Ethan couldn't sleep. He lay on his cold, unfamiliar bed in the guest room—the room he had claimed as his own—and stared at the ceiling. His mind was racing, not about Marcus Thorne or stock market strategies. His thoughts were consumed by the silence at the dinner table, by the wary look in Elena's eyes, by the chasm that felt ever-widening between them, even as they lived under the same roof.
He had succeeded in pushing Nathan away, but the result wasn't an empty space he could fill. The result was a deeper void, now filled with Elena's fresh fear and resentment. He was frustrated. In the business world, every action had a predictable reaction. But in Elena's world, all his logic fell apart.
Unable to bear it any longer, he got out of bed. He needed an escape, the one place in the world where he could be himself without the mask of a CEO or a cold husband. His study.
His footsteps were silent on the thick carpet of the dimly lit corridor. However, as he approached the oak door, his heart stopped.
The door was slightly ajar. A warm sliver of light spilled onto the floor.
His first instinct was alarm. No one, not even the maids, was allowed into his study without his explicit permission. Was there an intruder? Was this some kind of corporate espionage? With his muscles tensed, he pushed the door fully open.
And he froze.
The world seemed to grind to a halt. There, in the middle of his secret sanctuary, under the soft glow of his desk lamp, stood Elena. His wife. And in her hands, she held the most private, most forbidden, most precious thing he owned. His sketchbook.
The first wave that hit him was anger. A hot, primitive rage at this violation. This room was his only sanctuary, the place where he kept the last remnants of his true soul. And this woman, the woman who rejected him at every turn, had dared to trespass and touch the most secret part of him.
However, the anger vanished as quickly as it came. Because Ethan saw the expression on Elena's face. She wasn't snooping slyly. She was staring at the page with utter confusion, her eyes wide, her lips slightly parted. Vulnerable. And Ethan knew exactly which page she was looking at. The sketch of the little girl laughing under the oak tree.
His anger evaporated, replaced by something far worse: a burning sense of shame. He felt naked. Exposed. The entire fortress he had built around his heart for years had been breached. She had found the evidence—the tangible proof of his weakness, of his lifelong obsession.
Elena finally noticed his presence. She gasped, and the sketchbook fell from her hands onto the thick carpet with a muffled thud. Her face was pale with panic. "Ethan... I... I didn't..."
Ethan didn't let her finish. He strode forward, each movement feeling heavy. He didn't look at Elena. He looked down, picked up his sketchbook, and closed it with a gentle motion that felt final.
He lifted his head and met Elena's terrified eyes. His voice, when it came out, was hoarse and filled with a weary pain.
"There are some things that are not part of our agreement, Elena," he said. "The secrets in this book... are one of them."
He walked to a drawer in his desk, placed the book inside, and locked it. The 'click' of the lock was deafening in the silent room.
Then he turned back. His face was once again an expressionless mask. "Now you've seen," he said softly. "Good night."
Without waiting for a reply, Ethan walked past her, out of his own study, and closed the door behind him, leaving Elena all alone inside the fortress he had just surrendered.