chapter 2
For several days after that, Ethan never contacted me.
A week later, he was discharged.
By then, I was eating dinner alone at home while Mrs. Lane, the housekeeper, kept filling the table with dishes, looking at me like I was something fragile she was afraid might break.
“You’ve lost weight these last few days,” she said with a sigh. “Are you worried about sir’s health?”
I wasn’t hungry.
I picked at a few bites, then gave up and moved to the living room, trying to distract myself with whatever random show was playing on TV.
Just as I was about to head upstairs, the front door opened.
Mrs. Lane lit up instantly. “Sir! You’re finally home. Ma’am has been worried about you every day.”
My body reacted before my mind did.
I looked toward the door.
Ethan walked in.
And didn’t even glance at me.
He just told Mrs. Lane to heat up dinner.
She hurried into the kitchen, not noticing the strange air between us. A few minutes later, she laid the dishes back out on the dining table—the same dishes I had already eaten from.
A bowl of steamed eggs with a few spoonfuls missing.
A plate of stir-fried pork where I had picked out all the meat and left half the peppers.
A glass of milk that was only half full.
Ethan sat down, stared at the table, and laughed in disbelief.
“What,” he said lazily, propping his chin on one hand, “are we out of money? I have to eat leftovers now?”
Mrs. Lane froze.
Then she blinked at him in confusion and said, completely sincere, “But sir, you always said you liked eating whatever ma’am left behind.”
That shut him up.
He stared at the table for a long moment.
Then, to my surprise, he picked up his chopsticks and started eating.
By then, I was already upstairs.
A few minutes later, my bedroom door opened.
I looked up to see him leaning against the frame, one hand in his pocket, all lazy arrogance.
“This is my room,” he said. “Move your stuff. You’re sleeping somewhere else tonight. Got it?”
I had felt dizzy all day, my head heavy, my body weak. I didn’t have the energy to argue.
So I just nodded and started packing.
He frowned, like he was unhappy that I wasn’t fighting back.
Then he made it worse.
“Take the room farthest from mine.”
This time, I didn’t even answer.
I packed what I needed, walked right past him, and left.
The guest room at the end of the hall was cleaned regularly, so it wasn’t bad. Smaller than the master bedroom, but clean enough.
I showered, climbed into bed, and tried to sleep.
By midnight, I was burning up.
My head pounded. My whole body felt frozen and feverish at the same time.
At some point, half-conscious, I sensed someone standing beside the bed.
In the pale moonlight, I could make out the shape.
Ethan.
For one dazed, stupid second, I thought my Ethan had come back.
Without thinking, I reached out to him.
I didn’t know what I looked like in that moment—eyes red from fever, lashes damp, nightgown slipping loose at one shoulder—but the man beside my bed went still.
Then he bent down.
I lifted my arms and wrapped them around his neck, leaning into him with the instinctive trust of someone who had done this countless times before.
“A-Noah,” I murmured weakly. “My head hurts so much.”
The entire room changed.
The warmth shattered instantly.
He stiffened.
Then he grabbed my chin and forced my face toward him, his fingers cool and firm against my skin.
Though he was smiling, there was no warmth in it.
“Who did you just call?” he asked softly.
My fever-clouded mind cleared by force.
I saw the mockery in his eyes.
The anger.
The jealousy.
The cruelty.
“Still thinking about Noah Parker even like this?” he murmured close to my face. “Want me to take you to him? Looking like this, I’m sure he’d love to see you.”
Rage cut through my dizziness so sharply I almost saw white.
I jerked my head away, turned my back on him, and yanked the blanket up.
“Get out.”
He actually laughed.
“Fine. Go ahead and burn up waiting for Noah to come save you.”
The door opened.
Closed.
And silence dropped over the room like a sheet of ice.
I bit my lip and squeezed my eyes shut.
Tears slid into my pillow, but I was too exhausted to care.
At some point, I drifted into an uneven sleep.
Some time later, I felt something cool pressed gently to my forehead.
Then the mattress dipped.
A body settled behind me.
An arm—awkward, unfamiliar, almost stiff—curled around me and pulled me against warm chest and steady heat. Fingers brushed carefully over the small cut on my cheek.
My body, chilled from fever, moved instinctively toward the warmth.
The person behind me went still.
Very still.
Then, in the darkness, I heard a quiet, bitter laugh.
“What’s so good about Noah Parker anyway?” he murmured. “Whatever. I don’t care. Not even a little.”
By then, I was already asleep.
The next morning, when I shifted, the arm around my waist tightened automatically.
The man behind me woke too.
Still half asleep, he lowered his face and pressed a soft kiss to my forehead.
The second he did it, both of us froze.
I turned.
He pulled back so fast it was almost violent, sitting upright in bed like he’d just touched fire.
His brows were drawn tight, like even he couldn’t understand why his body had done that on instinct.
His eyes landed on me.
He looked like he wanted to say something.
I cut him off before he could.
“You’re awake,” I said flatly. “Then go back to your own room.”
His face cooled instantly.
“Fine,” he bit out.
And after that, I didn’t see him again for days.