The Deal We Never Made

THE NIGHT AT HIS HOUSE

Madison’s POV

I was holding the knife again.

Not a butter knife or a kitchen one, but something too sharp for a kid to hold. My hands were shaking, and the metal felt sticky. Red. Wet. My mom was on the floor. Dad too. My baby brother's toy train was still going in circles next to him, like nothing had happened.

I looked down at myself—blood everywhere. I screamed. Or maybe I didn’t. I couldn’t hear myself over the ringing in my ears. The knife dropped, clattered loud on tile. I knelt down, crying. “What did I do?” I kept asking it over and over.

And then I woke up.

Alarms are cruel. Mine’s one of those retro ones that buzzes like it hates you. I slapped it, missed, hit my water glass, then finally got the damn button.

It took a full minute to figure out where I was. Not a dream. Not that dream. My little apartment still smelled like dust and leftover lavender body mist. The ceiling had that faint c***k I always meant to paint over. My heart was thudding like it owed someone money.

Saturday.

I rolled over, pulling the sheets around me. I didn’t cry. Just stared at the ceiling and tried not to let the dream sit too heavy on my chest. Some mornings are like that—old ghosts think they can crawl back in.

Eventually, I got up, padded into my tiny kitchen, and started the coffee machine. It’s loud and wheezy, like it’s judging me. I leaned against the counter while it dripped.

It’s been, what—three weeks since I started this lie?

I mean, it’s not all a lie. The plan is real. But… something’s shifted. The office used to feel like a battlefield. People whispering. Staring. But now they greet me. One guy from accounting even asked if I wanted to join their trivia team. Ethan’s assistant doesn’t glare at me anymore. I think he respects me now, in a cold "you’re surviving, huh" kind of way.

Ethan’s different too. Not soft—not even close. But there’s this quiet… understanding. Like we’re both playing a part but also not. Sometimes he glances at me like he’s trying to figure out if I’m going to blow up his world. Other times, he just walks past me with his coffee and mutters “thanks” like it costs him blood.

I sip from my chipped mug. It’s too bitter. I add more sugar.

I think… I think I’m ready to start. Really start. Not just pretending to be his fiancée. But digging. Finding out what happened. What they covered up. Who paid for it. Why my family—why my parents ended up like that.

My phone buzzes. Reminder: Training at Ethan’s – 5 PM.

Right. Show time.

I toss the mug in the sink, throw on a sweatshirt, and head to the shower. My reflection in the mirror looks more tired than I feel. But my eyes are steady now. That has to count for something.

---

Ethan’s house always felt like it had too many corners, but today it somehow feels… bigger. Like the rooms got stretched out or the walls decided to lean back a bit. I wipe my damp palms on my jeans before I knock, but of course he’s already opening the door like he knew I was standing there overthinking.

“Hey,” he says. Simple. Flat. But I catch the half-second his eyes sweep over me—like a scan, not a compliment.

“Hey,” I echo, stepping inside.

Training goes like usual. He didn’t pout mouth to yabb me like he usually do talk much. Just gestures, corrects my posture, adjusts my grip on the pen like we’re about to sign an arms deal instead of prepping for fake galas and fake press.

The silence between us isn’t awkward, though. It’s... deliberate. There’s always something loaded behind it. I can feel him watching, but not in a creepy way. Just... noticing things.

When we wrap, I drop the pen and stretch my neck. The trainer walked to leave.

it wasn’t long after she left that I prepared to leave. That’s when I hear it—rain. Not a drizzle. A full-on, angry, sideways, thunder-accompanied storm. The kind that soaks you before you even get your key in the car door.

Ethan doesn’t hesitate. “You should stay.”

I blink. “What?”

“It’s late. And wet. I don’t feel like pulling your car out of the lake tomorrow.”

It’s a joke. A dry one. But still a joke.

“I’ll Uber,” I say, weakly.

He raises an eyebrow. “In this?”

And just like that, I freeze. Stay here? In his space, overnight? This wasn’t part of the script. I didn’t prep for this.

But then I nod. “Okay.”

He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t look smug. Just nods back like we signed a contract. He disappears down the hall, then comes back holding a folded gray T-shirt and points to the guest room like it’s a hotel wing.

“Bathroom’s through there. Towels are under the sink.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, clutching the shirt like it might run away.

The guest room smells like clean sheets and faint cologne. I change quickly, folding my clothes too neatly because I don’t want to leave a trace. His shirt’s soft, oversized, and smells like... him. Whatever that means.

The hot water helps. It always does. But of course I overthink the whole time. Should I have gone home? Does he expect anything? Is this normal? What even is normal anymore?

By the time I pad barefoot into the kitchen, my hair half-dry and my face makeup-free, I expect silence. Instead, I get Ethan. Cooking. Like a real person.

“You cook?” I blurt.

He shrugs. “I eat.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Impressive logic.”

He glances at me sideways. “You wanna stir, or just commentate?”

I smile before I mean to. “I’ll stir.”

We don’t talk much at first. The kitchen smells like garlic and something herby. I’m standing beside him like we’ve done this before. Like this isn’t weird.

He passes me a spoon. I accidentally brush his fingers. Neither of us says anything.

Eventually, we talk. Not about work. Not about lies. Just... stuff. I tell him my mom used to burn rice on purpose because we liked the crispy bottom. He tells me he once ate cereal for a week in boarding school because the cafeteria lady scared him. We both laugh.

We talk about movies that shaped us. I say Spirited Away. He says *Heat*, which tracks. Rain drums steadily on the windows. The lights are low. It’s soft. It’s nothing.

But it also kind of feels like something.

---

I’m just about to ask him what kind of spice he used when his phone lights up on the counter. He sees it, freezes for a half-second, then picks it up. He walks a few steps away but doesn’t leave the kitchen. That’s when I know I’m supposed to hear it.

“Hi, mother,” he says, flat as glass.

I stir the sauce slowly. Try to look busy. But I’m listening.

Her voice is sharp—posh and polished, the kind of voice that’s never heard the word "no." She’s nagging. Something about a brunch. A woman named Merinda. Or Melissa? Someone "appropriate," she says. Someone with better roots.

Ethan doesn’t respond at first. Then:

“I have a fiancée now.”

I pause, the spoon mid-air. He doesn’t even flinch when he says it. No hesitation.

His mother keeps going. I hear her tone shift—disbelief, then that fake laughter rich women do when they think you’re joking.

He cuts her off. “Don’t call her. And stop trying to show up in parts of my life you abandoned years ago.”

Silence. The longest beat of quiet I’ve ever heard over a phone.

Then he ends the call. No goodbye. Just click.

He still doesn’t look at me.

So we just... keep cooking. The pasta’s done. I start plating. He grabs forks. It’s like nothing happened and everything happened.

We sit at the kitchen island. I eat slower than usual. Not because I’m full, but because I can feel the tension buzzing between us like a broken wire.

“You okay?” he asks, finally.

I nod. But I’m not. Not really. “Are you?” I ask back.

He shrugs.

“You don’t get along with your mom?” I ask softly. “I mean—sorry. You don’t have to—”

“No, I don’t,” he says, sharp. Then quieter, but firm: “And it’s none of your business.”

My appetite disappears completely.

He stands up, wipes his hands, grabs his water glass. Doesn’t even finish the meal.

“Guest room’s down the hall,” he says, without looking at me. “Goodnight.”

I want to say something. Anything. But the words knot up in my throat. So I just nod. Again.

He walks off. Barefoot. No sound except the distant thunder and that little echo of slammed distance between two people who were almost... something.

I take my plate, wash it carefully. Dry my hands twice.

Then I walk down the hallway that feels too long and too cold and too quiet.

The guest room is still warm. Still smells like his perfume spray. I climb under the blanket, but I don’t close my eyes.

Instead, I stare at the ceiling.

The rain keeps falling—steady, rhythmic. Like tiny questions tapping at the roof.

What am I doing?

What is he hiding?

What did he mean when he said “fiancée” like it was both a shield and a blade?