"Ethan, where are we going?" I asked,
startled as he turned the steering wheel sharply, pulling us away from the expected route to the club.
My question barely masked the flutter in my chest, that strange mix of curiosity and dread I had come to associate with being around him.
"The club's the other way," I pointed out, clinging to the last strand of normalcy the night had offered.
He didn't glance at me. "To the penthouse."
My brows knit. "Penthouse? Why? I thought we were heading home."
"Nah," he said, smirking. "The night isn't over until the party's over. And it'd be disrespectful if your host didn't show up to his own party, wouldn't it?"
I fell silent, unsure how to argue with that. Something told me this wasn't just about showing up—it was about showing me something. But what?
He glanced at me briefly. "You're quiet."
"Just processing," I muttered, turning my face to the window.
After a stretch of silence, I asked, "How did you know I liked the painting?"
He didn't miss a beat. "I watched you. You were completely disinterested all night—until you saw that piece. Your entire energy changed."
I blinked. "Oh."
"Thank me," he added, his voice lighter.
"Thank you," I said, looking at him.
"Thank me properly," he replied. "By putting more effort into appearances."
Before I could answer, we were pulling into an underground garage bathed in polished white light. Luxury cars lined both sides—Lamborghinis, Ferraris, a stretch limousine gleaming like a black diamond. The smell of money and power was thick in the air. I swallowed.
He stepped out and opened my door himself, motioning for me to follow. I did, heels clicking against the polished floor. As we entered the rooftop level, music pulsed from inside—deep bass rhythms fused with the shriek of laughter and splashes from the pool.
Ethan led me to the bar. "Make yourself comfortable."
I slid onto the stool, hands folded awkwardly. He gestured to the bartender. "Sparkling water for her."
"Not even wine?" I asked softly.
"Not tonight," he said, too casually.
He disappeared into the crowd as though he owned it—and maybe he did. From where I sat, I could see women in glittering gowns and men in sharply tailored suits, some half-immersed in the pool, some draped across lounge chairs like royalty. Smoke curled into the air from cigars and vape pens. A world both surreal and stifling.
Needing space, I slipped away from the noise. A stairwell caught my eye, dark and narrow. I climbed, each step muffling the music below. Halfway up, I heard sounds—gasps, laughter, soft moans. The scent of perfume and sex clung to the air. I picked up speed, half-regretting my curiosity.
Then, silence.
A single black door at the top bore a golden sign: Do Not Cross.
I hesitated.
Then pushed.
Voices met me—sharp, hushed, and familiar.
"I had to bring her here," Ethan said. "She would've been alone. People would've asked questions."
"She's your wife," Vivian's voice bit back. "You think anyone would question where she is? You're complicating this, Ethan. She doesn't need to know about your penthouse. Or your ship. Or anything else."
Ethan's voice was cooler now. "I'm not discussing this with you."
"You never do. You just bring her around like some trophy, let her think she has access to your world."
"She signed the contract."
Vivian scoffed. "And what? That gives her rights to your secrets?"
"Vivian—"
"She shouldn't even have that painting. You spent a million on it and for what? To boost that unknown artist's name just because George dragged her into the scandal? You should've kept it out of reach."
I froze.
George? What did he have to do with any of this?
I turned quietly and slipped away, my mind racing. Back at the bar, I sat in silence, my glass untouched.
"Martel for me," a voice said beside me, "and something strong for the beautiful lady."
I looked up, startled. George.
"No, thank you," I said. "I'm done for the night."
"You sure?" He leaned in with a charming smile. "You look like someone who could use a drink."
"I'm fine."
"So, Mrs. O'Martin…" he teased, "still getting used to the name?"
I gave a half-smile. "Something like that."
"You don't seem like you're enjoying yourself."
"Maybe I don't find this… fun."
"Exactly!" he said, as if I had confirmed some universal truth. "Ethan isn't much of a party guy, is he?"
I laughed lightly. "He's… complicated."
"And that's me being polite," George quipped.
I rolled my eyes, smiling despite myself. His flirtation was obvious, but oddly comforting.
"So what is fun to you?" he asked, swirling his drink.
I hesitated. "I don't know. Salsa, maybe? I've been taking a few classes."
"Seriously? That's awesome. My grandmother taught me how to salsa when I was a kid."
"Really?"
He stood and extended a hand dramatically. "Then allow me the honor of being your dance partner."
I laughed but took it. "Why not?"
The music didn't match the steps, but we danced anyway, spinning and laughing off-beat, earning curious glances from partygoers. For a moment, I forgot myself.
"So," I asked mid-spin, "you and Ethan don't get along, yet you're at every one of his events. Why?"
George smirked. "Because he knows I'm no threat."
"Meaning?"
"None of his exes would date me—not even to get back at him. That's how untouchable he is in their eyes."
I burst into laughter. "Seriously?"
"Swear on it," he said with a hand over his heart.
But just as we twirled once more, a firm grip yanked me back. I stumbled into Ethan's chest.
His hands pressed against my lower back—possessive, firm—and without a word, he tilted my face and kissed me. Long. Hard. Unapologetic.
Gasps rippled across the room.
"I'm marking my territory," he murmured darkly against my lips.
Then, just as suddenly, he turned and punched George.
A clean hit.
George stumbled back, clutching his jaw. The music screeched to a halt.
"Stay away from my wife," Ethan said coldly.
I stood frozen, stunned. Every eye in the room was on us. Ethan looked at me and extended his hand.
"Let's go."
I hesitated—then took it.
We walked through the parting crowd, the silence louder than music. Vivian stood on the balcony, her eyes like daggers. George was on his knees, bleeding pride. And Ethan?
Ethan's expression was blank.
But inside, he was burning.
In the car, the silence was thick until he finally said, "Sorry you had to see that."
I didn't answer.
"I needed to mark some boundaries," he added. "Especially for George."
I looked out the window.
So much for boundaries, I thought.