Chapter 4: The Man Who Will Be My Husband
1338 Words
Ethan Cross's car was exactly as I remembered it. Black Mercedes, leather interior, tinted windows. Anonymous and expensive. The kind of car that screamed power while whispering discretion.
I slid into the passenger seat, acutely aware that this was the first time I had been alone with him in this timeline. In my previous life, our first private conversation had been on our wedding day, when he informed me, which room would be mine and that he expected me to be discreet.
"Where to?" His voice was neutral as he started the engine.
"Anywhere but here."
He pulled out of the parking garage without another word. For several minutes we drove in silence. I watched the city slip by, trying to calm my racing thoughts.
Why had he intervened? In my previous life, he had benefited from the arrangement—he'd gotten a compliant wife without having to court anyone. So why help me now?
"Your family," he finally said, "hurt you."
It wasn't a question.
I kept my eyes on the window. "What makes you say that?"
"The way you flinched when your mother raised her voice. The way you positioned yourself near the exit." He paused. "You're afraid of them."
"I'm not afraid," the words came out sharper than I intended.
"No," he agreed quietly. "Not anymore. But you used to be."
I turned to look at him. Really look. In my previous life, Ethan Cross had been a stranger wearing my husband's face. Cold. Distant. Untouchable.
This man was... different. There was something in the set of his jaw. A tension around his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights. His hands gripped the steering wheel as if he were holding on to something that might slip away.
"Why did you help me back there?" I asked.
"Your father called me last week. He proposed a merger. He also proposed a marriage—between us, as a gesture of good faith."
My blood ran cold. "And you said?"
"I said I'd think about it."
In my previous life, he had said yes immediately. He had shown up to that meeting with the contract already drafted.
What had changed?
"So that whole scene back there—"
"That was me assessing whether the Hart family is worth doing business with." He stopped suddenly, pulling into a
quiet street I didn't recognize. He turned to face me fully. "They're not."
"Then why—?"
"You are."
The words hung between us.
"I don't understand," I said slowly.
"Your family is poison, Emma Hart. Your father is a bully. Your mother is cruel. Your sister is a thief." He said it like a statement of fact, like commenting on the weather. "But you... you're different."
"You don't know me."
"I don't know you?"
Something in his tone made my breath catch. The way he looked at me—as if he were seeing a ghost. As if I were
someone he had lost and found again.
Impossible.
"Mr. Cross—"
"Ethan. Call me Ethan."
"Ethan," I corrected, tasting the name on my tongue. In three years of marriage, I had never called him by his first
name.
"I appreciate your help, but I don't need a knight in shining armor. I can handle my family."
"I know," he leaned back in the driver's seat, studying me. "You handled that meeting brilliantly. You came prepared
with evidence, stayed calm under pressure, called their bluff." He paused. "That's not the behavior of someone who needs rescuing."
"Then what do you want from me?"
"The same thing your father wants. A marriage."
I laughed. I couldn't help it—the absurdity of dying, going back in time, and still ending up in the same trap.
"That's not funny," I said when I caught my breath.
"I'm not joking."
"You want to marry a woman you've spoken to for a total of ten minutes."
"I want to marry a woman who is intelligent, doesn't take orders, and already knows where the exits are." He took an
envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to me. "Your father's proposal was offensive. So, I had my lawyers draft a different one."
I opened it with trembling hands.
It was a marriage contract. But nothing like the one I remembered.
Separate residences if desired. No marital obligations. Either party could initiate divorce at any time without penalty.
Financial independence maintained. And the clincher—a $200,000 signing bonus, deposited into my personal
account, no strings attached.
"This is..." I couldn't find the words.
"Fair," he supplied. "Unlike your father's version, which essentially sold you as property."
"You saw that contract?"
"I was supposed to sign it tomorrow. After your father successfully framed you for embezzlement and forced you to accept to save your reputation."
My head snapped up. "How do you know?"
He pulled away, jaw clenched.
"Call it a very accurate prediction."
No. Not a prediction.
A memory.
The thought hit me like cold water. I looked at him—really looked—and the certainty settled into my chest like a
stone dropping into still water.
He knew. He knew what they had planned. He knew things that were impossible to know without having lived them.
But how? And why wasn't he saying it outright?
"You know," I said carefully. "You know what they were planning."
"Yes."
"How?"
For a long moment he didn't answer. He just stared at the windshield, hands on the wheel.
"Some things are better explained over coffee," he finally said. "When we're not sitting on a side street in
Manhattan."
That wasn't an answer. I filed it away.
"Why help me?" I asked instead. "What do you actually want from this?"
He was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was lower than before.
"I want to make sure you're safe. And I want to be honest with you—I'm not sure I can explain everything right now.
But I will. If you'll let me."
I studied his face, looking for the angle. For the hidden agenda. For the Ethan Cross I remembered—the cold,
efficient man who treated me like furniture.
I didn't find him.
What I found instead was a man who looked like he hadn't slept properly in months.
"An alliance," I said finally. "Not marriage. Not yet."
Something shifted in his expression. "What kind of alliance?"
"You want the Hart family out of your business dealings. I want them held accountable for what they've done—not
just to me, but to everyone they've used over the years. Our goals overlap." I straightened my shoulders. "I need resources. You have them. You need someone who actually knows how this family operates from the inside. That's me."
"You're proposing a partnership."
"With ground rules."
"Name them."
"No lies. No secrets. If we're going to do this, we do it honestly."
"Agreed."
"And no decisions about my life without consulting me first. I'm done being controlled."
"Absolutely."
He held out his hand.
I looked at it for a moment. Then I shook it.
"There's a coffee shop three blocks from here," he said. "Private room in the back. We can talk properly—without
being interrupted."
"You own a coffee shop?"
"I own twenty-three coffee shops." A slight smile. "I bought them last month. I figured I should know something about
the business if I was going to compete with your father."
I shook my head in disbelief. "You're either very prepared or completely insane."
"Probably both. Is that a yes?"
I looked at this man—this stranger who knew things he shouldn't, who had just handed me a lifeline and asked for
nothing obvious in return—and made a choice.
"Yes. But I want answers."
"You'll get them."
He started the engine. I turned to watch the city out my window, storing the question away like a file I intended to
open very soon.
He knew. He remembered.
But how much? And from when?
I would find out.
- Writer
