Page 51
It looks neat on a map, but in reality the houses are spread far apart, separated by open lawns, clusters of trees, and long winding drives. Walking from one to the next takes several minutes. So the route I’m taking tonight—from Theo’s all the way to Ethan’s—will take at least fifteen minutes.
I try not to think about what I’m about to do, afraid that if I linger too long on it, I’ll convince myself it’s a mistake and turn back. With every step, doubt grows heavier, but I refuse to let emotion take control.
When I finally stop in front of Ethan’s place, I linger for a moment, unable to look away. His home rises like something out of an architectural magazine—sleek lines of glass and stone stacked into bold layers, glowing softly under the warm lights that trace its edges. Balconies extend outward over one another, furnished with elegant lounge chairs and perfectly trimmed plants, creating the impression of both luxury and comfort.
The entire façade is a masterpiece of modern design—vast glass walls, soft lighting spilling outward, terraces that seem to float in the night. The air carries the faint scent of fresh greenery from the landscaped garden lining the property, and even the path leading to the terrace feels intentional, as though every detail was meant to impress.
Standing here, I can’t help but think this structure reflects Ethan perfectly—striking, confident, impossible to ignore.
Move, Thalia. You didn’t come all this way to turn back now, to fold into yourself like a coward. Brave people ask for what they want, or take it. It’s time you do the same. The way Ethan did that damn night.
I force my jaw to set and climb the shallow steps that cut the terrace into levels, each one lit by recessed lights that make the pale stone glow softly beneath my feet. I edge along the right side of the building, following the path to the front door, every muscle taut with both purpose and fear.
The guys all share the same security system here—fingerprints, voice commands, faces stored in private databases—but that doesn’t mean Ethan added me to his allowed list. And I don’t have the courage to check. If I’m not registered, the system will react—alarms, automatic alerts sent to his phone, maybe even a camera snapshot or a short video of me standing at his threshold, looking like a fool.
So I raise my hand and press the doorbell.
It’s nearly two in the morning. I tell myself he’s asleep. I tell myself there’s no one else in his bed. But my stomach twists with a new, ridiculous panic—what if someone else opens? What if a woman steps out, sleepy and annoyed and perfect? I will melt into the ground from shame.
The doorbell chimes, a soft, modern note that carries farther than expected into the night air. For a second, there is only the bass of my own heartbeat and the distant hum of the estate, the rustle of trees, the faint drip of sprinklers. The house answers with silence.
Minutes stretch like rigid ropes. I stand very still, palms slightly damp, breath fogging faintly in the cool air. For a long moment, nothing happens. The silence expands until I press the doorbell again, there’s no other choice. I can’t just walk away and pretend I wasn’t here; the chime has already sent a notification through his system.
All of a sudden, light begins to seep into the night through the entryway glass and the floor-to-ceiling windows. I can’t see the rooms clearly—these windows are designed to keep prying eyes at bay—but the darkness inside fades. Footsteps approach the door, and with every step, another pool of light spills across a slice of the interior.
So I stay still and wait.
My heart pounds so loudly I feel it in my throat. I clasp my hands together to calm my trembling fingers and force my breathing into slow, measured counts. I came here with a purpose—to get what I want. I need to look like I already have it under control.
Even if I don’t.
TWENTY-ONE
Thalia
There’s a soft click as the security latch releases, and a narrow sliver of light slips between the door and the frame, the gap widening slowly until Ethan appears in the doorway.
The breath I didn’t even realize I’d been holding rushes back into my lungs, only to vanish again just as quickly, my body forgetting how to function as I stand there, unable to inhale or exhale, completely at his mercy.
He’s still wearing the same grey sweatpants from earlier, sitting low on his hips so the white waistband of his Calvin Kleins shows above them, and nothing more. Bare chest, bare arms, tattoos stretching across his skin like an intricate map that feels far too intimate to look at it for this long.
In the dim light, they seem more defined, the sleeves curling down his forearm, the ink crossing his chest, smaller markings trailing toward his shoulder, details I only caught glimpses of that night now fully on display. I recognize some of them, and that alone sends a fresh wave of desire through me.
When his eyes meet mine, there’s immediate amusement there, one brow lifting gently. His arms cross over his chest, that infuriating, satisfied smirk growing on his lips while he takes me in slowly, thoroughly, like he already knows exactly why I’m here.
I’m soaked—far beyond anything I can excuse—and the realization burns through me, cutting and humiliating, making me feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with the thin fabric clinging to my body.
Focus. I need to focus, or I’m going to fall apart right here on his doorstep.
“Lose something?” he asks, his voice laced with quiet arrogance, every syllable calculated.
And just like that, he steadies me. The same familiar effect he always has taking hold, running through the noise in my head and forcing me back into myself.
I roll my eyes, stepping forward without hesitation, pressing my hand lightly against his chest to move him aside as I slip past him into the entryway.
The inside of his house steals my breath in an entirely different way.
If the exterior was a statement, the interior is a confession.
