Lila's POV
I wasn't given an answer but I had a feeling that I already knew the answer
That night I didn't sleep.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the photo.
Ethan and me. Sitting across from each other. Heads bent over documents. Too close. Too familiar. Caught through glass like a secret we weren't meant to have.
By morning, I had convinced myself of one thing:
This partnership was already dangerous.
I arrived at the foundation office early—earlier than necessary—because I needed control. Over the room. Over the project. Over my thoughts.
I was reviewing donor profiles when the door opened.
Ethan didn't announce himself. He never did.
"You're early," he said.
"So are you," I replied without looking up.
A pause.
Then the sound of a chair pulling back.
He sat across from me, close enough that I could sense him—not his cologne, not his warmth, just his presence. Steady. Unrushed.
I hated that it affected me.
"About the message," he said carefully. "I didn't send it, nor did I get someone to send it."
"I know," I said.
He blinked. "You do?"
"If you wanted to threaten me," I continued, eyes still on my screen, "you wouldn't hide behind an anonymous number."
That earned a quiet breath of amusement. "You give me too much credit."
"No," I said. "I give you accuracy."
Silence followed. Not awkward. Observant.
I finally looked up.
He was watching me—not intensely, not invasively. Like he was trying to understand something he hadn't planned for.
"What?" I asked.
"Nothing," he said. "Just thinking."
"Dangerous habit."
"For you, maybe."
I should've shut that down. Instead, I returned to my work.
We spent the morning dividing responsibilities.
I handled sponsor outreach. He managed logistics and city approvals. Clean lines. No overlap.
Professional.
Safe.
Except every now and then, I felt his gaze—not lingering, just checking. As if he was making sure I was still there.
At one point, I stood to retrieve a folder from the cabinet behind him.
"Excuse me," I said.
He shifted his chair slightly, but not enough.
When I leaned past him, my sleeve brushed his arm.
The contact was brief. Accidental.
Still, I froze.
He did too.
The room felt suddenly smaller.
"I've got it," he said quickly, standing.
Too quickly.
He handed me the folder without meeting my eyes.
"Thank you," I replied.
Our fingers didn't touch.
That felt deliberate.
By afternoon, tension sat between us like an unspoken agreement.
Neither of us acknowledged it.
"I spoke with the Crestview Foundation," I said, breaking the silence. "They're interested."
"That's good," he replied. "They're cautious."
"As they should be."
His gaze flicked to me. "You don't trust easily."
"No," I agreed. "I trust consistently."
A corner of his mouth lifted. "There's a difference?"
"Yes. One is earned."
He nodded once, as if accepting that. "Then I suppose I'm still earning."
That shouldn't have stayed with me.
It did.
The message came again just before dusk.
Another vibration. Another unknown number.
This time, no photo.
Just words.
Unknown:
You think you know who Ethan Blackwood is. You don't.
My stomach tightened.
I locked my phone and looked up.
Ethan was on a call, voice low, expression serious. When he noticed my gaze, he ended it immediately.
"What is it?" he asked.
I hesitated.
Trust consistently, Lila.
I slid my phone across the table.
He read the message. His jaw tightened—not with anger, but restraint.
"This is getting old," he said quietly.
"You sound offended."
"I am," he replied. "Not because they're wrong about me. But because they're dragging you into it."
That made me pause.
"You assume I need protection."
"No," he said. "I assume you don't deserve interference."
Subtle.
Careful.
I studied him—really studied him—for the first time without rivalry clouding my judgment.
He wasn't defensive.
He wasn't smug.
He looked… controlled. Like someone used to being misunderstood.
"Do you have enemies?" I asked.
A beat passed.
"Everyone does," he answered.
Not a denial.
We packed up in silence.
As we walked toward the elevator, the building lights dimmed automatically. Evening settled around us, quiet and reflective.
"Lila," he said as the doors slid open.
"Yes?"
"If this gets worse," he continued, "we tell our parents."
I scoffed lightly. "They'll turn it into a scandal."
"Then we handle it ourselves," he said. "Together."
Together.
The word felt heavier than it should have.
The elevator doors closed.
We descended in silence, standing side by side, not touching.
Yet somehow, closer than we'd been all day.
That night, as I reviewed our shared documents from home, a new file appeared in the folder.
Uploaded by: Ethan Blackwood
The title read:
"Things You Should Know."
My pulse quickened.
I opened it.
The first line stopped me cold.
There's something about my family that puts you in more danger than you realize.
And suddenly, I wasn't sure rivalry was our biggest problem anymore.