THE UNASKED
1018 Words
EMMA
Josh hasn’t slept.
I know because he keeps pacing like the floor might give him answers if he walks it enough times. Back and forth. Back and forth. He stops sometimes by the window, peeks through the curtain, then pulls away like he’s been burned.
“You’re wearing a line into the tiles,” I say softly.
“I just need to think,” he mutters.
He’s been saying that for days.
The house feels smaller this morning. Like the walls are listening. Like fear has weight and it’s settling into the corners, into the couch cushions, into my chest.
I shower, dress, move through the routine like muscle memory. Jeans. Flats. A plain top. Nothing that says look at me. I don’t have the energy to be seen today.
“I’m stepping out for a bit,” I tell him.
He looks at me too quickly. “Where?”
“Just… around,” I say. “I need air.”
He nods, but his jaw tightens. “Be careful.”
I pause at the door. “You too. Please don’t leave.”
“I won’t.”
I don’t know if I believe him, but I leave anyway.
Outside, the morning is too normal. Cars pulling out. Someone laughing down the street. Life going on like nothing is wrong.
Across the road, Ethan Hayes’ house stands exactly the way it always does. Quiet. Imposing. Untouched by the anxiety eating me alive.
I stop on the sidewalk.
This is insane, I think.
I don’t know him. Not really. I know he’s wealthy. I know he’s private. I know he splashed mud on me. I know I spilled hot coffee on him. I know people lower their voices when they talk about him. I know what Olivia said — that when things get bad, people go to Ethan Hayes.
I hate that I’m even considering it.
I take one step forward. Then another.
Halfway across the street, doubt claws at me. What am I going to say? What right do I have to bring my mess to his doorstep?
Then I hear movement.
A car door opens.
Ethan Hayes stands in his driveway, phone in one hand, jacket perfectly pressed, expression unreadable. He looks like someone who never leaves the house without control fully intact.
He notices me immediately.
Of course he does.
“You,” he says, cool and measured, like he’s stating a fact rather than greeting a person.
My stomach flips. “Mr. Hayes.”
An eyebrow lifts. “That’s unnecessary.”
“Excuse me?”
He watches me for a second longer than comfortable. His gaze isn’t warm. It’s sharp. Appraising. Like he’s deciding whether I’m worth his time.
“Yes?” he asks.
“I’m Emma Carter, I live just across the street” I mutter
“I’m aware” Great. Straight to the point. No pleasantries.
“I—” I hesitate, then force the words out. “I was told… that people sometimes come to you when they need help.”
His expression hardens slightly. “Who told you that?”
“A friend,” I say quickly. “At work.”
“People like to talk,” he replies flatly.
“I know.” My fingers twist together. “I wouldn’t be here if I had another option.”
That gets his attention. Just a fraction. His posture shifts, subtle but unmistakable.
“And yet,” he says, “you’re standing in my driveway.”
“I’m not asking for anything,” I rush to say. “I just… I needed to know if the rumors were true.”
“Rumors usually are,” he replies. “Just not in the way people hope.”
Silence stretches.
I feel exposed standing there, like I’ve already said too much without saying anything at all.
“Is Rico threatening you?” he asks.
The bluntness catches me off guard.
“Not me,” I say quietly. “My brother.”
His jaw tightens. “What trouble is he in?”
“I—” I stop myself. “I’m not ready to say.”
He doesn’t look offended. If anything, he looks unimpressed.
“Then you’re not ready for my help,” he says.
The words sting. Sharp. Precise.
“I figured,” I murmur.
I start to step back, embarrassment flooding my chest.
“Emma,” he says, stopping me.
I look up.
“You came here for a reason,” he continues. “People don’t cross lines like this casually.”
My throat tightens. “I don’t like asking men like you for help.”
He scoffs, a faint, arrogant curve touches his mouth. “Men like me?”
“Men who don’t do anything for free,” I say honestly.
His eyes darken slightly. “You’re smarter than most. I like you.”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a card. Plain. Minimal. Very him.
“If you decide you’re ready,” he says, holding it out, “call that number.”
I stare at it. “And if I don’t?”
“Then nothing changes,” he replies coolly. “But things will still get worse.”
I take the card.
Our fingers brush briefly. His touch is firm. Controlled. Something lingering. Or maybe I’m the one overthinking it.
“Be careful, your brother too,” he adds. “You’re being watched more than you think.”
My heart stutters. “You’re sure?”
“I don’t guess,” he says.
That does it. Fear slides straight down my spine.
“I should go,” I say.
“Yes,” he agrees immediately, already stepping back. “And Emma?”
I pause.
“You didn’t make a mistake coming here,” he says. “But understand this — once you involve me, there’s no pretending anymore.”
I nod, pulse racing, and walk back across the street.
The card feels heavy in my palm.
I haven’t asked him for help yet.
But I know, deep down, that I’m already closer to it than I want to admit.
- Writer
