Today is my sister, Isla's, birthday, and I feel like a guest at my own funeral. It's not that I'm not happy for her; I am, genuinely. But there's someone here who makes me feel restless and uncomfortable, someone who keeps pulling my gaze to him: my sister's husband, Ethan.
I stand, swirling the champagne in my hands, trying to distract myself. I turn away from looking in his direction, but my eyes drift back to him, a magnet pulling me against my will. I watch him for a few more seconds, until the voice of the compere cuts through the music, a sound that immediately snaps me out of my trance.
"It's time for a toast!" he announces, a wide smile on his face. "And I'd like to invite the birthday girl's husband, Ethan, to say a few words."
Ethan, impeccably dressed in a black cashmere suit, strides to the front.
The room seems to quiet as he moves, all eyes on him. He reaches Isla and plants a soft kiss on her cheek. A tight knot forms in my stomach, and I quickly look away, focusing on my glass.
A waiter appears beside me.
"Want a refill, ma'am?" he asks politely. I shake my head, but he just stands there, staring at my glass. I finally realize it's empty. I offer a small smile.
"Actually, yes please. I want more." I need to get through the night, and I don't want to be in my right mind.
He refills my glass and leaves.
I slowly raise my gaze, and it lands on Ethan. He's staring at me, too. He just finished his toast, and his arm is still wrapped around Isla. His expression is unreadable, a blank slate. He doesn't look away. I turn my face and quickly leave the hall, feeling like I'm suffocating.
The air in the garden feels less stifling. I sit on a pink bench, and my mind goes on a voyage of its own. No matter how hard I try, I can't stop thinking about him. I remember the first time I met Ethan, it was during my second year at the University of Illinois…
Three Years Ago…
My alarm had betrayed me, and I was running late for Professor Atkins's Civil Procedure class. He was not a fan of latecomers. I thought about giving up and just going back to my room, but I forced myself to walk to the lecture hall. As I reached for the doorknob, another hand covered mine. I flinched, I tried to pull my hand back, but he didn't move,I turned to see who it was. A young, handsome man was standing behind me.
"I'm glad I'm not the only latecomer," he said, a warm, easy smile on his face. He acted like we were old friends, and it was so disarming that my frustration almost vanished. Almost. I felt a blush rise to my cheeks, but I forced it down.
"Don't move," he whispered, his voice low and smooth. I froze, my hand still trapped under his on the doorknob. My eyes darted to his face. "We're already busted," he said, a playful smirk on his lips. "Might as well enjoy it." My annoyance flared. "Enjoy what? Getting a zero for the day?" He chuckled, a deep, easy sound. "The shared trauma, of course. It's how all great friendships begin."
What was this guy's problem? Did he not realize how serious this was? I looked through the glass, I saw Professor Atkins's eyes narrow staring, a slow, predatory walk in our direction. My heart seized. We were already in trouble.
The last thing I needed was to be associated with this handsome fool.
Professor Atkins throws the door open, his eyes narrowing as he takes in the two of us frozen in the hallway. My heart hammers against my ribs, and I brace myself for the verbal lashing I know is coming. The entire class falls silent, all heads turning to stare.
"Well, well, well," he booms, a smirk playing on his lips. "Don't just stand there, kids. Come on in."
He holds the door wide open, and as we walk in, a ripple of whispers and giggles sweeps through the room. I feel a hot flush creep up my neck. I look at him, the guy next to me, and his expression is a mix of mortification and amusement. This is a man who clearly doesn't get embarrassed easily.
Professor Atkins walks to the front of the class, his hands clasped behind his back. "Now, I have a question for the two of you," he says, his gaze on us. "Why did you come late to class? Were you perhaps getting your kids ready for school?"
The class erupts in laughter, claps, and full-on belly laughs. I can't look anyone in the eye, especially not the handsome fool standing beside me. I glance up and see the stares of several girls who eye me up and down.
"I want you both to sit right here," Professor Atkins says, motioning toward the front row. "And I want you to face the class."
I gasp, my cheeks burning with shame. We sit in the chairs, facing our fellow students like two criminals on display. After a few excruciating moments, Professor Atkins finally takes pity on us.
"Alright, that's enough of the parade. You can return to your seats now."
We quickly get up and make our way to the back of the lecture hall, each of us taking a seat in a different row. I don't dare look at him. My mind is racing, replaying every embarrassing second. I know one thing for sure: I am never going to be late again.
Immediately, Professor Atkins gestures for us to take our seats. I scurry to mine, slipping into the nearest empty desk and keeping my head down, desperate to disappear. He, on the other hand, walks to his spot with an elegant, unhurried grace, like the leader of a boy band. He doesn't look at me, but I can feel his presence from across the lecture hall.
Professor Atkins begins the lecture, but my mind is still racing. I'm determined to redeem myself, to prove that I'm not just some late-arriving fool. He poses a question to the class about a complex civil procedure rule, and my hand shoots up. I answer, my voice shaky at first, but gaining confidence as I explain the legal principle. The professor nods slowly, a smile spreading across his face.
"An excellent answer, Miss," he says, his gaze on me. "I believe that deserves a round of applause."
The class claps, and I feel a small sense of pride. I glance over at him, but his hand is raised, a polite but firm gesture.
"Professor," he says, his voice a smooth baritone. "I believe she's mistaken."
My blood runs cold. The applause dies down as all eyes turn to him. He stands and calmly explains the correct answer, citing a case I hadn't even considered. His explanation is concise, clear, and perfectly articulated. Professor Atkins's smile grows wider.
"Bravo, young man," the professor exclaims, turning to the class. "This is exactly the kind of critical thinking I expect from you. Give this man a proper round of applause."
The class erupts in a storm of applause, louder and more enthusiastic than the one I received. My cheeks burn with a new kind of shame. He smiles at me across the room, a silent, knowing look that makes my stomach churn.
The professor makes one or two more jokes about us "challenging each other for the spotlight," and then dismisses the class. I quickly pack my bag, wanting nothing more than to escape, but as I stand up, he's there.
The professor makes one or two more jokes about us "challenging each other for the spotlight," and then dismisses the class. I quickly pack my bag, wanting nothing more than to escape, but as I stand up, he's there.
"I didn't get your name earlier," he says, offering a hand. "I'm Ethan."
I ignore his outstretched hand and continue to pack my books, my focus fixed on stuffing them into my bag. He retracts his hand, putting it back into his pocket with a half-smile.
"I hope I didn't offend you earlier," he says, his voice softening. "Or embarrass you. I was just trying to clarify the rule."
I still ignore him, my attention focused squarely on packing the rest of my books and arranging my locker. He moves closer toward me and asks, "So you've chosen to ignore me?"
"What do you want? A trophy?"
He just grins at my sharp comeback, a slow, infuriating smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. My books suddenly feel heavy in my arms as a wave of heat rushes through me. I hate him for seeing right through me, for knowing exactly how to get a rise out of me. It's not the public embarrassment that stings so much as the fact that he's right—and that he's still here, pushing me, challenging me, and enjoying every second of it.
"Would you like to have lunch with me?" he asks, the question so casual it feels like a punch. "My treat. A truce."
I give him a side eye, pretending to consider it. Then I finish zipping my bag, put it over my shoulder, and give him another side eye. "Bye, stranger." I turn on my heel and walk away, leaving him standing there alone.
Present day
A twig snaps under my foot, and the sound jolts me back to the present. I'm not in a silent law school classroom anymore; I'm here, in this garden. I sigh, shaking my head at the old memory. It's ridiculous how vividly I can still recall every detail of that day, right down to the way he stood there with that infuriating smirk. I lean back against the bench, the past fading with the distant chatter of passersby.
His voice is a low, cold threat right behind me.
"You shouldn't be here. I thought you were smarter than this."
The sound makes my blood run cold. It's the sound of a problem I tried to solve by moving three states away. My heart gives a sharp, sickening lurch. I slowly raise my head, my eyes meeting his.
He's standing just a few feet away, his expression guarded and hostile.
"Why would I be absent from my sister's birthday? Are you scared? I guess the past doesn't stay buried for long, does it?" I spit the words out, letting my own loathing show.
He gives a tight nod, his jaw clenching. He takes a slow, deliberate step toward me, no longer seeing a person, but a threat assessment. He moves closer, his low whisper laced with a dangerous demand.
"We have to talk. Not here. Not tonight."
I meet his eyes, letting the icy indifference settle. "I have nothing to say to you, Ethan."
He doesn't step back. He doesn't even blink. His hand drops from my jaw. He leans closer, his shadow enveloping me completely.
"Your sister's party is inside," he says, his low voice a dangerous rumble. "You can walk in there right now and pretend this never happened." He extends his other hand toward me, an invitation and a challenge. "Or you can spend five minutes with me and decide how you want this story to end."
I stared at his hand–the hand that could either shatter my family tonight or finally silence the secret that had ruined me.