Downstairs in his dimly lit office, Ethan sat still for minutes, the glow of his laptop screen illuminating the quiet space. His fingers hovered above the keyboard, hesitant.
He wasn't sure if he was crossing a line.
He was crossing a line.
But curiosity had a weight—pressing, persistent. And right now, it bore down harder than guilt. He told himself it was due diligence, an extension of their contractual arrangement. But deep down, he knew it wasn't.
This was personal.
Too personal.
Still, he typed.
Lena Marks.
He paused.
His hands hovered over the "Enter" key like a prayer he wasn't ready to say.
Then, with a soft click, he pressed it.
The search loaded slowly, the quiet hum of his laptop matching the soft thud of his heart. He'd done a superficial check on her before—no red flags, no dramatic exes, no legal trouble—but that had been for safety. Not… this.
This was because he wanted to know her.
Scrolling, he found the usual—school listings, a few charity runs, an article highlighting a student achiever from her high school. Then—photos. A younger Lena popped up in his screen: all braces, bright eyes, and uneven eyeliner. She wore a cheerleader uniform, grinning awkwardly at the camera, mid-jump, with her pom-poms blurred in motion.
Ethan's lips twitched.
A real smile.
It caught him off guard.
He leaned in slightly, forgetting himself for a moment. Then, as if realizing the softness on his own face, he shook his head and moved on. But more photos loaded.
One made his smile vanish instantly.
Lena was shoulder to shoulder with a tall boy in a football jersey. She was laughing, bright and easy, her cheeks flushed. In another, the same boy pressed a kiss to her cheek while she covered her face shyly.
Ethan's jaw tensed.
His hands balled into fists.
Who was he? And why did that image feel like a dagger?
His mind raced.
Was that the guy she was texting the other night?
Why weren't there more photos of him? Did she delete them? Hide them?
Is he still in her life?
The rush of jealousy was sudden, irrational, and hot.
He didn't want anyone close to Lena. Not like that. Not now. Not after him. Not after the way she smiled at him lately—not the contract smile, but the real one. That one... he wanted to claim.
Was this what Thomas meant by "You're going soft"?
He was about to close the tab when a small, outdated news headline caught his attention:
"Local Girl Lena Stephanie Marks Loses Parents in Devastating Accident"
His breath caught.
He clicked.
The page loaded slowly. It was the same accident she'd mentioned in passing—the one she never dwelled on. But this… this was the raw truth. Below the headline was a grainy video clip from a traffic reporter's live feed. The wreckage was horrifying. Glass everywhere. The mangled remains of a small sedan. Two adults covered in blood. And—
A tiny boy wailing in the background. Audrey. Barely ten years old.
Ethan flinched.
Then came another video. Lena again—barely eighteen, her eyes wide and trembling as a reporter informed her of her parents' deaths. Her legs gave out. She collapsed to the floor, gasping, sobbing, pleading to see her brother. They wouldn't let her.
Then she fought past them. Found Audrey. Held his bloodied body in her lap, her hands trembling but steady enough to kiss his temple over and over, whispering, "You'll be okay. I'm here. I'm here."
Ethan stared at the screen, stunned.
She was so young.
So broken.
So strong.
He scrolled further—school records showing perfect attendance, scholarship applications, summer jobs—all while caring for a traumatized little brother and staying afloat.
She never asked for pity.
Never let it define her.
She just… survived. Quietly. Fiercely.
He leaned back in his chair, the room suddenly too cold.
Then he reached for his phone.
Ethan: I need you here tomorrow morning. First thing. Urgent.
—To Christian.
He didn't elaborate. He couldn't.
There was a pressure behind his eyes. It wasn't quite pain—but something heavier.
When he finally stood, the clock read 2:47 a.m. The house was still. He walked softly through the hall, up the stairs, and paused outside Lena's room. The door was slightly ajar.
Inside, she lay curled on one side, a book resting loosely in her hand. Her brows were furrowed even in sleep, lips parted just slightly. She looked… soft. Like the girl in those old photos, still carrying the same fire, only hidden behind quiet resilience.
He walked in.
Gently, he took the book from her, marked the page, and set it on the nightstand. Then he pulled the blanket up to her shoulders. Just as he was about to turn away—
She murmured something incoherent and shifted, turning her back to him.
It made him smile, just barely.
And then—impulsively, stupidly—he slipped under the blanket and lay beside her, careful not to touch her, not fully. He stared at the ceiling, then at her.
In the soft dark, he leaned over and pressed the lightest kiss to her forehead.
Too much.
Too soon.
But it felt… right.
Lena stirred, maybe sensing him, but didn't wake.
He stayed there, letting her even breathing steady his own.
Then he closed his eyes, the last thought echoing in his head:
What is it about you, Lena Marks, that makes me question everything I thought I knew?