Episode 2: Chapter Two: - Ethan’s POV
1000 Words
Ethan sat at his desk long after the office had emptied.
The hum of the building had changed—elevators stilled, phones silent, the city outside reduced to a scatter of lights against the dark. His reflection stared back at him from the glass wall of his office, faint and fractured, like a man he didn’t fully recognize.
His tablet lay abandoned beneath his hand. Contracts unsigned. Emails unanswered.
He told himself he was thinking about his grandfather. About the trust. About the board’s inevitable questions.
Instead, his thoughts circled back to her.
Lilly.
The name surfaced unbidden, soft but insistent. He closed his eyes, and the office dissolved.
He was back in the VIP lounge, it smelled faintly of citrus and money—polished wood, low music, conversations murmuring like secrets. Stepping out of the elevator with practiced calm. He remembered how grounded he’d felt then—centered, prepared. He’d walked in knowing exactly what was expected of him. He’d rehearsed the cadence of the meeting, the charm, the subtle authority.
Scan the room. Assess. Execute.
And then—
There she was.
Sitting at the reserved table, phone in hand, shoulders straight but tense, like she was holding herself together by sheer will. Early. Waiting. Pretending not to be nervous, and failing just enough for him to notice.
She’s nervous. That’s… good. Means she cares.
Something had shifted in him, quick and disorienting.
That’s her.
He hadn’t expected that quiet certainty. No spark. No fireworks. Just a sudden, unmistakable sense of recognition—as if his attention had snapped into focus after drifting for too long.
He remembered the way her fingers tapped the tabletop, betraying her nerves. The way she glanced up when he spoke, eyes widening before she caught herself.
Surprise. Then resolve.
He’d admired that more than he should have.
As he crossed the room, instinct took over. His posture smoothed. His expression settled into confidence. He became the version of Ethan Scott the world expected—the one who negotiated without blinking, who never let emotions interfere with outcomes.
Inside, his thoughts scattered.
Her lips look soft.
Stop.
Her eyes—don’t linger.
Too late.
And when she looked up and met his gaze, the room thinned, as if the air itself had stepped back to give them space.
For a single, stupid beat, he forgot how to breathe.
His throat tightened, a sharp, unexpected punch of sensation. He swallowed hard, annoyed at his own body. Get it together. This was a meeting. A transaction. He’d reviewed her page, her background, her references. She was perfect on paper—intelligent, discreet, adaptable.
He hadn’t planned for her eyes.
He could still feel the moment he sat across from her, the deliberate ease of his movements masking the sudden awareness humming beneath his skin. How his voice had sounded steady even as something unruly stirred in his chest.
Have you ordered anything?
A simple question. A familiar opening.
And yet, when she shook her head and looked at him like that—open, searching—his pulse had tripped.
What is she thinking?
Is she reading me as easily as I’m reading her?
He remembered ordering coffee, black, without thinking. Remembered her saying she’d have whatever he was having. How that single sentence had lodged itself somewhere uncomfortably intimate.
You liked that, he admitted now, alone in his office.
Too much.
It wasn’t just her beauty—though there was no denying that. It was the way she listened when he spoke, as if the room narrowed to the space between them. The way she didn’t interrupt, didn’t posture.
And then there was the moment she talked about her family.
He hadn’t expected that honesty. People usually framed need as ambition. She hadn’t bothered.
Family. Responsibility. Being the first.
He’d recognized it immediately—the quiet weight of obligation, the way it shaped choices long before desire ever got a say. That recognition had cracked something open in him.
He shifted in his chair, fingers tightening briefly against the edge of the desk.
This wasn’t part of the plan.
The plan had been clean. Strategic. Six months of appearances. Carefully curated affection. Nothing real. Nothing messy.
So why had the kiss caught him off guard?
He could still feel it—the light brush of her lips against his cheek, unforced, confident. Not tentative. Not staged.
Real.
His breath had stalled then, just for a second. He remembered the way his hand had tightened around hers afterward, reflexive, grounding himself.
When she’d taken it, the contact sent a sharp, unwelcome awareness up his arm. He pulled her close instinctively, lowering his voice. “Lovey-dovey. Remember.”
His mind wondered, “I guess the fake girlfriend comes with a bunch of butterflies for my stomach”
she smelled faintly of something clean—soap, maybe, or rain.
Get it together.
Chemistry happened. Attraction happened. He knew that. He’d experienced it before—quick, sharp, easily managed.
This felt different.
This lingered.
He opened his eyes, staring at the darkened city beyond the glass.
He’d watched the car disappear into traffic longer than necessary. Had stood there afterward, aware of the faint echo of her presence beside him, like a warmth that hadn’t yet faded.
That wasn’t control.
That was distraction.
And distraction was dangerous.
Yet, as the thought settled, it didn’t carry the usual edge of alarm. Instead, there was something almost… anticipatory about it.
He exhaled slowly.
This was supposed to be a performance. A temporary illusion to satisfy an old man’s expectations and secure a future already mapped out.
But somewhere between her nervous tapping fingers and her easy, unexpected smile, the lines had blurred.
He wasn’t just playing a role anymore.
He wanted to know her.
And that realization—quiet, undeniable—followed him as the city lights flickered on, leaving Ethan Scott alone with the unsettling truth that some contracts couldn’t be negotiated.
And some feelings, once stirred, refused to stay fictional.
- Writer
