The way we met
1628 Words
Ethan pov
I feel bad forcing her into this contract.
But she’s the only one I could think of on such short notice.
My grandfather left me no choice—it was either find a wife in a week or marry Cassandra. And for the life of me, I’d rather marry a horse than her.
Everything had been running smoothly until the night I got the call.
I was sitting in my office, half-listening to my assistant go over the next morning’s itinerary when my phone buzzed. The name on the screen made me pause.
Grandfather.
He rarely called. Not unless it was something serious.
I waved off my assistant and answered. “Ethan.” His voice was as sharp as ever, like he was already halfway through the conversation.
“Grandfather,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
He didn’t humor the pleasantries. “Do you know why I built Cole Industries?”
I sighed. “Because you wanted an empire.”
“No,” he said. “Because I wanted a legacy.”
Here we go.
“You’ve done well,” he continued, as if he hadn’t steamrolled over my sarcasm. “Expanded the company. Strengthened the brand. You’ve proven you can run it.” He paused. “But you haven’t proven you can keep it.”
My jaw tightened. “I own fifty-one percent of the shares.”
“For now.”
I sat forward. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He exhaled, the sound heavy through the receiver. “You’ve built a business, but you have no foundation. No one beside you. No one to balance you.”
“I don’t need balancing,” I said flatly.
“You think that.” His voice was quiet but firm. “You think this empire will last with you at the top alone? You think being untouchable makes you strong? It makes you vulnerable, Ethan.”
I gritted my teeth. “If this is about my work-life balance—”
“This is about my will.”
That shut me up.
“I won’t leave Cole Industries to a man who doesn’t understand commitment,” he continued. “A man who can’t build something that lasts beyond himself.”
Something cold settled in my stomach.
“Grandfather.” My voice was calm, controlled. “What did you do?”
“I made sure the company will stay in the hands of someone who values legacy. Someone who understands partnership.”
The silence stretched.
“Marry before the next board meeting,” he said, “or your cousin takes control of everything.”
I nearly laughed. “You’re joking.”
“Do I sound like I’m joking?”
I stood up, running a hand through my hair. My heart was pounding, but my voice stayed steady. “You can’t be serious. You’d hand the company over to my cousin? That i***t would burn it to the ground in six months.”
“Then I suggest you find yourself a wife,” he said simply.
I exhaled sharply. “And if I refuse?”
“Then you’ll have all the time in the world to think about your mistake—while watching someone else sit in your chair.”
The call ended. Just like that.
I stared at my phone, my fingers curling tightly around it.
Married. He wanted me married.
The room felt suffocating. I loosened my tie, breathing deeply, forcing the tension out of my body. There had to be a loophole. Some way around this.
But the will was airtight.
One week. That’s all he had given me.
And now, with the deadline closing in and Cassandra’s name already being thrown around by the board, I was out of time.
I needed someone fast. Someone convincing.
And her name kept popping into my head.
I can’t stop thinking about it. The way we met each other.
I was in a board meeting, half-listening as one of the directors droned on about projections. My head was pounding. I hadn’t eaten all day. Hadn’t slept properly in weeks. I thought it was exhaustion.
Then, the pain hit.
It was sharp and sudden —like someone had taken a blade and twisted it deep in my gut. I gritted my teeth, forcing myself to stay still, but it got worse. The room blurred. My vision darkened at the edges.
Then I felt nothing.
When I woke up, the first thing I saw was white. White walls, white sheets, white fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.
And then I heard a voice.
“You’re awake.”
I turned my head, wincing. A doctor stood by the bed, arms crossed, looking vaguely unimpressed.
“You had a ruptured appendix,” he said, matter-of-fact. “If you’d waited any longer, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
I exhaled slowly, forcing my thoughts to catch up. The last thing I remembered was the boardroom. Jared was there. “How long have I been out?”
“Two days. Surgery went well. You’ll need to rest.”
Rest.
I didn’t have time for rest.
The doctor must’ve seen something on my face because he sighed, shaking his head. “You’re on strict orders to stay here until you’ve recovered. No work. No meetings. No stress.”
After he was done with his check up he walked out.
The door creaked open some hours later.
I barely looked up.
I had spent the last two days trying to ignore everything—the sterile walls, the dull ache in my side, the annoying beeping of the machines. But mostly, her.
The nurse.
The one with the wide eyes and the nervous hands.
She stepped inside, balancing a tray in her arms, eyes flicking to me as if to make sure I was still alive.
I didn’t move.
Didn’t acknowledge her.
She exhaled, almost like she was bracing herself, and walked toward the bedside table.
And then—
She slipped.
It happened too fast—her foot catching on nothing, the tray tilting, a sharp gasp—
And then suddenly, she was on top of me.
A jolt of pain shot through my side, but I barely noticed. Because—She was close.
Too close. I could see her beautiful big brown eyes clearly.
Her breath fanned against my neck. Her hands—warm, small—pressed against my chest. The scent of something sweet—vanilla, maybe—lingered between us.
She didn’t move.
Neither did I.
A slow, horrible realization spread across her face.
Her mouth parted.
“I—” She swallowed hard. “Oh my God.”
Silence.
Then—
“I just tackled you.”
I stared at her. “Clearly.”
Her face burned. She scrambled off me, nearly knocking the tray over again in her panic. “I—I didn’t mean to—The floor—it was just—shiny—”
I arched my brow. “Shiny?”
“And my shoe—slipped!”
I sighed, adjusting myself against the pillows, ignoring the dull throb in my side. “Are you always this clumsy, how did you even become a nurse?”
Her lips parted. She looked half-horrified, half-offended.
“I—I just fell on you!”
“And yet, you’re the one acting like you got injured,” I muttered.
Her eyes flashed. For a second, she looked like she wanted to throw the tray at my head.
“Shit.”
I followed her gaze. The water jug had spilled everywhere—onto the sheets, the pillows, me.
Her face paled.
“I—okay, don’t move! I’ll fix it!”
Before I could respond, she was yanking the covers off me, moving so fast she didn’t think—
Didn’t think about the fact that I wasn’t wearing a shirt.
The moment the blanket was gone, her hands stopped.
Her gaze landed on my chest. My bare chest.
Her throat bobbed.
I bit back a smirk. “See something you like?”
Her head snapped up, face turning even redder. “I—You—No! I mean—Oh my God!”
She looked like she wanted to throw herself out the window.
I chuckled, more entertained than I should’ve been. “Relax. I was joking.”
“Yeah, well, you suck at it.”
“Good to know.”
She muttered something under her breath, shaking her head as she grabbed fresh sheets from the cabinet. I watched as she moved around the room, fixing everything she’d knocked over, trying very hard not to look at me.
“Are you always this much of a disaster?” I asked, leaning back.
She shot me a glare. “Are you always this insufferable?”
“Pretty much.”
She huffed but didn’t argue.
I didn’t know it then, but that was the moment.
The moment something shifted.
She came in every day after that. Checked my charts. Adjusted my IV. Forced me to eat even when I didn’t want to.
She didn’t take any of my s**t. Didn’t treat me like some CEO.
She treated me like a person.
I tried not to notice her.
Tried not to think about the way her lips curved when she laughed, or the way her eyes lit up when she talked.
Tried not to watch the way she moved—effortlessly, carelessly, like she didn’t realize she drew attention just by existing.
I tried.
But I failed.
And when I was discharged, when I walked out of that hospital and back into my world of business and chaos—
I did the only thing I could.
I forgot about her.
Or at least, I tried.
- Writer
