Chapter Sixteen—Ethan
Harrington chooses Fremont Street. Old Vegas. Loud, crowded, and unapologetic. The kind of place where history still matters more than polish.
We arrive together. Liam and Andrew are still talking about the Henderson-Ellis close when we step inside. Harrington shows up with the Chicago associate who spent the entire flight developing strong opinions about the acquisition numbers. The table fills quickly and the evening settles.
Riley slips ahead of us to take the open seat directly across from me.
Deep burgundy dress, fitted at the waist, collarbone bare, hair pinned up so her neck is exposed.
I have lived in the same penthouse with this woman for months.
I have watched her with discipline and distance.
None of it prepared me for the way she moves through the room.
She picks up her menu without looking in my direction.
I should've asked for a different seat.
I didn't.
I wanted to see her.
That's the problem.
Halfway through dinner she's already declined the Beaujolais twice. Plausible excuses. Early morning. Client deadline. Her bread roll has moved from one side of her plate to the other without getting smaller. She hits every mark perfectly.
Too perfectly.
Harrington launches into the same 1987 story I've heard twice before. Riley listens, then asks the exact right question at the exact right moment. Harrington laughs, surprised and pleased, and Liam half-smiles while Andrew catches my eye across the table with quiet amusement.
That question required actual preparation. She'd been paying attention to Harrington when the rest of us had filed the 1987 story under ambient noise. She came prepared. I noted it. That's what draws me to her—not her appearance, but what she consistently chooses to do with her attention.
Under the table I pull out my phone.
Ethan: Are you okay?
She feels the buzz, checks it with practiced calm, then looks up at me for half a second before typing back.
Riley: Yes. Stop looking at me.
I type again.
Ethan: I'm not looking at you. I'm watching you not eat. There’s a difference.
Her reply comes fast.
Riley: That's not better, Ethan.
Liam sets his bourbon down and glances across the table at Riley. Two seconds. Then away again. Half a second too long to be casual. He's been doing this all evening—quiet checks, timed with the patience of someone who already knows the answer.
Liam knows something.
Minutes after the entrées arrive, Riley goes pale.
It happens fast. Fork down with precision. Jaw tight. Two measured breaths. The control scares me more than panic would.
“Excuse me,” she says smoothly. She folds her napkin, stands, and walks toward the back without looking back.
The table keeps moving. Harrington shifts to 2028 projections.
I track the time. Two minutes.
I wait outside the restroom door. Long enough to hear water run, then stop. Until the silence after feels different.
The door swings open. Riley steps out fast, head down, one hand braced lightly against the wall, and walks straight into me.
Her body hits mine. My hands move on instinct, one settling at her waist, the other catching her elbow to steady her.
A jagged inhale. Her fingers tighten against my shirt.
Closer than I expected. I feel her breath against my collar, unsteady.
My hands stay at her waist longer than necessary. Her body heat bleeds through the fabric. I know exactly how easily I could pull her closer.
That sound again.
It goes straight through me. Rough. Unsteady. Heat punches low in my abdomen, thick and immediate. I lock it down before it shows.
Not now. Not here.
When she looks up, color is returning to her face, but the rest of her is still catching up—jaw set, expression trying to settle back into composed. Her eyes give her away before she closes them off again.
“You followed me,” she says.
“Yes. I came to check on you.”
The exhale carries frustration with it.
Her gaze drops. My hands are still at her waist and she stays.
“You've been doing this alone,” I say.
“Ethan.”
“I'm not asking you to tell me anything. I just want you to know that I've noticed.”
Quiet settles between us.
I reach up without thinking and my fingers find her jaw, gentle, tilting her chin until she meets my eyes.
She lets me.
In the low light of the corridor her lips part slightly. Inches from mine. If I moved even a fraction it would count as a choice.
Every part of me wants to close that distance.
For a second the room disappears.
I hold.
That takes more effort than it should.
She steps back first and my hand falls away. The space between us feels wrong. Too sudden. Too cold.
“I'm fine,” she says. Quieter this time. Almost a request.
I hold her eyes a moment longer than I should.
“Okay.”
“I should go back.”
“Take thirty more seconds.”
The exhale is almost a laugh. We stand there in silence until her breathing steadies. Then she straightens, adjusts the hem of her dress with one precise movement, and walks back toward the dining room.
I give her a full minute before following.
When I return she is already seated and composed. Harrington hasn't stopped talking. No one looks up.
She picks up her fork. “The bass is excellent.”
I watch her take the bite.
Under the table I send one more message.
Ethan: Don’t answer this. Just nod if you need me to get you out of here.
Her eyes meet mine across the table, quick and tender, with something underneath that I can’t name.
She looks at me like she has already made a decision I won’t like.I run the calculation I’ve been running since the rooftop. Connor. The company. The situation we’re already in. Every reason to hold the distance I’ve kept for months.
For the first time, the numbers don’t produce an answer.
Liam's gaze flicks between us once more. He looks like a man confirming something he already suspected.
Harrington wraps the projections. Andrew closes the conversation with the right question. The dinner moves toward its natural end and everyone at the table believes the evening went well.
But I know Riley is hiding something.
And whatever it is—this conversation isn't over.