Chapter 6
(Ethan's POV)
I shouldn't want her.
That was the rule. The line I drew the moment I offered her the contract. Clean. Controlled. Safe.
And yet—
I couldn't forget the way she looked tonight. The way her smile faltered when she thought no one noticed. The way her eyes searched for answers I refused to give.
I poured myself a drink I didn't need and stared out at the city from my study. Every light down there meant power. Control. Things I understood.
She didn't fit into that world.
That's why she was dangerous.
When that man spoke to her at the gala—too close, too familiar—I felt something snap inside me. A sharp, violent jealousy I hadn't felt in years.
Mine.
The thought terrified me.
I told myself I was protecting the image. The contract. The lie.
But when I pulled her close, when my hand rested on her waist, I knew the truth.
I wanted them all to see her with me.
I finished the drink and set the glass down harder than necessary. I shouldn't be thinking about the way her breath hitched when I leaned close. Or how easy it would've been to kiss her.
How impossible it was not to.
A soft knock came at the door.
My body reacted before my mind did.
"Ethan?" Her voice—quiet, unsure.
I closed my eyes.
This was the breaking point.
"Go to bed," I said through the door.
"I can't," she replied. "Please."
I opened the door.
She stood there in one of my shirts—too big on her, sleeves covering her hands. The sight hit me like a punch to the chest.
"You shouldn't be here," I said.
"I know," she whispered. "But neither should this hurt."
Damn it.
She stepped inside, and the door closed behind her. The room felt smaller instantly. Charged.
"I don't understand you," she said softly. "You pull me close… then push me away like I mean nothing."
"You mean too much," I snapped.
The words hung between us.
Her eyes widened. "What?"
I turned away, my hands clenched. "This wasn't supposed to happen. You weren't supposed to get under my skin."
She moved closer. I could feel her now—warm, real, too close.
"Then tell me," she said. "Tell me what this is."
I faced her again. Her eyes shone with unshed tears, and it nearly broke me.
"This," I said hoarsely, "is me losing control."
Her breath trembled. "Then stop fighting it."
I leaned down—slowly, deliberately—giving myself one last chance to stop.
Our foreheads touched.
Her fingers curled into my shirt.
"If I kiss you," I whispered, "everything changes."
"I know," she whispered back.
I almost did it.
God help me, I almost told her everything.
Instead, I stepped back like it physically hurt.
"You deserve more than a man who doesn't know how to love without destroying," I said.
Her face crumpled just slightly.
"Goodnight," I finished, my voice breaking.
She left without another word.
When the door closed, I pressed my hand to my chest—right where it hurt the most.
Because the truth was simple.
I wasn't afraid of loving her.
I was afraid of what I'd become if I did.