Emma
The hum of the private jet is soothing, a low vibration that does little to calm the chaos in my mind. The trip to Ethan's private estate in the French Riviera came out of nowhere, as most of his commands do. One minute, I was scrolling through my emails, trying to ignore the endless media coverage of our sham of a marriage. The next, Olivia was handing me a detailed itinerary and informing me that I'd need to pack for "a few days."
Now, here I am, sitting across from Ethan in a plush leather seat as he scrolls through his phone, completely ignoring me.
"Is this how you handle business trips?" I ask, breaking the silence.
He doesn't look up, but the faintest smirk touches his lips. "Would you prefer I chat about the weather?"
"No, but I'd prefer to know why I'm here," I reply, crossing my arms. "Don't you usually handle these things alone?"
His gaze lifts, locking onto mine with a quiet intensity. "You're my wife, Emma. It's time the world starts believing it."
Of course. It's all about the image.
The island is stunning.
Perfectly clear waters lap at white sand sea shores, and the actual domain is an out thing of a fantasy — or perhaps a billionaire fantasy. The rambling estate is roosted on a bluff, its cutting edge engineering mixing flawlessly with the lavish plant life encompassing it.
"This is… over the top," I say as we get out of the vehicle.
Ethan glances at me, his expression unreadable. "It's efficient."
I snort. "Efficient for what? Hosting royalty?"
He doesn't reply, instead striding toward the villa with the kind of confidence that only comes from owning the ground beneath your feet.
Inside, the villa is similarly just about as rich as I anticipated. Floor-to-roof windows offer unhindered perspectives on the sea, and everything about from the marble floors to the custom artwork— shouts riches.
"You'll remain in the visitor suite," Ethan says, his tone energetic as he gives me a keycard.
"Not the master bedroom?" I bother, curving a brow.
He grins, his eyes flicking over me. "Try not to roll the dice one too many times."
I feign exacerbation and take the card, following one of the staff members down a long hallway. The visitor suite is bigger than my whole apartment back in New York, complete with own balcony and a bathroom could serve as a spa.
I ought to be dazzled. All things being equal, I feel trapped.
The first day passes in a blur of cautiously organized feasts, affable discussions with Ethan's business partners, and an unending motorcade of fake grins. Ethan is the ideal host, beguiling and mindful such that feels practically real. Nearly.
When supper rolls around, I'm extremely tired. I find a seat at the long dining table, standing by listening to Ethan and his visitors discuss investment procedures and market trends. The discussion streams effectively, but I can't shake the inclination that I'm an outcast looking in.
"Emma," one of the men expresses, turning to me. "What's it like being married to Ethan Grayson?"
The inquiry surprises me, and I look at Ethan, who watches me with a weak grin.
"It's… never exhausting," I answer, compelling a grin.
The group laughs, and the man nods. "I can imagine. Ethan's always been…intense."
"That is single word for it," I mumble softly.
Ethan's grin augments, however he says nothing.
I can't sleep that night.
The manor is quiet, the main sound the weak stir of the sea breeze through the trees. I meander the halls carelessly, my exposed feet cushioning delicately against the cool marble floors.
The fact that I notice the entryway makes it then, at that point.
From the get go, it seems like some other entryway in the manor — smooth and current, mixing consistently with the encompassing walls. In any case, when I try the handle, it doesn't move. It's locked.
Interest sparkles in my chest. How could an entryway be locked in a place like this?
"Enjoying your 12 PM walk?"
I hop, twirling around to find Ethan standing a couple of feet away. His demeanor is unintelligible, but there's a sprinkle of entertainment in his eyes.
"I was unable to sleep," I say, folding my arms. "What's behind this door?"
His gaze darkens, the amusement vanishing. "Nothing that concerns you."
"That's not suspicious at all," I reply, arching a brow.
He steps closer, his presence overwhelming. "Stay out of it, Emma."
His tone is low and warning, sending a shiver down my spine.
"Fine," I say, raising my hands in mock surrender. "I was just curious."
"Curiosity can be dangerous," he murmurs, his eyes locking onto mine. "Go to bed, Emma."
Ethan
I watch her retreat down the hallway, her curiosity lingering in the air like a challenge. Emma Whitmore is going to be the death of me.
That door was a mistake. I knew it the moment she noticed it, the way her eyes lit up with questions she wouldn't dare ask.
But this is my world, and there are things she's better off not knowing.
The next morning, the tension between us is palpable. Ethan is distant, his focus entirely on the business meetings he's hosting throughout the day. I try to stay out of his way, exploring the villa and the surrounding island.
The beauty of the place is undeniable, but it feels hollow—like a gilded cage.
That evening, as the sun sets over the ocean, Ethan finds me on the balcony of the guest suite. He's holding two glasses of wine, his expression softer than I've seen it in days.
"Truce?" he asks, holding out one of the glasses.
I take it hesitantly, my fingers brushing against his. "What are we trucing?"
He smirks, leaning against the railing. "You tell me."
The silence between us stretches, the sound of the waves filling the space.
"Why did you bring me here, Ethan?" I ask finally, my voice quiet.
He doesn't answer right away, his gaze fixed on the horizon. "Because I wanted you to see this."
"See what?"
He turns to me, his expression unreadable. "The life you've agreed to."
His words hit harder than I expect, and I feel a pang of something I can't quite name.
"And the locked door?" I ask, my tone light but edged.
His jaw tightens, the softness in his expression vanishing. "Drop it, Emma."
As Ethan leaves, I'm left gazing at the locked entryway from the balcony. Whatever is behind it, I know one thing without a doubt: it holds the responses I want.
And I'm going to track them down.