ETHAN
I hadn't expected her to talk back. Most people don't. They either apologize or disappear. But not her. She looked at me like I wasn't untouchable — like she had already figured me out.
My driver opens the car door, but I wave him off. "I'll drive myself."
He hesitates. "Sir, the meeting—"
"I'll ask my assistant to reschedule it," I say flatly, sliding behind the wheel.
I don't know why I'm doing this. Avoiding a meeting for what? To drive around this miserable town that I never wanted to return to? The same town that whispers my name like a curse and a story at the same time. The people still glance when they think I'm not looking — the same way they did at my parents' funeral. Their pity never changed, only aged. The baker down the road still puts out those cinnamon rolls my mother used to love. The bookstore still has the same faded sign. Maplewood is like a snow globe, trapped in the same moment forever, and somehow I ended up right back in it.
This place hasn't changed in years, but somehow, everything feels different. Maybe because I'm the one who has changed. Or maybe it's because of the house across the street from mine — the one with the peeling porch with the memories of an old woman who used to bake pies and scold kids for stepping on her flowers.
Now someone else lives there.
I don't know her name yet, but I know her stare. And I hate that I can't stop remembering it.
I shouldn't have said anything to her. I don't usually entertain conversations with strangers — especially not women with muddy jeans and eyes that look like they've seen more life than they should. But she caught me off guard, twice now.
Once on the road.
Once in a café I've only stepped into a few times.
By the time I reach home, the sun is shining brighter than ever, and the automatic gates close behind me. I walk into the silent, perfect, and utterly lifeless house.
I head straight for the study and pour a drink, the amber liquid catching the last bit of light from the window. Across the road, her house is dim, quiet. She's not home — not that I should care.
I take a long sip. The scotch burns, and for a second, I wish it could burn the memory of last night too.
I could remember the crack in Elena's voice, "You're not even trying anymore, Ethan. You barely touch me, barely look at me. What's wrong with you?"
I remember the way she stood beside her car, her heels digging into the gravel, mascara streaked under her eyes and her dramatic gestures.
"You don't love me," she had said.
Even with all the guilt I knew she was right.
But she had also been my fiancée — a title that meant more to our parents than it ever did to us. It was just an engagement arranged out of old family alliances and polite obligations. My parents — before the accident — thought love could be built like a business deal. Turns out, they were wrong. They were wrong about a lot of things. About love, loyalty, even luck. The night of their accident, I was halfway across the world, closing a deal I didn't care about. I should've been here. I should've said goodbye. Instead, I inherited everything except peace.
I swirl the glass in my hand, watching the liquid twist.
She left last night — slammed the door, shouted that I was hollow. Maybe I am. I haven't felt anything real in a long time.
And yet… when that woman in the café looked at me, for a split second, something flickered. Annoyance, curiosity — I can't name it. But it was something. She had that look, the kind that sees too much without trying. Like she wasn't impressed by the car, the suit, or the name. It's irritating, really. Most people try too hard around me; she didn't try at all. That shouldn't bother me, but it does.
I take another sip, gaze drifting back to the house across the street. I wonder what kind of woman moves into a place like that — a house soaked in desertion and dust.
Maybe she's running from something too.
I finish my drink, set the glass down with a soft clink, and lean against the window.
"Mr. Hayes?" A voice echoes from behind me.
I turn to see Marcus, my assistant, walking up to me.
"Jed called me, he said you refused to attend the meeting."
"Oh the driver? That's what he said?" I ask him.
"He said you wanted to reschedule"
"Then do that," I say, standing up to meet him.
"I already tried, but they wouldn't budge. So sir, you have to be there in less than an hour," Marcus tells me.
"Do you think I care about what some stupid investors want me to do? I'm not seeing them today Marcus, tell them that" I walk past him to the stairs.
He knew better than to say anymore word or come after me. As I still climb the stairs up to my bedroom I could hear him mutter some words to someone on the phone.
"Tell them to leave, Miley"
When I reach my room, the silence presses down heavier than usual.
Everything here is polished, symmetrical, sterile — exactly the way I asked them to clean it, the way I wanted it.
No clutter. No traces of anyone else.
Still, it feels suffocating.
I pull at my tie, drop it somewhere near the armchair, and undo the first few buttons of my shirt. The air feels sharp against my skin. I can still smell Elena's perfume — faint and expensive, like regret that refuses to fade.
We were supposed to be a perfect match. She looked good on paper. I did too. But perfection is exhausting, and I've had enough of pretending to feel what I don't.
My phone vibrates on the nightstand. Her name flashes on the screen — Elena.
I stare at it for a long moment, then let it ring until it stops. I don't even know what I'd say to her if she were still here. Maybe nothing. Maybe sorry, not for losing her, but for never trying to love her at all.
A second later, a message appears:
'You'll regret this, Ethan. People don't treat me this way and get away with it.'
I let out a dry chuckle. There it is — the drama, the threat, the endless game. I toss my jacket on the chair and sit at the edge of the bed, elbows resting on my knees. I stare at my hands for a long moment before reaching for the glass I brought upstairs. The scotch's warmth does little to reduce the weight pressing on my chest.
My phone buzzes again, another message.
Elena: I left the key on the table. Don't bother calling again.
Good. I wasn't planning to.
Still, I read the message again, staring at the words until they blur. Something inside me shifts — not regret, not sadness, just… exhaustion from this whole shit.