The seconds ticked by. The silence wrapped around them like a blanket.
"Ethan?" she murmured.
"Yeah?"
"If I'd met you first… I think my life would've been very different."
He swallowed hard. "You still met me."
She didn't reply.
A few moments later, her breathing evened out. She was asleep.
Ethan stayed seated, watching her. Her features, soft now in sleep, were almost peaceful. The pain was still there, but quieter.
He brushed a thumb over her knuckles, his heart aching with something fierce and unrelenting.
She didn't know what she'd done to him.
Didn't know that he'd burn the world just to keep her safe.
He looked around the room, the cold marble floors, the towering windows, the golden framed photo of her and Richard smiling on the dresser.
Ethan's jaw tensed.
That man didn't deserve her. And he'd already lost her, even if he didn't know it yet.
He leaned down and placed a kiss on the back of her hand.
Then, as quietly as he could, he slipped out of the room.
And down the hallway, toward the servant room where he'd be sleeping.
But even there, sleep didn't come.
Because the taste of her lips still lingered.
And in his chest, something dangerous had begun to bloom.
The night dragged on, stretching thin across the sky as a faint purple hue bled into the horizon. Ethan lay fully clothed on the edge of the guest bed, eyes wide open, arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling as if it held answers.
But all it held were shadows.
He hadn't slept. Not even for a second.
His phone vibrated beside him.
He grabbed it instantly.
Unknown Number:
"Nice night for a date, boss."
Attached was the grainy photo, Amelia leaning on him as he helped her into the car, the entrance of Eclipse blurred in the background. The lighting was dark, but the angle was clear enough to recognize both of them.
Ethan's jaw clenched. His fingers flew across the screen.
Ethan:
Who the hell is this?
No reply.
He jumped to his feet and paced the floor, dialing the number he never liked using.
The phone rang once before a voice answered, calm, bored, British accented.
"Master Blackwell. You called. Hell must be freezing over."
"I need surveillance footage from Eclipse. Front entrance. Last night."
"You got papped?" the man chuckled. "By a ghost? No one gets past our guys."
"Apparently someone did."
That silenced the voice for a second.
"Give me ten."
Ethan hung up and paced, rubbing a hand over his face. The panic wasn't about the photo itself, it was about who might see it. Who would leak it. What it would mean.
If the world saw him helping a drunk woman, Richard Vale's wife, out of a club, it would be scandalous. But if they found out that the gardener was actually Ethan Blackwell?
Game over.
Worse, Amelia's life would be turned into a media circus. And that was the one thing he couldn't let happen.
He sat back down, tapping his fingers on the side of the bed.
His phone lit up again.
Lucas (Security Chief):
We scrubbed the footage. No breach at the gate. No paps registered. Whoever took that shot either had inside access or is very, very good.
Ethan stared at the screen.
So this wasn't random.
It was deliberate.
Targeted.
He fired off a quick reply:
Ethan:
Dig deeper. I want names. And keep it off the record.
Lucas:
You got it, boss.
The sky outside was beginning to shift, bleeding orange and pink as dawn crept in.
Ethan sat forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
He couldn't shake the image of Amelia's kiss. The softness of it. The truth in it. And now, the threat looming just beyond the edges of last night.
Whoever had taken that photo wasn't just playing games.
They knew exactly what they were doing.
And if he didn't find them first… the secret he was holding onto, about who he was, what he wanted, and who, was going to explode.
And this time, it wouldn't just be him who burned.
The soft light of morning filtered through the gauzy curtains, casting golden shadows across the bedroom.
It was quiet, too quiet, like the world itself was holding its breath.
Amelia stirred beneath the sheets, her brows furrowing even before her eyes opened.
Her head was heavy, her mouth dry. The scent of garden soil, expensive whiskey, and something warm and masculine lingered faintly on the sheets.
Ethan.
Her eyes flew open.
The first thing she noticed was that she was alone.
She pushed herself up slowly, the silk sheets pooling around her waist. Her hand reached up to her lips, slow, hesitant. Her fingers hovered there for a moment, then touched lightly.
The kiss.
Her heart thudded painfully in her chest.
She could still feel it.
Her breath caught. "Shit."
She threw the covers off and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Her feet hit the cool floor, grounding her in the present, even as her mind spiraled.
She stood and stumbled to the mirror, taking in her reflection.
Tousled hair.
Flushed cheeks.
Lips… slightly swollen.
She closed her eyes.
And cursed again. "God… what the hell did I do?"
Her fingers curled into the edge of the dresser as the memories rushed in, laughing at the club, his arm around her, her teasing words, the quiet ride home… the kiss.
She had kissed him.
Not the other way around.
She leaned over the sink in the bathroom, splashing cold water on her face as if that would wash away the guilt creeping in like a slow poison.
Her wedding ring felt like a weight around her finger.
She looked down at it. Mocking. Hollow.
"I'm married," she whispered to herself, like saying it out loud would erase what she'd done.
But even that sounded like a lie now.
A legal truth. Not an emotional one.
Because what was left of her marriage?
A man who hadn't returned home.
A man who called her a gold digger.
A man who let another woman humiliate her and chose that woman.
She gripped the edge of the counter tighter, knuckles white.
Then she thought of Ethan again.
Of how he looked at her like she mattered.
Of how he didn't flinch when Richard shoved her.
Of how he said nothing when she kissed him, but didn't push her away either.
"Why did he leave?" she muttered under her breath. "Why didn't he say anything?"
She threw on a robe and padded out of the bedroom, bare feet silent on the polished floor. The house still felt too still.
No sign of Richard.
No sign of Ethan.
She passed by the servant room and knocked lightly.
Nothing.
She opened the door.
Empty.
The bed untouched.
Her brows drew together in confusion, tinged with a little hurt.
Had he gone home?
Had he regretted the kiss?
That thought stung more than she expected.
But before she could spiral further, her phone buzzed sharply on the kitchen counter.
She walked over and picked it up.
One unread message.
From an unknown number.
Her stomach twisted.
She tapped it open.
Attached was a photo.
Her.
And Ethan.
Outside the club.
Her head on his chest, his arm around her waist.
The message simply read:
"This won't stay quiet for long."
Amelia dropped the phone.
The blood drained from her face.
Not only had she crossed a line.
Someone was watching.