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Chapter : 7
I told myself I wouldn't cry.
I failed spectacularly.
I cried into one of Ethan's ridiculously expensive pillows, the kind that probably cost more than my monthly rent used to. It didn't even absorb tears properly. Luxury was a scam.
"This is your fault," I muttered at the ceiling. "All of this."
The ceiling did not apologize.
I rolled onto my back, staring at the dark room, replaying his words over and over.
You deserve more than a man who doesn't know how to love without destroying.
Great. Wonderful. Then why did he look like he was already destroying himself?
My phone buzzed.
I frowned and grabbed it, wiping my face quickly—just in case phones could judge.
Unknown number.
I hesitated, then answered. "Hello?"
There was a pause. Then a woman's voice—smooth, confident, and far too amused.
"So," she said, "you're the girl he married."
My stomach dropped.
"Who is this?" I asked carefully.
She laughed softly. "Someone who knows Ethan very well. And someone who thinks you should know something."
My chest tightened. "Know what?"
"That this marriage?" she continued. "It's going to ruin him. And when it does, he'll blame you."
The call ended.
Just like that.
I stared at my phone, my hands shaking.
Betrayal didn't always come with proof. Sometimes it came wrapped in doubt.
The door to the bedroom opened.
Ethan stood there.
I didn't know how long he'd been there—but one look at my face and his expression changed instantly.
"What happened?" he asked.
I laughed. A broken, humorless sound. "Funny thing about pretending, Ethan. Eventually, it starts pretending back."
He moved toward me. "Who called you?"
"So you do have secrets," I snapped. "Congratulations. You're human."
He stopped short.
"That was her, wasn't it?" I said, my voice trembling. "The woman from the gala."
His silence was answer enough.
Something inside me collapsed completely.
"I can't do this," I whispered. "I can't live in a half-truth with a man who looks at me like I'm both his mistake and his temptation."
He crossed the room in seconds.
"I never touched her," he said urgently. "Not since you."
I looked up at him. "But you loved her."
He froze.
"…Yes."
That was it.
The final crack.
I laughed again, tears slipping down my cheeks. "Of course you did. You billionaires really commit to emotional damage, don't you?"
Despite everything, his lips twitched—just barely.
"Don't joke," he said. "Not about this."
"I'm not joking," I said softly. "I'm breaking."
His hand cupped my face before I could stop him.
"Then let me break with you."
And then—
He kissed me.
Not rushed. Not gentle either.
It was desperate. Shaky. Like he was afraid I'd disappear if he let go.
I melted into it instantly, fists clutching his shirt, heart racing like it finally had permission to exist. The world narrowed to warmth, to the way his breath hitched when I kissed him back.
It was everything we'd been avoiding.
When we pulled apart, our foreheads rested together, both of us breathing hard.
"This changes everything," I whispered.
"I know," he said.
Before either of us could say more, his phone rang.
Loud. Sharp. Cruel.
He answered without moving away from me.
"What?" he said.
Then his face darkened.
"What do you mean it leaked?"
My heart sank.
He closed his eyes.
"The press has the contract," he said quietly. "The marriage clause. Everything."
I stepped back slowly.
The scandal had arrived.
And suddenly, the kiss felt like a goodbye dressed up as hope.
Everyone would know.
And nothing would ever be simple again.