motionless, his eyes following her retreating figure until she disappeared from view. The crystal tumbler in his hand caught the firelight, throwing fractured rainbows against the wall.
Something in him wanted to call her back.
When Scarlett put her hand on the door knob, she heard "You should've asked me, Scarlett," he said, his voice low, almost a murmur. "Instead of assuming."
She nodded, ashamed. Her fingers twisted together, unsure of what to say.
Ethan took a breath.
"Whatever you think you saw... it wasn't what it looked like. Catherine and I—we had something in the past. That's over. Now, she's just a friend and a co-worker. That's all."
Scarlett's eyes met his. Something in her softened. Relief, unspoken but clear, washed over her features.
"You mean... there's nothing between you?"
Ethan let out a sigh and nodded.
"Yes. Absolutely nothing.", he said without moving his gaze from her face.
Scarlett's shoulders relaxed. Her lips curled into a faint, involuntary smile. She didn't say it, but he could sense the weight lifting off her chest.
She took a step back, shaking her head lightly.
She said quietly, "Hmmm.I should've asked you. I just... let it build up."
Ethan gave a faint smirk. "Are you okay now?"
Scarlett straightened, masking her flustered heart with sass.
"Yes, Mr. Blackwood. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to bed. You can go back to your beloved work."
She spun on her heel and walked out.
Ethan's eyes followed her all the way to the door. The moment it clicked shut behind her, a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth—brief, but warm.
She cared. Even if she wouldn't admit it.
And for the first time in days, something about that made him feel... at peace.
—
Morning came softly.
Scarlett was already awake before the sun fully rose. Golden light barely filtered through the windows as she moved through the apartment, freshly showered, hair curled into soft waves that framed her face.
A cream blouse hugged her figure, tucked neatly into high-waisted navy slacks. Her heels clicked lightly across the hardwood as she entered the living room, fastening the strap of her watch.
She stopped.
Ethan was already there.
Leaning against the kitchen counter. Tailored charcoal suit. Espresso cup in hand. Morning light carved shadows along his jaw, highlighting the faint stubble he hadn't shaved.
He looked up, and something unspoken flickered in his eyes—surprise, followed by curiosity, maybe even amusement.
"Well, someone's eager to start the day," he said, raising a brow as he set his cup down with a quiet clink.
Scarlett offered him a knowing smile as she walked past him toward the foyer. "What can I say? My boss gave me strict orders to come in early."
That drew a soft laugh from him. A real one. Not the condescending chuckle she'd grown used to. "Boss sounds like a real tyrant."
"Oh, you have no idea," she quipped, glancing over her shoulder with playful sarcasm in her tone.
He straightened, grabbing his keys from the counter. "Then let's not keep him waiting, shall we?"
Scarlett gave a nod. "Give me a second—I'll grab my bag."
She disappeared into the bedroom and returned within moments, slinging her bag over her shoulder, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. They left together, the quiet hum of morning just beginning to stir outside.
Ethan drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the gear shift. His eyes flicked to her as they pulled onto the main road. "You're unusually quiet. That's... suspicious."
Scarlett looked out the window, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "Maybe I'm just enjoying the peace before I step into chaos."
Ethan glanced at her, amused. "Is that what working with me feels like? Chaos?"
"Controlled chaos," she corrected, crossing one leg over the other. "You're very particular about how your world runs."
He gave a low chuckle, the corners of his mouth twitching. "I prefer precision. Predictability."
"And yet... here I am," she said, half-teasing, half-serious.
His gaze lingered on her for a second longer than necessary before turning back to the road. "You're not as unpredictable as you think, Scarlett."
She tilted her head toward him. "Oh? Enlighten me."
"You act like you don't care, but your eyes always give you away," he said smoothly. "Especially when you're irritated. Like yesterday, when I rearranged the schedule last minute."
Scarlett rolled her eyes, but her lips curved in spite of herself. "Remind me again why I agreed to this arrangement?"
Ethan smirked. "Because deep down, you enjoy the challenge."
She scoffed softly, but didn't deny it.
A sudden, loud growl interrupted the silence.
Scarlett's eyes widened as she instinctively clutched her stomach. "That was not me," she said with mock innocence.
Ethan turned to her, arching a brow, clearly amused. "You sure? Because your stomach just made a compelling argument."
She giggled, rubbing her midsection. "Fine. I skipped breakfast. It was either food or my eyeliner. I chose wisely."
Ethan shook his head, a low, amused hum escaping him. "Come on. Let's fix that."
The elevator pinged open. Instead of heading toward the executive floor, Ethan veered sharply toward the cafeteria.
Instantly, heads turned.
Whispers rippled like electricity through the early-morning crowd.
Is that... Ethan Blackwood?
In the cafeteria?
Buying food?
Even the baristas froze mid-motion, aprons crumpled in their hands, eyes widening as he approached.
The man who usually appeared in boardrooms, magazine covers, and gala fundraisers was now casually walking toward a sandwich counter.
Every step he took commanded the room, the echo of his polished shoes cutting through the low murmur of conversation.
Scarlett tried not to smile at the surreal spectacle. Ethan Blackwood—the untouchable, unflappable, billionaire force—was here, in the cafeteria, buying breakfast. For her.
He stopped beside her, arms folded loosely, gaze calm yet impossibly sharp. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, as if he was fully aware of the shockwaves he was causing without even speaking.
Scarlett felt heat rise to her cheeks. She looked at him sideways, a mix of amusement and disbelief curling her lips. "People are staring."
"They always do," he said, voice low, smooth, carrying just a hint of teasing. "Let them stare."
Ethan gestured toward the counter. "Pick something."
She scanned the menu, her eyes lighting up. "A sandwich and an Americano, please."
The barista nodded and got to work. Ethan stood beside her, arms loosely crossed.
As she placed her order, the barista glanced at him again, nervously adjusting the coffee machine. Whispers became audible now.
He's actually buying food.
For her.
Is this real life?
Scarlett's eyes met Ethan's. He gave no explanation, no apology, just that impossibly composed stare, as though this—the small act of walking into a cafeteria, choosing a sandwich, sharing a smile—was the most natural thing in the world.
And yet, it wasn't.
It was Ethan Blackwood. Doing something human. For her.
Scarlett couldn't help the small, delighted laugh that escaped her, soft and bright amidst the low hum of astonished coworkers. She slid her tray forward, setting the sandwich and coffee in front of him.
When she got her tray, she glanced at him curiously. "Aren't you getting anything?"
"I'm fine."
She narrowed her eyes. "You didn't eat either, did you?"
"I don't usually eat this early," he shrugged.
Scarlett let out a soft, disapproving sigh. "That's not something to brag about."
Without waiting for a reply, she walked back to the counter and ordered another sandwich and a black coffee.
When she returned, she placed them in front of him. "Eat. You'll be less grumpy by noon."
He looked at the tray, then at her. There was a pause. Something unreadable passed between them.
"I'm not grumpy," he said, though the tilt of his lips betrayed him.
She raised a brow.
"...Not always," he added, finally taking a bite.
Scarlett sipped her Americano, letting herself linger in the moment. This... this is progress, she thought.
And the cafeteria, buzzing with disbelief, had unwittingly witnessed the softer, hidden side of Ethan Blackwood—a man who, for just a fleeting moment, belonged to her alone.
Once they finished eating, they walked side by side until the hallway split. Ethan halted.
"Be at the studio by eight," he said, his voice dipping into something more formal.
Scarlett nodded, turning to leave. "Got it, Mr. Blackwood."
But as she walked away, she heard his voice again—lower, teasing.
"Don't be late, Mrs. Blackwood."
She paused, then looked over her shoulder. He winked.
Scarlett rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered.