Chapter Three: Words Do Strike a Nerve
583 Words
Lucy stepped out of the elevator.
Everyone else had gone home hours ago; only the low hum of the vents and the faint echo of her heels filled the space.
Then she noticed it—
A sliver of light spilling from an office at the far end of the corridor.
Curious, she followed the glow until she reached a half-open door.
Inside, Ethan sat slumped at his desk, head resting on his folded arms.
A half-empty bottle of whiskey glinted beside a stack of files.
Lucy’s breath caught. Yesterday she’d snapped at him, saying he must have grown up without a mother.
Now, a framed photo lay near his hand: a younger Ethan smiling beside a woman with kind eyes. His mother.
Guilt twisted in her stomach.
“Ethan,” she said softly. “Hey… are you alright?”
He stirred, lifting his head. His eyes were glazed, the sharp scent of alcohol heavy in the air.
“What are you doing here?” His voice was rough.
“You’re drunk,” she whispered. “Let me take you home.”
“I don’t need help.” He waved her off and tried to sit up straighter, but swayed.
“Go away.”
She stepped closer. “You can’t stay here like this. Come on, let’s get you out of here.”
He pushed a hand against her shoulder—gentle but firm.
“I said I’m fine. Leave.”
She refused to move. “Ethan, please. You’ll feel better if you just—”
“What’s going on?”
The deep, unmistakable voice stopped her cold.
Lucy turned to see Marcel Safari in the doorway, sharp in a dark coat, his expression unreadable as he took in the scene: the bottle, the photo, her hand half-extended.
“Mr. Safari,” she stammered. “He’s… he’s had too much. I was going to help him get home.”
Marcel stepped inside, calm and controlled.
“I’ll take it from here, Miss Norman.”
“You—do you even know where he lives?” she asked, uncertain.
“Yes,” Marcel said evenly, his eyes flicking to Ethan with a shadow of concern.
“Don’t worry. Go home. I’ll handle it.”
Something about the certainty in his voice made her pause, but his tone left no room for argument.
Reluctantly, she set the photo back on the desk. “Alright… just make sure he’s okay.”
Marcel gave a short nod. “I will. Good night, Lucy.”
---
Later that night
Marcel guided Ethan out to a sleek black car. Ethan muttered protests, but Marcel ignored them.
They drove across the quiet city until they reached an upscale district of glass towers and rooftop gardens.
When Marcel helped him up to his place, Lucy’s earlier question echoed silently: Do you even know where he lives?
The answer was here.
Ethan’s apartment was breathtaking—a vast, modern space with floor-to-ceiling windows and a sweeping view of the city lights.
Dark marble floors gleamed beneath subtle recessed lighting; abstract art lined the walls.
It felt more like a penthouse gallery than a home.
Ethan stumbled inside, shrugged Marcel’s supporting arm away, and headed for the kitchen.
“Happy now?” he slurred. “You can go.”
“Ethan, you can’t keep doing this,” Marcel said quietly.
“Spare me the lecture.” Ethan turned, eyes sharp despite the haze. “Get out.”
Marcel left Ethan's place with no comment
- Writer
