ARIA VOSS
1295 Words
"Ethan Mercer."
The name landed a second after he said it.
Aria stared at him.
"You look disappointed."
"I'm surprised."
"That's usually the polite version."
"I know who you are."
"That explains the look."
She set her glass down.
"My husband talks about you." She felt a need to announce she was married, which was very strange, one. For the fact that she didn’t like to remember she was married. Second, and the most important, this man in front of her was danger all over.
Ethan's eyebrow lifted, he looked almost amused like he understood her game but chose to play along.
"I'm almost afraid to ask."
"You aren't his favorite person."
"No."
"He says you're reckless."
"He would."
"He says you buy companies just to prove you can."
"I don't."
"You don't?"
"I buy them because I want them."
A laugh escaped before she could stop it.
Ethan watched the brief smile appear and disappear.
"There you are."
"What does that mean?"
"You looked unhappy when I sat down."
"Maybe I was."
"Now you look irritated."
"You're very observant."
"Occupational hazard."
She shook her head.
"No. Most people don't pay attention the way you do."
"Most people are busy waiting for their turn to talk."
The answer settled somewhere uncomfortable.
Because it was true.
Because he still wasn't talking about himself.
Because he kept bringing the conversation back to her.
"You've been married two years."
Aria blinked.
"How do you know that?"
"I read."
"That's unsettling."
"I know the date of your wedding because it appeared in every business publication in New York."
"Fair."
"But that's not what I'm curious about."
"What are you curious about?"
Ethan leaned back slightly.
"When I sat down, you were staring at the ballroom."
"So?"
"You weren't watching the people dancing."
"No."
"You weren't watching the auction."
"No."
"You were watching the exits."
Her fingers tightened around the glass.
"You got all that from one look?"
"More than one look."
"And what conclusion did you reach?"
"That you wanted to leave long before ten o'clock."
The answer hit too close.
She looked away.
"You make a habit of analyzing strangers?"
"Only interesting ones."
"I'm not interesting."
"That's not true."
"You don't know me."
"No."
His gaze remained steady.
"But I'd like to."
The simplicity of it disarmed her.
No performance.
No charm deployed like a weapon.
No attempt to impress.
Just a statement.
She couldn't remember the last time anyone had expressed curiosity about her as a person.
Not Mrs. Harrington.
Not Cole's wife.
Her.
"So," Ethan said, "tell me something."
"That sounds dangerous."
"Probably."
"What?"
"I heard you spent six months volunteering at a pediatric ward before you got married."
Aria froze.
For the first time all evening, she genuinely had no response.
"How do you know that?"
"It was buried in an old article about your father's recovery."
"You read that?"
"I read everything."
The answer should have sounded arrogant.
It didn't.
It sounded factual.
"Why would you remember that?"
"Because everybody else focused on your father surviving."
"And you didn't?"
"I noticed his daughter spent every day beside him."
Something tightened in her throat.
Nobody remembered that.
Nobody.
Not even her father talked about those months anymore.
Ethan continued.
"Did you enjoy it?"
"The hospital?"
"The children."
The question carried actual interest.
Not politeness.
Not obligation.
Interest.
"Yes."
The answer came out softer than intended.
"I did."
"What did you like about it?"
Aria laughed quietly.
"You're persistent."
"Occupational hazard."
"You already used that excuse."
"I like consistency."
She rolled her eyes.
Then answered anyway.
"I liked that children tell the truth."
"That's dangerous."
"It is."
"They'll destroy your self-esteem."
"They'll also tell you when they trust you."
Ethan nodded.
"And that's valuable."
"Very."
"What happened after?"
The question should have been harmless.
Instead it left a small ache behind.
"I got married."
The words hung between them.
Neither added anything.
Neither needed to.
For the first time all evening, somebody understood the sentence wasn't complete.
Then the ballroom lights died.
The room plunged into darkness.
Gasps erupted across the hall.
A glass shattered somewhere near the stage.
Voices overlapped immediately.
"What happened?"
"Is this part of the event?"
"Someone call management."
Aria looked up.
The emergency lights flickered weakly.
Then failed.
Only candlelight remained.
Hundreds of tiny flames scattered across tables.
The room transformed.
Conversation swelled.
Staff hurried between guests.
Ethan stood.
"Come on."
"Where?"
"Somewhere quieter."
"I don't know you."
"You know my name."
"That's not reassuring."
"It should be."
"It isn't."
Ethan offered his hand.
Not insistently.
Just waiting.
"If you hate the conversation, you can leave."
"And if I don't?"
A faint smile appeared.
"Then you stay."
Aria surprised herself by standing.
The private lounge sat off a side corridor.
Most guests hadn't discovered it.
The room was dim, lit by wall sconces connected to backup power.
For the first time all evening, silence felt possible.
Ethan sat across from her.
No interruption.
No crowd.
No empty seats reminding her someone hadn't come.
Just conversation.
"Better?" he asked.
"Much."
"I thought so."
She looked around.
"You know this building well."
"I own part of it."
Of course he did.
That earned another laugh.
Ethan watched it.
Not the laugh itself.
Her.
The distinction mattered.
"You do that often."
"What?"
"Cover your mouth."
Her hand immediately dropped.
Embarrassment flashed hot across her face.
"I didn't realize."
"I know."
She waited for a joke.
For teasing.
For some comment about her smile.
None came.
Ethan simply continued.
"My grandmother used to do the same thing."
That was it.
Nothing more.
No observation.
No criticism.
No attempt to make her self-conscious.
Just acceptance.
Oddly, that made her relax.
"You're different from what I expected."
"So are you."
"What did you expect?"
"A woman who spent two years at charity galas discussing stock prices."
Aria groaned.
"That sounds awful."
"It does."
"What did you actually find?"
Ethan considered the question.
Long enough that she almost regretted asking.
Then—
"A woman who notices everyone else before herself."
The answer stole her reply.
"You got that from one conversation?"
"No."
"Then from what?"
"You thanked every waiter who approached the table."
She blinked.
"That's normal."
"No."
"It is."
"It should be."
The correction landed gently.
Not arguing.
Not dismissing.
Just honest.
Aria looked at him.
Really looked.
And something felt strange.
Not attraction.
Not yet.
Recognition, maybe.
Like finding a language she hadn't heard in years and discovering she still understood it.
The lounge grew quieter.
Voices from the ballroom faded.
The power outage became background noise.
Minutes passed unnoticed.
Conversation moved from books to travel to terrible coffee to childhood memories.
Each answer she gave led somewhere.
Not away from her.
Through her.
Building instead of redirecting.
At one point she laughed so hard she had to look away.
The sound startled even her.
She couldn't remember the last time she'd laughed without checking who might disapprove.
Ethan said nothing about it.
Nothing at all.
And somehow that was perfect.
The room settled into stillness.
The building continued existing beyond the walls.
People moved.
Music returned somewhere in the distance.
Staff fixed problems.
Guests complained.
Life continued.
But it all felt very far away.
Aria looked at the man across from her.
The rival her husband despised.
The stranger who had sat down without invitation.
The first person in two years who seemed genuinely interested in what she thought.
And with a clarity so sharp it almost hurt, she understood something.
For years she had been moving through her life half-awake.
Present.
Functioning.
Breathing.
Existing.
Tonight, sitting in a quiet lounge while the rest of the building disappeared beyond the walls, she was awake.
Entirely awake.
And she could not remember ever feeling more dangerous.
- Writer
