Chapter 4 Breaking Ice #2
Or perhaps because nobody knew what it meant.
Oliver suddenly felt very glad he had taken the risk.
Ethan took another bite.
Then another.
Eventually he looked up.
Their eyes met.
Something changed.
Not dramatically.
Not romantically.
Just humanly.
A small crack appearing in a wall built over many years.
"Thank you."
The words sounded genuine.
Deeply genuine.
Oliver smiled.
"You're welcome."
Silence settled again.
Comfortable this time.
Not awkward.
Not professional.
Simply quiet.
Ethan continued eating.
Oliver returned to the kitchen.
Yet he couldn't stop smiling.
Because for the first time since arriving at the penthouse, Ethan Blackwood no longer felt like an impossible mystery.
He felt real.
And somehow, that felt like the beginning of something important.
Behind The Wall
After Oliver left the dining area, Ethan remained seated at the table long after dinner should have ended.
The shepherd's pie sat half-finished in front of him.
Steam still rose faintly from the dish.
The scent lingered in the air.
Beef.
Potatoes.
Rosemary.
Simple ingredients.
Ordinary ingredients.
Yet somehow they had managed to unravel memories Ethan spent years keeping buried.
He stared at the plate.
For a brief moment, the Manhattan skyline disappeared.
The penthouse disappeared.
The responsibilities disappeared.
And he was nineteen again.
Sitting at a small kitchen table in Connecticut.
Listening to his mother sing badly while cooking dinner.
The memory arrived with startling clarity.
He could practically hear her voice.
Feel the warmth of the kitchen.
See the flour dusting her sweater.
A strange ache settled inside his chest.
Ethan wasn't a sentimental man.
At least not anymore.
Life had taught him the dangers of dwelling on the past.
Success demanded forward movement.
Progress.
Momentum.
Looking backward rarely accomplished anything useful.
Yet Oliver had somehow dragged him backward with a single meal.
The realization irritated him.
Mostly because he wasn't actually angry.
He was grateful.
And gratitude made him uncomfortable.
Especially when it came from something so thoughtful.
Nobody had cooked that meal for him in over twenty years.
Not once.
Not because people didn't care.
Because nobody knew.
Most of the world saw Ethan Blackwood as a billionaire.
A CEO.
A businessman.
An investor.
A public figure.
Very few people ever wondered about the boy who existed before all that.
Very few people cared.
Oliver apparently did.
The thought lingered as Ethan carried his plate into the kitchen.
The room was empty now.
Most of the staff had finished for the evening.
Only faint sounds echoed from elsewhere in the penthouse.
The city lights glittered through massive windows.
Everything appeared peaceful.
Too peaceful.
Ethan set the plate inside the sink and immediately regretted the movement.
Because it drew his attention toward the photograph sitting near the bookshelf.
The picture of Oliver's grandmother.
He found himself staring at it again.
A woman smiling warmly from behind a kitchen counter.
Flour dusted her hands.
The expression on her face radiated happiness.
The image reminded him of someone.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
His mother had smiled like that.
The comparison arrived unexpectedly.
And stayed.
Ethan walked away before the thought could settle further.
His office waited nearby.
Work waited.
Work always waited.
Normally, work solved everything.
When emotions became inconvenient, he buried himself in meetings.
When loneliness surfaced, he answered emails.
When grief threatened to reappear, he found another company to acquire.
Productivity had become both weapon and shield.
Tonight, neither seemed particularly effective.
By ten-thirty, Ethan had reviewed the same document four times.
The numbers refused to hold his attention.
The words blurred together.
His thoughts kept returning to the dining room.
To Oliver.
To the shepherd's pie.
To memories he hadn't visited in years.
Eventually, he closed the laptop.
The action felt strangely satisfying.
Perhaps because he almost never did it.
Outside, the city glowed beneath the darkness.
Thousands of lights stretched toward the horizon.
Millions of people living millions of different lives.
Somewhere among them, people were probably eating dinner with family.
Talking.
Laughing.
Existing together.
The thought shouldn't have bothered him.
Yet it did.
Because despite everything he possessed, Ethan rarely experienced anything resembling normal.
Wealth changed things.
Success changed things.
Eventually people stopped seeing the person and started seeing the position.
The title.
The fortune.
The influence.
Every interaction became complicated.
Every relationship became questionable.
Every friendship came with uncertainty.
Who actually cared about Ethan?
Who cared about access?
The difference wasn't always obvious.
Sometimes it became impossible to tell.
The problem had only intensified after his mother's death.
His father wasn't cruel.
Just distant.
Practical.
Focused.
The kind of man who believed emotions should be managed privately.
After losing his wife, he buried himself inside work.
Ethan followed the example.
Years later, they still communicated mostly through business discussions.
A strange relationship between two men who shared blood but rarely shared feelings.
The observation left a bitter taste in Ethan's mouth.
His phone vibrated.
A text message from Michael.
Investor report attached.
Urgent.
Of course it was.
Everything seemed urgent these days.
Ethan ignored it.
That alone felt unusual.
Maybe Oliver's influence was already becoming dangerous.
The thought almost made him laugh.
A chef disrupting the routine of one of the busiest men in America.
Ridiculous.
And yet surprisingly accurate.
A knock interrupted his thoughts.
Before Ethan could respond, the office door opened slightly.
Helen stepped inside.
"Still working?"
"Attempting to."
She smiled knowingly.
"That's not an answer."
Ethan leaned back.
"Haven't you gone home yet?"
"Almost."
Helen glanced around the office.
Then toward the closed laptop.
Her eyebrows rose.
"Now that's unusual."
Ethan sighed.
"Helen."
"What?"
"You enjoy this too much."
"I really do."
A brief silence followed.
Comfortable.
Helen had worked for him long enough to ignore titles.
One of the few people who could.
Eventually she spoke again.
"Oliver did well tonight."
There it was.
The topic Ethan had been avoiding.
"He did."
"You're surprised."
Ethan considered the statement.
Maybe he was.
Not because Oliver cooked well.
The interview had already proven that.
The surprise came from something else.
Thoughtfulness.
Attention.
The ability to notice details others overlooked.
Most people working for Ethan focused on what he needed.
Oliver somehow focused on who he was.
The distinction mattered more than it should.
"Helen."
"Yes?"
"Did you tell him?"
"About your mother?"
Ethan nodded.
Helen smiled.
"A little."
He wasn't sure how he felt about that.
Then again, Oliver had transformed the information into something meaningful.
Perhaps that mattered more.
Helen moved toward the door.
Before leaving, she paused.
"You know, it's nice seeing someone surprise you."
Ethan frowned.
"What does that mean?"
"It means you've looked bored for five years."
The door closed before he could respond.
Ethan stared after her.
Then shook his head.
Helen remained impossible.
Still, her comment lingered.
Bored.
Perhaps she wasn't entirely wrong.
Success eventually became repetitive.
Achievements lost their shine.
Victories felt expected.
The excitement disappeared.
Very little genuinely surprised him anymore.
Oliver did.
The realization was inconvenient.
The next morning arrived quickly.
As always, Ethan entered the kitchen at exactly seven.
The familiar scent of coffee greeted him.
Sunlight poured through the windows.
The city slowly awakened below.
Oliver stood near the counter reviewing inventory reports.
His blond hair looked slightly messy.
A sign he hadn't fully finished waking up.
For reasons Ethan couldn't explain, the sight felt oddly normal.
Comfortable.
"Dangerous," he muttered internally.
Very dangerous.
"Morning."
Oliver looked up.
A smile appeared immediately.
Natural.
Unforced.
The kind of smile people gave because they wanted to.
Not because they expected something.
"Morning."
Ethan sat down.
Breakfast arrived moments later.
Efficient.
Perfectly timed.
Yet his attention remained elsewhere.
Eventually Oliver noticed.
"You okay?"
The question caught Ethan off guard.
Most employees never asked.
Most employees assumed.
Or avoided.
Oliver simply asked.
Directly.
Honestly.
"I'm fine."
Oliver didn't seem convinced.
Interesting.
The chef returned to preparing ingredients for lunch.
Several minutes passed.
Ethan attempted to focus on breakfast.
Failed.
Finally, he surprised himself.
"She burned it."
Oliver turned.
"What?"
For a brief moment, Ethan considered pretending he hadn't spoken.
Then he remembered the previous evening.
The memories.
The conversation.
Perhaps one more wouldn't hurt.
"My mother."
Understanding appeared instantly.
"The shepherd's pie?"
Ethan nodded.
A faint smile tugged at his lips.
"Every Sunday."
Oliver laughed softly.
"She really wasn't a good cook?"
"Terrible."
The laughter grew stronger.
The sound echoed warmly through the kitchen.
Unexpectedly, Ethan found himself smiling too.
A real smile.
Not the polite version he showed investors.
Not the carefully controlled version he offered reporters.
A genuine one.
"It was always slightly burned."
Oliver shook his head.
"That's impressive."
"Every week."
"And she never learned?"
"Not once."
The memory felt surprisingly good.
Warm.
Comforting.
For years, thoughts of his mother carried mostly grief.
Today they carried something else.
Affection.
The difference mattered.
A lot.
Silence followed.
But not the awkward kind.
The comfortable kind.
The kind Ethan rarely experienced.
Eventually Oliver spoke.
"You miss her."
The statement wasn't a question.
Ethan stared out the window.
For several moments, he considered giving a vague answer.
A safe answer.
The kind he usually provided.
Instead, honesty slipped through unexpectedly.
"Every day."
The admission settled between them.
Simple.
Real.
True.
Oliver didn't rush to fill the silence.
Didn't offer empty sympathy.
Didn't attempt to fix anything.
He simply nodded.
As though understanding.
As though some losses never fully disappeared.
The response felt oddly comforting.
Ethan stood.
Breakfast finished.
Work awaited.
Meetings.
Investors.
Responsibilities.
The endless machinery of his life.
Yet as he gathered his things, something had changed.
A wall.
Not completely.
Not dramatically.
Just a small crack.
A brief opening.
For the first time since Oliver arrived, Ethan had shared something real.
Something personal.
A memory.
A piece of himself.
And judging by the expression on Oliver's face, the chef understood exactly how significant that was.
The realization should have made Ethan retreat.
Instead, as he headed toward another long day, he found himself looking forward to dinner.
And that, more than anything else, unsettled him.
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