101 - She Has Me
The car rolled to a seamless stop beneath the towering glass fa?ade of the office building, sunlight scattering across its mirrored surface in blinding shards.
The structure loomed overhead like a cathedral of steel and authority, each reflective panel glinting like a watchful eye tracking every arrival, every movement, every secret.
The rear door opened.
Ethan stepped out first.
Of course he did.
He didn't step onto the pavement like a man arriving at work.
He stepped down like a man returning to territory that already belonged to him.
His polished shoes touched the ground with quiet certainty, posture straight, shoulders squared, presence commanding enough that even the air seemed to shift to make room.
He turned immediately.
No hesitation.
No question.
He rounded the car in three smooth strides, opened Scarlett's door, and bent slightly, one arm already moving toward her knees—ready to lift her out as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Scarlett caught his wrist.
Not abruptly.
Not in alarm.
Just firm enough to stop him.
"No."
One word.
Soft.
Steady.
Unmovable.
His brow lowered a fraction, the faintest crease forming between his eyes. "You can't walk."
"I can."
His gaze dropped to her ankle.
Then lifted back to her face.
Unconvinced.
Around them, the building entrance buzzed with quiet corporate life—employees entering in pressed suits, assistants hurrying with tablets, security guards scanning badges. A few heads had already turned. Curious. Alert. Watching.
Scarlett leaned closer, lowering her voice so only he could hear.
"I'm already the CEO's contract wife," she murmured. "If you carry me inside like this, I'll become breaking news before lunch."
His expression didn't change.
Which meant he disagreed completely.
"I don't care," he said.
Calm.
Certain.
Absolute.
"I do."
Silence settled between them.
A breeze slipped down the street, threading through the space between their bodies. A loose strand of her hair drifted across her cheek. She tucked it back slowly, eyes lifting to meet his.
Then softer—
"Please."
That word.
That tone.
That look.
Something inside Ethan's chest tightened with quiet, reluctant defeat.
He exhaled once through his nose.
"...Fine."
The word sounded like surrender dragged from a battlefield.
Reluctant.
Measured.
Not entirely willing.
He straightened.
But instead of stepping back, he reached past her shoulder, took her bag from the seat, and slid the strap over his own shoulder.
Scarlett blinked. "You don't have to—"
"I know."
His free hand came to her side.
Not lifting.
Not pushing.
Just there.
Warm.
Solid.
Steady.
"Walk."
She stepped out carefully.
Her foot touched the pavement.
Pain flickered across her face—
gone in a blink.
Ethan saw it.
Of course he did.
His hand tightened slightly at her waist, subtle but ready, his body angled just enough to catch her if she faltered. His eyes tracked every shift in her weight like a strategist calculating risk on a battlefield.
They began toward the entrance.
Slow steps.
Measured.
Her shoulder brushed his chest once.
His arm steadied her instantly.
No comment.
No question.
Just readiness.
She glanced up at him.
"...You're still carrying something."
"Yes."
"My bag."
"Yes."
Her eyes narrowed faintly. "You're doing that on purpose."
"Yes."
A pause.
"...Why?"
His voice lowered, tone quieter but somehow more dangerous.
"So your hands are free if you lose balance."
Her breath caught.
Just slightly.
He didn't look at her.
Didn't soften.
Didn't smile.
He simply walked beside her like the answer was obvious.
Inside the building, employees greeted him nervously as they passed.
"Good morning, sir—"
Ethan didn't break stride.
Didn't slow.
Didn't even glance away from her.
Scarlett became painfully aware of every step she took.
Every glance thrown their way.
Every inch of his hand resting at her waist.
And suddenly—
walking beside him felt far more dangerous than being carried.
They reached the elevator.
The doors slid open.
Empty.
Silent.
Private.
They stepped inside.
The doors closed.
Silence sealed around them.
And only then—
Ethan's hand tightened slightly on her waist.
Not to support.
Not to steady.
But because he wanted to.
Scarlett felt it.
Her pulse skipped.
The elevator began to rise.
So did the tension.
—
His office was exactly like him.
Wide.
Minimal.
Sharp lines.
Glass walls.
Dark wood surfaces that reflected light like polished obsidian.
Power, translated into architecture.
Scarlett's eyes swept the room once, absorbing every detail, every edge, every silent declaration of control. Then her gaze returned to him.
"...You want me to work in a villain's headquarters."
His brow lifted faintly. "And yet you married the villain."
She tilted her head. "Contractually."
His gaze darkened.
"Temporarily," he corrected.
Her heartbeat stumbled.
—
Ethan's voice filled the room.
Low.
Commanding.
He paced with his phone pressed to his ear, laptop balanced effortlessly in one hand as if it weighed nothing. Each step was smooth, deliberate, predatory in its precision. His posture alone could intimidate an entire boardroom.
Scarlett should have been working.
Her sketches glowed across her screen.
But her eyes betrayed her.
They drifted.
Followed.
Traced.
The sharp line of his jaw.
The way his shirt stretched across his shoulders when he turned.
The calm lethality in his tone as he directed a deal with only a few clipped sentences.
Authority lived in his voice.
She didn't realize she was staring—
until his gaze flicked up mid-call.
His dark eyes caught hers.
Held them.
Slowly—
deliberately—
he raised a brow.
The faintest curve tugged at his mouth.
A silent question.
Why are you looking at me like that?
Scarlett startled, heat rushing to her cheeks. She shook her head quickly, mouthing, "Nothing," before snapping her gaze back to her laptop like it had personally offended her.
Ethan's lips quivered.
Not into a smirk.
Into something quieter.
Prouder.
Satisfied.
He didn't press.
But the gleam in his eyes said everything.
His wife couldn't take her eyes off him.
And he reveled in it.
—
The quiet hum of work broke when Scarlett's phone buzzed.
She answered quickly, leaning back in her chair.
"Scarlett! How's your ankle?" Linda's voice chimed through the line, cheerful, teasing even through the speaker.
"It's fine," Scarlett replied, lowering her tone instinctively as Ethan paced nearby. "I'm... working in Ethan's office today."
There was a pause.
Then Linda giggled.
"In his office? Oh, Scarlett... are you sure you're working and not just staring at your husband all day?"
Scarlett's face flamed crimson. "Linda!" she hissed, darting a glance toward Ethan.
He was still on his call.
But the corner of his mouth curved.
As though he'd heard every word.
Scarlett covered her face with one hand. "Stop teasing. Just—bring me the corrected sketches, okay?"
"Yes, ma'am," Linda sang, laughter dancing through the line before it clicked dead.
Scarlett dropped her phone onto the desk with a soft groan.
Ethan's amused glance in her direction didn't help her composure in the slightest.
—
Half an hour later—
a knock shattered the rhythm of the room.
Scarlett straightened.
The door opened.
Linda stepped inside holding the sketches.
But she wasn't alone.
Andrian followed, tall, unreadable, presence restrained but heavy.
Beside him—
Catherine.
Sharp.
Perfect.
Dangerous.
The air changed instantly.
Thick.
Brittle.
Scarlett's polite smile felt like porcelain about to crack as Linda approached and placed the sheets on her desk. Scarlett's fingers curled too tightly around the edge of the table, knuckles whitening.
Catherine's gaze swept the office like a blade.
It stopped at the second desk beside Ethan's.
Her lips curved.
Honey dripping with venom.
"Well, well," she purred. "So it's true. Mrs. Blackwood has made herself comfortable right beside the CEO. Looks like someone finally claimed her throne."
Scarlett straightened her spine. "It's temporary."
Her voice was steady.
Even as her chest tightened.
Catherine's smile sharpened—
but before she could speak again—
Andrian stepped forward.
His eyes softened when they landed on Scarlett.
Too familiar.
Too careful.
"Scarlett," he murmured gently, concern threading his voice. "You shouldn't be here. You're injured. You need rest, not this."
Scarlett hesitated, lips parting—
Then Ethan moved.
He strode to her side with calmness more dangerous than fury. His hand brushed the back of her chair as he bent slightly, his shadow swallowing hers.
"You've been sitting too long," he said smoothly, voice low but meant for every ear in the room.
He crouched just enough to adjust the cushion behind her back with practiced ease.
Then straightened her tablet.
As if its position mattered.
As if she mattered.
Scarlett froze. "Ethan—"
He leaned closer.
Close enough that his breath grazed her ear.
"Did you take your medicine?"
Before she could answer, he lifted the glass from her desk, refilled it from the crystal jug, and placed it gently in her hand.
His fingers lingered.
One second too long.
The room thickened.
Catherine's nails bit into her palm.
Linda blinked.
Andrian's jaw tightened.
Ethan's hand brushed Scarlett's ankle next, adjusting the small footrest beneath it with meticulous care, as though she were made of glass.
His eyes lifted to hers.
Unreadable.
"Better?"
Scarlett swallowed. "Yes."
Barely a whisper.
"Good."
He straightened, one hand resting lightly on the back of her chair.
Claiming.
Protecting.
Possessing.
"I take care of what's mine."
The sentence hit the room like thunder.
Catherine's smile stiffened.
Andrian shifted, fists flexing.
Scarlett's heart pounded wildly—caught between embarrassment, confusion... and something far more dangerous.
Then—
the storm broke.
Andrian stepped forward, defiance hardening his voice. "Scarlett, this isn't where you belong. You're hurt. You need someone—"
Ethan's palm slammed the desk.
The crack split the air.
"She doesn't need someone," Ethan cut in, voice sharp and raw. His hand settled firmly on Scarlett's shoulder, anchoring her. His glare pinned Andrian in place. "She has me."
Scarlett's chest seized.
Catherine tried to recover, voice dripping poison. "Since when do you care about Scarlett, Ethan? I thought she was just... temporary... I mean... here."
Ethan turned.
Fire in his eyes.
"Who wouldn't care about their wife, Catherine?"
And then—
his hand slid from Scarlett's shoulder to her waist.
In one decisive motion—
he pulled her against him.
The contact stole her breath.
Gasps rippled through the room.
Linda's eyes widened.
Catherine's smile shattered.
Andrian trembled.
Scarlett couldn't move.
His grip was strong.
Unyielding.
His body heat burned through the thin barrier of her clothes. His scent—spiced wood and danger—wrapped around her until thought itself felt impossible.
"And she is not temporary," Ethan declared, voice thunderous. "She is my wife. And I will never let anyone forget it."
The words reverberated through her bones.
Scarlett's lips parted—
but no protest came.
Only silence.
Only the wild, frantic rhythm of her heart.
Because she realized—
this wasn't just an act.
This was Ethan Blackwood unraveling in front of them all.
—
Moments later, Catherine snapped back into composure, voice tight as wire. "Come."
Andrian hesitated.
Then followed.
His glare never left Scarlett.
Linda gathered her things quickly, still stunned, and slipped out.
The door shut.
Silence dropped.
Scarlett remained locked in Ethan's arms, breath shallow, his hand still firm at her waist. His gaze bored into hers—dark, unreadable, relentless.
Her pulse pounded.
Her voice wouldn't come.
The question burned between them—
Was this still for show...
or had he just revealed something he could never take back?
—
Catherine's heels clicked down the corridor like gunshots.
She didn't speak until her office door slammed behind her hard enough to rattle the walls.
Inside, she spun, eyes blazing.
"Did you see that?" she snapped. "Did you see how he touched her?"
Andrian closed the door quietly, tension carved into his face. "Catherine—"
"No." She cut him off sharply, stalking across the room. She ripped off her gloves and threw them onto the desk. "He never looked at me like that. Never. And yet he parades her—that little artist—like she's a queen."
Her voice trembled beneath the venom.
Not with anger.
With something that sounded dangerously like hurt.
Andrian's hands curled into fists.
The image of Ethan's arm around Scarlett burned in his mind.
"He's not supposed to care," he muttered. "This marriage was supposed to be temporary."
Catherine whirled. "Exactly. Temporary." Her lips twisted. "So why is he acting like a doting husband? Adjusting her chair. Filling her glass. Holding her like she belongs to him?"
Andrian said nothing.
Because he couldn't.
Because the memory of Scarlett's flushed face in Ethan's arms hurt more than Catherine's accusations.
Catherine saw it.
Her gaze sharpened.
"Don't tell me you're still clinging to the fantasy that Scarlett will choose you." She laughed softly, the sound sharp as shattered glass. "After what we just saw?"
Andrian's eyes darkened. His voice dropped. "You underestimate her. Scarlett isn't the kind of woman who surrenders easily. She's strong. Independent. She doesn't want to be owned."
Catherine tilted her head.
Studying him.
Calculating.
"And you think you can be the savior she runs to when she tires of his chains?"
Silence stretched.
He didn't answer.
His jaw tightened.
That was answer enough.
Catherine's lips curved slowly.
Venomously.
"Then perhaps we want the same thing, Andrian."
She crossed toward him, perfume sharp and intoxicating, her hand brushing his arm just long enough to make her meaning unmistakable.
"I won't let Scarlett steal what's mine. And you won't let Ethan keep what you want."
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"So tell me... are you ready to fight for her?"
His eyes flickered.
Fury.
Longing.
Resolve.
His voice came low.
Hoarse.
Certain.
"Let's start the game then."
Catherine smiled.
Slow.
Cruel.
Satisfied.
"Good," she whispered. "Because Scarlett Landon has no idea what's coming for her."
And somewhere down the hall—
in a glass office filled with sunlight and silence—
Scarlett was still standing in Ethan's arms...
completely unaware
that war had just been declared.