Chapter 3: Ethan’s Wrath
1934 Words
It hit him like a freight train.
The headlines. The photos. The cold, clinical statement from Blackwell Global's PR team:
> “We are pleased to confirm the marriage of Mr. Lucien Blackwell to Miss Aria Lancaster, now Mrs. Aria Blackwell.”
Ethan stared at the glowing screen of his phone, unable to blink. His breath caught in his throat, fury roaring up from somewhere deep in his chest.
He couldn’t breathe.
His fingers clenched around the phone until the screen cracked, spiderwebbing across the glossy glass like a reflection of his sanity.
Aria.
His Aria.
The woman he’d held in his arms. The woman he had kissed in Paris, f****d in Rome, laughed with in his apartment just two weeks ago.
Now married.
To his father.
His f*****g father.
He staggered back, nearly tripping over the edge of his bar stool. His vision blurred—not from alcohol this time—but rage, raw and boiling.
The silence in the room buzzed in his ears until he screamed, hurling the phone against the floor. It shattered on impact.
“YOU b***h!”
He grabbed the nearest thing—a bottle of scotch—and threw it across the room. Glass exploded. Amber liquid soaked the carpet like blood.
She used me.
Every word she ever whispered, every moan in the dark, every I-miss-you... it was all a f*****g lie.
A setup.
A long con.
And he had fallen for it like a fool.
No—not just fallen. He had worshipped her. Had told her things he’d never told anyone. Had imagined, despite his better judgment, what a life with her might look like.
And now she was Mrs. Blackwell.
Mrs. Lucien Blackwell.
The sick irony of it made him laugh. A hollow, broken sound that cracked in his chest.
He had to see her.
Now.
*
Blackwell Manor loomed like a goddamn fortress—cold, imposing, unreachable.
But Ethan didn’t care.
He stormed up the steps, ignoring the security team that moved to block him.
“Sir, Mr. Blackwell left strict instructions—”
“f**k his instructions!”
He shoved one of them aside, uncaring if he got tackled or arrested. The fury in him had no room for consequences.
“Let me through or I swear to God—”
The door opened.
She stood there.
Barefoot, wrapped in a silk robe, hair still damp from a shower. Beautiful. Effortless. Untouchable.
Aria.
His Aria.
“Ethan,” she said softly.
He didn’t speak.
Couldn’t.
He stepped inside, the door closing behind him with a finality that sounded like a prison gate.
He stared at her. She stared back.
“So it’s true,” he said finally, voice low. “You really did it.”
She didn’t deny it.
Didn’t even flinch.
“You married him.”
“I did.”
He laughed again. This time, it sounded more like a sob.
“Why? Was I not enough? Or was that the plan all along? Sleep with the son, then marry the father for the inheritance?”
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
“You don’t get to play the victim here.”
“The f**k I don’t!” He took a step forward. “You lied to me!”
“I never made you promises.”
“You let me fall for you!”
Her expression didn’t change.
“That was your mistake.”
The words hit harder than a slap.
He took another step, fists trembling at his sides.
“I loved you.”
She said nothing.
“I loved you,” he repeated, quieter now. “You said you needed me.”
“I needed a way into the Blackwell world,” she said, her voice devoid of emotion. “You were convenient.”
His world tilted.
He wanted to hit something.
Wanted to tear her words out of the air, shove them back into her mouth, make her choke on them.
Instead, he laughed.
“Right. Convenient. Of course. That’s all I’ve ever been, right? Daddy’s disappointment. Your stepping stone.”
“You should leave.”
He moved so fast even he didn’t realize what he was doing until he was inches from her face.
She didn’t move.
Didn’t back away.
“I should hate you,” he said.
“You already do.”
He stared at her.
Then, without thinking, he grabbed her face and kissed her.
Hard. Brutal. Desperate.
She didn’t respond. Didn’t kiss back. Her hands didn’t touch him, her body didn’t move. She was a statue beneath him.
He pulled away, breathing ragged.
Her eyes were cold.
“Don’t ever touch me again.”
Before he could say anything else, a voice cut through the air like a blade.
“Step away from my wife.”
Lucien stood at the top of the stairs, shirt half-unbuttoned, a gun in his hand.
Not pointed. Just held.
But the message was clear.
Ethan turned, fury igniting again.
“You son of a—!”
Lucien descended the stairs like a storm.
“You want to shout? Do it outside. You want to fight? Try me. But if you touch her again, I *will* ruin you.”
“She’s a liar!” Ethan shouted. “She used me!”
“She used both of us,” Lucien said. “That doesn’t change a damn thing now.”
“She’s my age, Dad. She’s—she’s—”
“She’s my wife.”
The words dropped like thunder.
Ethan stared at him.
Then at her.
Then laughed again, the sound manic.
“You’re both f*****g insane.”
And then he left.
Slamming the door so hard the chandelier shook.
*
Aria stood frozen in place long after he was gone.
Lucien didn’t speak.
Didn’t approach.
Just watched her with eyes that burned.
“You knew he’d come,” he said finally.
“I was counting on it.”
Lucien nodded once.
Then turned and walked away.
And Aria?
She stood in the ruins of what used to be her heart, knowing full well—
The real war was only beginning.
*
The backlash came in waves.
At first, it was whispers.
Rumors whispered in glass towers and luxury salons. Photos of Aria circulated in private group chats—some old, some clearly stolen from her social media. Then came the voice notes, screen recordings, anonymous blog posts titled:
> “The Blackwell Bride: Homewrecker or Opportunist?”
By day two, it had evolved into full-blown media warfare.
Aria’s name trended across platforms.
Her LinkedIn was hacked and flooded with obscenities. Journalists camped outside Blackwell Manor, their cameras trained on every window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the woman who’d seduced both father and son.
The worst part?
It was Ethan who lit the first match.
In a now-deleted post, he uploaded an image of Aria asleep in his bed, dated three days before the wedding.
The caption read:
> “This was the woman who told me she loved me. She married my father the next day.”
The internet exploded.
Hashtags were born.
#BlackwellBride
#LucienVsEthan
#GoldDiggerQueen
#FromSonToFather
Aria watched the chaos unfold with eerie calm.
Inside, she was screaming.
But outside—she remained perfectly still.
She didn’t cry. Didn’t rage. Didn’t call Ethan to beg or Lucien to fix it.
She just sat in her sunroom, phone in one hand, a cup of untouched tea in the other, and stared at the screen as if watching someone else’s life unravel.
Lucien, of course, handled it differently.
*
“Shut it down.”
His voice was lethal, cold steel wrapped in velvet.
“Sir,” the head of PR said carefully, “the story’s already viral. If we push too hard, it could look like suppression—”
“Then suppress it quietly.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lucien hung up.
He didn’t ask Aria if she was okay.
Didn’t hold her, didn’t offer hollow comfort.
Instead, he poured two fingers of whiskey and sat across from her.
“I warned you,” he said.
“I expected worse,” she replied.
Lucien studied her.
“You knew Ethan would retaliate.”
“I was counting on it.”
His eyes narrowed.
“And what exactly is your endgame here, Aria? Humiliation? Exposure? Or do you just enjoy burning bridges?”
She set her phone down.
“My endgame is justice.”
He said nothing.
She leaned forward.
“You think this is about you?”
Lucien’s expression didn’t change. But something in his posture shifted—barely noticeable, but real.
“Your father was guilty,” he said.
“No,” she replied. “He was useful.”
Silence.
Then:
“I didn’t testify against him,” Lucien said finally.
“You didn’t stop it, either.”
He looked away.
And that told her everything.
*
That night, Aria slept in the east wing, door locked.
She dreamed of fire.
Of Ethan dragging her name through the mud, screaming her sins into cameras while Lucien watched from behind glass, untouched, immune.
In the morning, she woke to news alerts.
A reporter had broken into the hospital where her mother was institutionalized.
They aired footage.
Her mother screaming her name in a fit of delusion, clawing at the walls, sobbing for her husband, begging for forgiveness.
The headline:
> “Mental Breakdown Runs in the Family? The Blackwell Bride’s Broken Legacy”
Aria didn’t speak for an hour.
She didn’t move.
Just stared at the frozen image of her mother on the screen.
Lucien found her like that.
He turned off the television.
She didn’t thank him.
“Ethan’s getting bolder,” she said.
Lucien didn’t answer.
“I think it’s time we remind him what power really looks like.”
Lucien’s gaze slid to her.
Something passed between them.
Understanding.
Agreement.
War.
*
The next day, Lucien called a press conference.
He stood before the world, tall and composed, Aria at his side in a crimson dress that dared anyone to challenge her.
“Regarding recent rumors,” Lucien said smoothly, “I want to make one thing absolutely clear: my marriage is private, and I do not appreciate attempts to weaponize my family for clicks and headlines.”
He paused.
Let the silence fall like a guillotine.
“Any further defamation directed at my wife will be met with swift legal retaliation. This is not a threat. It is a guarantee.”
And then he walked away.
No questions.
No explanations.
Just raw, unshakable authority.
The internet quieted. Temporarily.
But Ethan wasn’t finished.
*
That night, Aria received a package.
No return address.
Inside: an envelope.
A single note.
Written in Ethan’s handwriting.
> “You don’t get to win.”
And beneath it—
A flash drive.
She stared at it for a long time before plugging it in.
The video loaded immediately.
A hidden camera feed.
Grainy.
Black and white.
Timestamped two years ago.
Lucien. In his office.
Meeting with a man Aria recognized instantly.
Senator Caldwell.
The same man who had overseen her father’s investigation.
Lucien handed him a folder.
The senator nodded.
They shook hands.
The video ended.
Aria sat frozen.
Because now she had proof.
Lucien hadn’t just stood by while her father was destroyed.
He had orchestrated it.
He had lied to her.
Played her.
Just like she had played Ethan.
And now?
Now she had ammunition.
War had begun.
But not between Ethan and Lucien anymore.
Now, it was Lucien vs. Aria.
Husband vs. wife.
Lover vs. traitor.
And only one of them would survive the fire.
- Writer
