Chapter Two: One Year Later
1104 Words
Twelve months passed, yet the weight of his past clung to Ethan like a tailored shadow. On the outside, he was thriving—Blackwood Enterprises had closed two of the biggest international acquisitions in company history. Magazines once again called him “The Ice King of Wall Street,” a man who could turn any business he touched to gold. But behind the frosted glass walls of his corner office, he lived a life of muted silence.
If he had known how to pray, he would have asked to see the future of his marriage to Isabella. He was lost—she was a misogamist in disguise.
The trips, date nights, travels. Even on their wedding night—the intimacy, she was not at ease, like it was the first night they had shared together. But he felt she was tired.
How could he have been swift off by her charm?
His days began before sunrise. A 4:30 a.m. gym session. Emails by 6:00. Boardroom meetings at 8:00. Lunches were with bankers, tech giants, foreign ministers. By nightfall, Ethan returned to a penthouse with the lights still off and a whiskey glass waiting. His only company? The relentless tick of the antique grandfather clock in the corner and the memory of a woman he once tried to love that still lingers in his mind.
To the world, Ethan Blackwood had moved on.
To Ethan, life had simply paused.
One late November evening, the sky threatened snow. Ethan stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse, sipping whiskey and watching the city hum. Cars below blinked like stars. Couples walked hand in hand beneath twinkling lights. People laughed. People lived. He watched them as if they were behind glass.
He sighed and turned from the window. Even silence had grown stale.
Marcella, his ever-loyal assistant, had insisted he take a night off.
“You need air. Human interaction. A heartbeat outside of your balance sheets.”
She left a card on his desk—Velvet Room, a newly opened club in Midtown, upscale but private.
Ethan wasn’t a club man. The noise, the lights, the fake smiles. But that night, something pushed him. Maybe boredom. Maybe desperation. Maybe the ghost of the man he used to be.
He stood up from his boredom state. Had a cold shower, dressed up, looking simple but expensive. He did wish it was a good idea from his executive assistant.
He murmured.
Marcella knew he was not a club man. But she did tried all possible ways to bring him back to the once cheerful billionaire she's always known. All her efforts were like pouring wine into a basket.
By ten o’clock, he stepped into Velvet Room.
The club was exquisite. Mahogany interiors, gold accents, soft jazz echoing under low lights. No paparazzi. No desperate socialites. Just music, elegance, and anonymity. He was led to a private booth near the back. A waitress approached with a menu,he noticed the presence, but he didn’t look up.
“I’ll have a Macallan. Neat.”
“Yes, sir.”
The voice was soft, steady. She vanished before he raised his eyes.
He sipped slowly. The whiskey burned, but it was the good kind of burn—the kind that reminded him he could still feel something.
Time passed. Music changed. The buzz in his head dulled the ache in his chest.
Just past midnight, he stood to leave. The room swayed slightly. He adjusted his coat and headed for the exit. But fate wasn’t done with him.
Outside the entrance, near the valet stand, he stumbled. Someone caught him.
“Easy there.”
He looked down.
It was her—the waitress. Closer now. Hazel eyes. Auburn curls escaping a tight bun. Minimal makeup. Natural. Real.
“I’m fine,” he muttered, trying to pull away.
“You’re not,” she replied, steadying him. “You can’t drive like this.” please wait.
Her touch was warm. Grounding.
It's been like ages he had felt like this from the touch of a woman. He had tried getting over Isabella's recurring memories in the past by trying to be with different women who couldn't fit in his desire. His friends would always introduce a lady to him, they did send him pictures, set up a meeting just to introduce him to a lady. He did try to come out of his dark state but the ladies were far from his league.
He told himself: Maybe he wasn't ready. Maybe it's not the right time.
“I don’t need a babysitter,” he snapped.
“I’m not your babysitter. But I work here, and I care about people making it home alive.”
He tried to brush past her, but she followed.
“I’ll call you a car. Please, don’t do this.”
“I said leave me—”
His raised voice drew the attention of security. A tall guard approached.
“Is everything all right here?”
The waitress let go immediately while he was still trying to get up properly.
The waitress answered before Ethan could.
“He’s trying to drive himself home. He’s not in a state to.”
He was trying to act sober, but the alcohol he told was already in charge of him. He never meant to be in a pie-eyed state, he just wanted the time out for a reason he can't actually figure out.
The guard turned to Ethan, clearly recognizing him. “Mr. Blackwood, I can arrange a driver.” You don't need to worry sir, I will get you a trusted driver to drive you save back home.
Ethan exhaled sharply, defeated. “Fine.”
As he was guided to the car, he turned once more. The waitress still watched him, arms crossed, expression unreadable. There was no awe in her face. No flattery. Just quiet defiance.
He didn’t ask her name.
But as the city lights passed in a blur on the way home, all he could think of was her voice.
“It keeps ringing in his ears”
“You can’t drive like this.”
And how no one—not in years—had spoken to him like that.
How concerned she was, kept him wondering if she's always that way to every drunk clubbers in the club as she claimed, or its just she trying to be nicer to him differently.
The thought of her, her voice, her kindness took over his mind as he keeps fantasizing about her on his way home.
Something he hasn't done since he got divorced.” It was really strange”.
- Writer
