Ethan
Ethan rubbed his temples, the dull ache in his skull refusing to relent as he slouched deeper into the couch. The thud of the door slamming shut echoed in his mind, carrying with it the weight of something deliberate—something final. The apartment was quiet now, save for the soft hum of the city outside, but the sound lingered, cutting through the haze of his thoughts.
He groaned, the dryness in his mouth making him wince as he reached for his forehead, pressing his palm against the throbbing pulse that had made itself known the moment he stirred. "What the hell was I thinking?" he muttered, his voice barely above a rasp.
The night before drifted back in fragments, piecing themselves together with maddening slowness. The bar, the drinks, the bitterness that had driven him there. And then her. The stranger. The woman. His pulse quickened, the ache in his head temporarily forgotten as urgency flared in his chest. He swung his legs over the side of the couch, the movement sending sharp jabs through his temples.
"Ouch," he hissed, grimacing as he steadied himself against the armrest. His legs felt heavy, the lingering effects of too much whiskey making him sluggish. "Come on, move," he urged himself, gripping the couch for balance as he forced himself upright.
He stumbled toward the door, his breath hitching with anticipation. Had she left? Was she still here? The thought pressed against him, urging his steps forward. He reached the hallway, his eyes darting down its length, searching for any sign of her. The space was empty. No sound of retreating footsteps, no trace of her presence. Just silence.
Ethan leaned heavily against the doorframe, frustration flaring in his chest as he scanned the corridor one last time. He exhaled slowly, his throat tight, before stepping back into the apartment and shutting the door behind him. The click of the lock felt final, an unwelcome reminder of her absence.
Collapsing back onto the couch, he rubbed his hands over his face, the ache in his head clawing its way back into focus. Why did she feel so familiar? The thought nagged at him, mingling with the throbbing in his temples and the dryness in his throat.
He forced himself upright again, dragging his legs toward the kitchen. Filling a glass with water, he drank quickly, the coolness soothing the harsh dryness that had taken root. He grimaced, setting the glass down as the ache in his temples lingered stubbornly. "I need aspirin," he muttered, but instead of finding relief, his thoughts pulled him back to her. The woman from last night.
Her voice had been steady, grounding. She hadn't rushed him, hadn't pushed too far. She'd just stayed. Stayed as he unravelled, as he let pieces of himself slip into the open—pieces he didn't share with anyone. The memory brought a sting of vulnerability, one he wasn't sure he welcomed.
Ghost Girl. The nickname lingered in his mind, the words echoing softly from the night before. He'd called her that, hadn't he? It felt foolish now, but strangely fitting. She reminded him of the figure from his dreams—the phantom that hovered at the edge of his nightmares. She wasn't real, couldn't be real, but her presence had always brought him peace, always grounded him when the chaos felt too strong.
Ethan leaned forward, elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands as her presence clung to him. Why had she reminded him of Ghost Girl? The girl in his dreams wasn't her—she had blond hair, soft features, a warmth he couldn't articulate. But the woman last night had stirred something deep within him, something he couldn't ignore. Why had he thought she was her?
The nightmares returned to him in flashes, chaotic and disjointed. He couldn't make sense of them, couldn't piece together why they haunted him so relentlessly. But he knew there was someone in them—Ghost Girl. She had always been there, soothing him with her touch, her presence, protecting him from the shadows that threatened to overwhelm him.
It didn't make sense. None of it did. But the emptiness pressing against his chest felt sharper now, and he couldn't shake the feeling that she—the stranger—had unlocked something he couldn't define.
He stood abruptly, pacing the room despite the protest in his limbs. His jaw tightened, frustration gnawing at him as his mind raced. His thoughts shifted to his father, to the weight of obligation and expectation. Find a wife. Strengthen your place in the Dominion. The words had been clear, definitive, commanding. His father's voice was always like that—unyielding, inflexible. And Ethan had played the part perfectly, smiling and nodding, pretending he wasn't suffocating under the pressure.
But last night, everything had cracked. The weight had grown too heavy, and he had sought escape—in whiskey, in the bar, in the company of strangers. And she had been there.
Ethan stopped pacing, his gaze falling on the door once more. She wasn't just a stranger. Her presence lingered, intertwined with something deeper, something familiar he couldn't name. He needed answers. He needed to understand. His chest tightened as the questions swirled. Who was she? Why had she felt so familiar? Why did her voice feel like an echo of something forgotten?
He would check the security cameras later, review the footage, piece together the fragments she had left behind. The ache in his head pulsed faintly, but he pushed it aside. There had to be a reason for her familiarity, a connection he hadn't yet uncovered.
Rowan
Rowan knocked firmly on Ethan's door, exhaling as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Brendan Mars' call still echoed sharply in his ears: short, clipped, and brimming with that distinct no-nonsense tone Brendan always carried.
"Get to Ethan. Now. His phone's off. Bring him in."
No explanation. No wasted words. That wasn't Brendan's style. He didn't need to elaborate either. Ethan was far too important to vanish like this, even temporarily. As heir to the Dominion, Ethan was more than just the public-facing CEO. He was the future, the next to inherit a legacy that most people didn't fully grasp. Which made his silence—his absence—deeply concerning.
Rowan knocked again, harder this time, irritation edging into his voice. "Come on, man," he muttered. "Don't make me break down this door. I'm not above it."
The door creaked open just as Rowan raised his hand for another round of knocking. His greeting froze in his throat as the smell hit him—a pungent cloud of alcohol that seemed to radiate off Ethan in waves. Rowan blinked, taken aback, his eyebrows shooting up in disbelief.
"Wow. Okay," he said, stepping back slightly as he fanned the air in front of him. "Jeez, buddy, you reek of bad decisions and cheap whiskey."
Ethan groaned, rubbing his temples as he leaned against the doorframe, clearly regretting every life choice that had led him to this moment. "Not now, Rowan."
"Oh, absolutely now." Rowan brushed past him, stepping into the apartment uninvited. "Because whatever this is? This is new. You don't do this."
Ethan sighed heavily but didn't argue as Rowan scanned the room. No chaos, no overturned furniture, no shattered glass. Everything was in its place, except Ethan, who looked like the furthest thing from composed.
"When exactly did you decide to drink your body weight in liquor?" Rowan asked, shutting the door behind him with a flick of his wrist. He turned back to face Ethan, crossing his arms. "And more importantly, why wasn't I invited? We could've made it a team effort."
Ethan didn't even crack a smile, just ran a hand through his dishevelled hair and muttered, "Drop it, Rowan."
"Drop it?" Rowan raised an incredulous eyebrow. "No. I don't think I will. Because this—" he gestured broadly at Ethan's rumpled state, "—is not you. You don't drink yourself stupid for fun. So what the hell is going on?"
Ethan didn't answer. He just trudged past Rowan toward the kitchen, mumbling something about water. Rowan let the silence stretch, watching him closely. Ethan wasn't avoiding the question because he was drunk. He was avoiding it because something was eating at him. And Rowan wasn't about to let it slide.
"Alright, fine," Rowan said, leaning casually against the counter as Ethan downed a glass of water like it was a lifeline. "Since you're clearly not in the mood for sharing, let me fill in the blanks. Your phone's been off for hours—very unlike you. So naturally, Brendan decided to send me to drag your sorry ass back to the Dominion office."
Ethan stiffened at Brendan's name, though his expression remained carefully neutral.
"They're waiting for you," Rowan continued. "Brendan. Jonathan. The whole gang. And let me tell you, they're not exactly thrilled you've gone dark." He paused, adding pointedly, "Neither am I, for the record."
Ethan exhaled slowly, gripping the edge of the counter as if steadying himself. His jaw tightened, his gaze flicking toward the door like he was already planning his escape route. Rowan narrowed his eyes, trying to read him.
"I had to come get you because you didn't answer," Rowan added, softer this time. "Whatever this is, it's got Brendan rattled. That's not a good sign."
Ethan didn't respond, but the tension in his posture spoke volumes.
Rowan pushed off the counter, clapping his hands together in mock enthusiasm. "So! We're leaving now. But—" he wrinkled his nose dramatically—"not before you take a shower. You smell like regret, and I'm not sitting in a car with that."
A tired chuckle escaped Ethan, quiet but genuine, and Rowan considered it a minor victory.
"Seriously, hurry up," Rowan said, glancing at his watch. "Brendan's patience is thinner than your excuses right now."
Ethan grunted in acknowledgment, disappearing into the bathroom without further argument. Rowan let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding, leaning back against the counter as his mind churned. Ethan didn't do things like this. He didn't black out, ignore his phone, and drown himself in whiskey without a reason.
Rowan frowned, the uneasy knot in his stomach tightening. What the hell happened to you, Ethan?