Life in Ethan Cole's mansion wasn't loud.
It was quiet.
Too quiet.
There were days when the only sounds I heard were the soft hum of the refrigerator, the distant beep of the elevator, or my own footsteps echoing across the marble floors. Sometimes I wondered if the walls were intentionally soundproofed — maybe silence was something Ethan paid extra for.
Breakfast was always at 7:30 a.m.
Not because we agreed to it, but because Ethan operated like a machine.
He would already be in the dining room when I arrived, reading financial reports while drinking his black coffee. I didn't like black coffee. He didn't ask.
"Good morning," I would say.
He'd glance up, offering a polite nod. "Morning."
We didn't talk.
We didn't argue.
We didn't laugh.
We simply coexisted.
Awkwardly.
But every now and then, the silence cracked, just a little — letting something warm slip through.
One morning, I burned my tongue drinking tea that was too hot, and I hissed softly.
Ethan actually put down his tablet.
"What happened?"
"I… just drank too fast."
He frowned. "Why didn't you wait?"
"It smelled good," I confessed.
His lips twitched, like he almost smiled. "You're reckless."
It was such a strange thing to hear from him that I stared. "Reckless?"
"You rush into things," he said quietly. "Without thinking."
Something in his tone felt… familiar. Like he wasn't talking about tea.
I opened my mouth to reply, but he stood and left the room before I could.
That was Ethan:
Give warmth in crumbs.
Then disappear.
Sometimes we ate dinner together — not because he wanted to, but because his schedule forced him home earlier than usual.
Dinner with Ethan was… complicated.
The table was long. Too long. So, I always sat closer, choosing the seat next to him instead of across the vast distance.
He never commented.
One night, the chef prepared pasta, and when I reached for the parmesan, Ethan reached at the same time. Our fingers brushed.
A spark.
A sharp breath.
My heartbeat jumped so high I thought he could hear it.
He froze.
His eyes flicked to mine.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then Ethan pulled his hand back slowly — not abruptly, not coldly — just slow enough that it felt deliberate.
"You take it," he murmured.
His voice was softer than usual.
I swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of how close we were. "Thank you."
The rest of dinner passed in silence, but it wasn't the usual cold silence.
It felt charged.
Dangerous.
Like something between us had shifted — just slightly — and neither of us knew what to do about it.
Our chemistry always came in small, accidental moments.
A brush of hands.
His arm guiding me through a tight hallway.
His gaze lingering a second too long when he thought I wasn't looking.
None of it was enough to call affection.
But it was enough to confuse me.
To make my heart soften.
And soften.
And soften.
Until it became a dangerous thing.
One afternoon, his secretary, a woman named Elise — informed me that a business gala required Ethan to bring his spouse.
"His spouse," she said with a perfect smile. "That is… you."
I almost laughed. The word still felt foreign. "Right. Of course."
Ethan didn't look thrilled about the event, but when I descended the stairs that evening wearing the dress chosen for me, his eyes widened just a fraction.
He stared.
Just stared.
As if seeing me for the first time.
"You look…" His voice trailed off.
I held my breath.
Please finish the sentence, Ethan.
"…presentable," he said stiffly.
I almost threw a shoe at him.
But the way his ears turned red told me the truth: he wanted to say something else. Something kinder. He just didn't know how.
At the gala, he stayed close to me, closer than necessary.
His hand hovered near my lower back, not touching, but guarding. When people approached us, he would subtly shift his stance so I stood slightly behind him, shielded.
I wasn't used to being protected.
Not by him.
My chest felt warm.
Too warm.
But the warmth didn't last.
Halfway through the evening, a man approached us — Mr. Aldrich, one of Ethan's older business partners.
He was drunk.
And loud.
And rude.
"Oh, so this is the little charity case you married?" Aldrich said, staring me up and down with a mocking smile. "Thought she'd be… taller."
Heat rushed into my face. "Excuse me?"
"You know," he slurred, leaning closer, "the pity bride. The one with the sick mother. Didn't think you'd marry someone like that, Ethan. Not your usual taste."
My throat tightened.
The humiliation hit like a slap.
Before I could reply, Ethan stepped forward, so fast and so sharply that Aldrich stumbled backward.
"That's enough."
Ethan's voice wasn't loud.
But it was lethal.
People turned to look.
Aldrich raised his hands, laughing. "Relax, boy. I'm just teasing."
Ethan's jaw clenched so hard I thought it might crack.
"Apologize," he said. "To who?"
"To my wife."
The word wife hit me like a punch to the chest.
Aldrich scoffed. "You can't be seri—"
"Now."
Ethan's tone made the room go cold.
Aldrich swallowed. His face paled. "I… apologize."
I stared at Ethan, my heart thudding so loudly it drowned out the music.
He didn't look at me.
He didn't smile.
But he stood like a shield in front of me, shoulders tense, eyes hard, ready to fight the whole room if he had to.
"Let's go," he murmured, placing a hand on my back and guiding me away.
His touch was steady.
Warm.
Protective.
Dangerously protective.
We stepped outside onto the terrace, the night air cool against my flushed cheeks.
I turned to him. "Why did you do that?"
He exhaled slowly, loosening his tie. "Because he disrespected you."
"That never bothered you before."
"It bothers me now."
My breath caught.
Something in his voice… something raw, unpolished… slipped through his walls.
"Ethan," I whispered, "what are you not telling me?"
He looked at me then, really looked, eyes dark, conflicted, filled with something I couldn't name.
Something that terrified me.
Something that made hope rise inside me again, uninvited and dangerous.
"Liana…" he said softly, almost painfully.
I waited.
Heart trembling.
Desperate.
But then, He stepped back.
His walls slammed shut.
And he turned away without another word.
Leaving me alone with a heart that just wouldn't stop falling for him.