Chapter 7
At lunch that day, Ethan did something ridiculous.
He ordered an extravagant catered meal for the entire staff.
People were thrilled.
I was practical.
I ate the rice and packed away the expensive dishes I couldn’t afford to buy for my mom to try later. By afternoon, cramps had me folding in on myself. The second the workday ended, I made a run for the elevator.
Just before the doors closed, a long hand blocked them.
Ethan stepped inside.
“Claire,” he said. “Let’s talk.”
Fifteen minutes later, I was sitting in the back of a Rolls-Royce.
His driver was up front. Ethan sat beside me, calm as if this were the most normal thing in the world.
His eyes flicked once toward the half-packed lunch container in my bag.
“Didn’t like the food?”
I ignored that. “Why did you ask me here?”
“If this is about Tyler,” I said before he could answer, “I’m not apologizing.”
The corner of his mouth moved. “That’s not what this is.”
Then, very evenly, he said, “I just thought that after everything that happened in our dreams, we deserved one calm conversation in real life.”
I looked out the window. “There’s nothing to talk about. I’m materialistic, dishonest, and very interested in money. We don’t have much in common.”
“That’s not true.”
He said it so easily it irritated me.
“Our company was small, outdated, and barely worth the acquisition,” I said. “You still spent millions buying it.”
He leaned back. “Exactly. I bought a topic we could both talk about.”
I opened my mouth to mock him, but a fresh wave of cramps hit, and I pressed a hand to my stomach.
His eyes sharpened. “Are you all right? Should we go to a hospital?”
“No.”
We stopped at a red light. He unscrewed a thermos, poured hot water into the cup, and offered it to me.
I stared at it.
“Mr. Crawford. Is this how you usually treat employees?”
“It’s my personal thermos,” he said. “I don’t mind sharing. Do you?”
Pain did nothing to weaken my temper.
I looked at him and said, “So this is your thing? One woman at home, one outside, and maybe one more in your dreams?”
He blinked.
Then, to my surprise, he almost smiled.
“You’re angry about the blind date.”
“I’m not angry.”
“The woman my family arranged for me to meet has business ties to us. I had to go. But I told her the moment we sat down that I liked someone else. We discussed work and nothing more.”
I turned to face him fully. “What are you trying to say?”
He looked straight at me.
“You like money, don’t you?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Go on.”
“I have more than Tyler. I’m cleaner than Tyler. I’ve never dated anyone. Claire…” His expression softened in a way I had never seen in public. “Would you consider me?”
My brain short-circuited.
The man had just confessed to me in the back of a luxury car like he was discussing quarterly projections.
I stared at him.
He continued, as if he had simply decided honesty was easiest. He’d heard every word the night I broke up with Tyler. He’d learned our relationship was fake. He’d intended to clean up his brother’s mess and then come find me.
But when he did, I had vanished.
He and Tyler had both tried to track me down. Tyler was loud about it. Ethan had not been. Ethan said he didn’t want to force me, didn’t want to make my life public, didn’t want to corner me. So he had searched quietly.
Until he finally found me.
Then he asked again.
Calmly.
Seriously.
“Will you consider me?”
I looked at him and said, “I trust money more than feelings.”
His answer came without hesitation.
“That makes this easier. No one is better positioned than I am.”
“I like a man with a good body.”
His brow lifted slightly. “You seemed satisfied in the dreams.”
I almost choked.
He went on, mercilessly composed.
“I believe I also meet your standards there.”
I had no reply to that.
By the end of the conversation, somehow, impossibly, I said yes.
Not immediately to a grand love story. Not to a public relationship.
Just to trying.
On one condition.
“No one at work can know.”
His answer was immediate. “Whatever you want.”
And he meant it.
Most of the time, dating Ethan felt exactly like the dreams had felt.
Intense. Attentive. Dangerous in ways that never made me afraid.
Sometimes he was almost too good at taking care of me.
And sometimes he was deeply inconvenient.
Like during executive meetings, when he would sit at the far end of the conference table looking cold and untouchable while secretly texting me a photo he had taken the night before.
One of his suit vest. One button undone. Tie loosened. Eyes blindfolded.
His message read: Thought you might like this.
I nearly died on the spot.
I texted back: I’m in a meeting.
He replied instantly: Do you not like it?
Then, a second later: sad puppy face
For a man who terrified half the corporate world, he had the emotional tactics of a manipulative golden retriever.
And I, unfortunately, was not immune.