The Warning
1121 Words
I didn't sleep.
I lay in the enormous bed staring at the ceiling watching the share count climb — four thousand, five thousand, eight — reading comments until my eyes burned, then putting the phone face down and staring at the ceiling again.
*I know what you are, Miss Bennett.*
I'd read it forty times.
It didn't get less unsettling.
At 1am I got up, pulled on my hoodie and went to knock on the study door.
Silence.
I knocked again.
"Ethan."
A pause. Then — "Come in."
He was still at his desk. Jacket gone, tie loosened, sleeves pushed up, laptop open. He looked up when I entered and his eyes moved over me quickly — hoodie, bare feet, phone gripped in both hands — and something in his expression sharpened immediately.
"What's wrong?"
I crossed the room and held the phone out without a word.
He took it. Read the message. Then looked at the photo.
I watched his face carefully because with Ethan Kingston the face was the only place truth appeared — and only briefly, before he locked it back down.
What crossed it now wasn't anger.
It was colder than anger.
Quieter.
"When did this arrive?" he asked.
"Just after midnight. Unknown number." I sat across from his desk. "The photo has eight thousand shares. Someone already found my old LinkedIn."
He set the phone down carefully. The kind of careful that means you're controlling something.
"Vivienne," he said. Not a question.
"That's what I thought."
He was quiet — turning something over internally that he wasn't sharing — and I waited because pushing Ethan produced nothing but walls and waiting produced, occasionally, something real.
"She won't go public," he said. "Not yet. This is a warning. She wants us rattled."
"Well." I pulled my sleeves over my hands. "It's working."
His eyes moved to me. Something in them adjusted — not softened exactly, but shifted. Like he was recalibrating.
"You're not in any danger," he said quietly. Like he needed that to land.
"I know." I picked up my phone. "I'm not scared of her. I'm just wondering what she knows. If she exposes the arrangement—"
"She won't." Certain. Decided. "Exposing the arrangement exposes her own motive. Vivienne doesn't make moves that damage her."
"Then what does she want?"
"She wants me to call her. Panic and reach out and give her a conversation she can use."
"And will you?"
"No."
I nodded slowly. He picked up his pen and looked back at his laptop — dismissal — and I stood to leave.
"Aria."
I turned.
He was looking at me with that expression I'd started to collect. The one without a name yet.
"Get some sleep," he said. "I'll handle Vivienne."
I went back to bed. Lay in the dark. Thought about the photo and the way the camera had caught him looking at me and wondered if he'd seen it properly.
And whether, if he had, he felt what I felt when I saw it.
Which was something I absolutely was not going to think about.
I was asleep by two.
---
She arrived at nine fifteen.
I was on my second coffee, cross legged on the sofa with my laptop, pretending to look at job applications, when the private lift opened and Vivienne walked in like she owned every room she'd ever entered.
She was — and I say this with complete objectivity — extraordinary.
Tall. Dark haired. Bone structure that made you understand why painters existed. Cream blazer, tailored trousers, heels she didn't need. She moved through the penthouse with the easy familiarity of someone who had been here before.
Many times.
She stopped when she saw me.
I looked up.
We regarded each other across the room.
"You must be Aria," she said. Smooth. Calibrated. Every word placed exactly where she wanted it.
"And you must be Vivienne." I closed my laptop. "Ethan didn't mention you were coming."
"Ethan doesn't know." She smiled. Beautiful. Empty. "I came to see you, actually."
I kept my face neutral and gestured at the armchair across from me because I was not going to let Vivienne — with her perfect bone structure and her private lift access — make me feel small in my own temporary home.
She sat. Crossed her legs. Looked at me with dark eyes doing a thorough assessment and finding the results mildly interesting.
"I'll be direct," she said. "I respect efficiency."
"Go ahead."
"I know about the contract." Simple. Matter of fact. Like commenting on the weather. "I know you're not really together. I know exactly what this arrangement is and what you're being paid."
I held her gaze.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't speak.
Something flickered in her expression — surprise, quickly gone.
"I'm not here to expose you," she continued. "That's not what I want."
"Then what do you want?"
She tilted her head slightly. "I want you to understand something about Ethan before this goes further." A pause. Perfectly timed. "He's done this before."
The room went very quiet.
"The fake relationship. Two years ago. A woman named Claire." Her voice stayed smooth, almost gentle. "Same arrangement. Same contract. Same penthouse." Another pause. "It didn't end well for her."
I stared at her.
"I'm telling you this," Vivienne said, standing and smoothing her blazer, "because I have no interest in watching history repeat itself. Whatever you think is happening between you two—" her eyes held mine steadily — "it isn't."
She walked to the lift.
Pressed the button.
Turned back once.
"Ask him about Claire," she said softly. "See what he says."
The doors closed.
I sat in the silent penthouse for a long time.
The coffee went cold in my hand.
*He's done this before.*
I thought about the contract. The rules laid out so efficiently. The way he'd said *I don't renegotiate* without hesitation — like a man who had done this exact thing before and knew precisely how it ended.
*It didn't end well for her.*
I picked up my phone.
Typed three words.
Stared at them.
Sent them before I could stop myself.
*Who is Claire?*
The three dots appeared immediately.
Then disappeared.
Then appeared again.
Then stopped.
Nothing.
I set the phone down and looked at the lift doors and then at the contract on the coffee table with both our signatures at the bottom, and I thought about the photo — eight thousand shares and climbing — and the way he'd looked at me that I hadn't seen until a camera caught it.
My phone buzzed.
I grabbed it.
One message. Not from Ethan.
From the unknown number again.
Four words this time.
Ask him about the fire
- Writer
