Chapter 9: Ethan POV
The morning light spills into the mansion's kitchen, and I'm already on edge, the memory of last night with Claire looping in my head. Her laughter, her touch, it felt too right, too easy, and that scares me. I'm sipping coffee at the island, pretending to read emails, when Claire bustles in, tying an apron over her jeans. She's trying to make breakfast, fumbling with a pan, and I can't help but watch her, my chest tightening in a way I don't want to name.
"Pancakes okay?" she asks, glancing over with a nervous smile. "I'm not Maria, but I can manage."
"Fine," I say, my voice gruffer than I mean it. "You don't have to cook, you know."
"I want to," she says, cracking an egg into a bowl. "Feels… normal."
Normal. The word hangs between us, and I look away, focusing on my phone. Last night wasn't normal, it was a line we crossed, and I'm still reeling from how much I wanted it. How much I wanted her.
She sets a plate of slightly lumpy pancakes in front of me, sitting across with her own. We eat in silence for a moment, the clink of forks too loud. Then she clears her throat, her voice soft. "Ethan, about last night… where are we going with this? With us?"
My fork freezes mid-air. I feel her eyes on me, hopeful, vulnerable, and panic claws at my gut. I don't know what we are, not when Sophia's ghost still lingers, not when I'm still checking my phone for that unknown number. "Let's not complicate things," I say, keeping my tone even. "We're good as is, right?"
Her face falls, just for a second, before she forces a nod. "Right. Just checking."
Guilt twists in me, but I shove it down, grabbing my coffee. "I've got a meeting. You need anything before I go?"
"No," she says, her voice tight. "I'm good."
I leave her there, the kitchen feeling colder as I grab my briefcase and head out. Her question echoes, where are we going?, and I don't have an answer, not when my heart's still a battlefield.
At the office, I'm pacing my corner suite, the city skyline mocking me with its clarity. Claire's smile from last night keeps sneaking into my thoughts, and it's distracting as hell. I grab a framed photo from my desk, one of us at the gala, her in that emerald dress, me looking at her like she's the only one in the room. I didn't notice that look until now, and it unsettles me.
My new assistant, Rachel, buzzes in. "Mr. Carter, your ten o'clock's confirmed. Need anything else?"
"Push my lunch to two," I say, my tone clipped. "And get me the merger files."
"Yes, sir," she says, and the line clicks off. I toss the phone down, glancing at the photo again. Claire's not just my assistant anymore, literally, she's my wife, and I'm starting to want that to mean something.
I try to focus, but my phone buzzes with a news alert: "Carter's Opportunist Bride: Claire Lawson's Meteoric Rise." My blood boils as I scan the hit piece, calling her a gold-digger who "swooped in" after Sophia's exit. I slam the phone down, my jaw tight. They don't know her, don't know the way she's held me together.
I'm still fuming when I head to the car after work, only to find Daniel leaning against it, his smirk infuriating. "Rough day, big brother?" he asks, tossing me a water bottle.
"Get off my car," I snap, catching it. "What do you want?"
"Just checking on you," he says, following me as I unlock the door. "You've got those puppy eyes for Claire lately. Falling hard, huh?"
I shove my briefcase into the backseat, ignoring the heat in my chest. "Drop it, Daniel."
"Come on," he presses, leaning closer. "You're different with her. Happier. Admit it, she's getting to you."
"She's my wife," I say, my voice sharp. "That's it."
He laughs, undeterred. "Keep lying to yourself. But I see it, Ethan. You're moving on."
I slam the door, starting the engine. "Go bother someone else."
He steps back, still smiling, and I peel out, his words gnawing at me. Moving on. The idea feels like betrayal, and a memory hits me, sharp and unbidden, Sophia, two years ago, in my car during a late-night drive. "You're my everything," she'd said, her hand on mine, her blue eyes bright. I'd believed her, built my world around her, until her note, "I can't do this. I'm sorry.", shattered it. My knuckles whiten on the steering wheel, the betrayal still raw. Claire's different, steady, but I'm not ready to let go of that hurt, not yet.
The press event that evening is a nightmare waiting to happen. Claire's at my side, radiant in a navy dress, charming the reporters with her quick wit. I'm tense, waiting for the inevitable, and it comes when a slick-haired journalist steps forward, his recorder gleaming.
"Mr. Carter," he says, smirking, "any comment on the article calling your wife an opportunist? Some say she orchestrated Sophia's exit."
Claire stiffens, her smile faltering, and something snaps in me. "She's my wife," I say, my voice cutting through the murmurs, "and you'll respect her. Write another word like that, and you'll regret it."
The crowd goes silent, the reporter blanching. Claire's eyes flick to mine, wide with surprise, and I grab her hand, pulling her away from the cameras. "We're done here," I mutter, my grip firm. Her fingers curl around mine, and I feel her pulse racing, matching my own. I don't know why I said it like that, why it felt so personal, but I can't take it back.
"You didn't have to do that," she says quietly as we reach the car.
"I wanted to," I say, meeting her gaze. Her hazel eyes search mine, and for a moment, I want to tell her everything, how she's breaking through, how I'm scared of what that means. But I don't. I just open the car door for her, the words stuck in my throat.
Back at the mansion, I'm loosening my tie in the foyer when I hear a rustle from my study. I step inside, and there's Claire, standing at my desk, holding a photo, Sophia's photo, one I tucked away but couldn't throw out. Its edges are worn, proof I've handled it too often, and Claire's face is a mask of hurt, her hazel eyes glistening.
"Claire," I say, my voice low, but she doesn't move, just stares at the photo like it's a knife in her back. I step closer, guilt and panic twisting in me. "It's nothing. Just… old."
She sets it down, her hands trembling, and looks at me, her disappointment clear. "Is it?" she asks, her voice barely a whisper.
I open my mouth, but no words come. She turns away, leaving the photo on the desk, and I'm left standing there, knowing I've just broken something I didn't even realize I was building.