Emma
The locked entryway looms in my mind like a test I'm not sure I'm prepared to take on. It's simply a door, I tell myself, but it seems like a lot more — like an actual exemplification of all that Ethan Grayson keeps stowed away from me.
I can't quit pondering the manner in which his jaw fixed when I wanted to get some information about it the last night, the warning in his voice that creeped me out. Stay out of it, Emma.
Obviously, I can't.
Breakfast is served on the porch sitting above the sea, the morning sun projecting a brilliant gleam over the estate. Ethan sits opposite me, his phone in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, his consideration fixed on anything deal he's arranging.
I cut at my natural product salad, the quietness between us deplorable. At last, I can't endure anything else.
"What's behind the entryway?"
Ethan's eyes lift slowly from his phone, his expression calm but unreadable. "Good morning to you too, Emma."
"Don't deflect," I say, my voice firmer than I feel. "What's in the locked room?"
He sets his phone down, leaning back in his chair as he studies me. "Why does it matter?"
"Since it's locked," I answer, as though that makes sense of everything. "Why secure something in your own home except if it's something you don't want anybody to see?"
His look hones, the slightest smidgen of bothering flashing across his face. "A few things are improved let be."
"That is not a response," I press, inclining forward.
"It's the only one you will get," he answers, his voice edged with conclusion.
I squint my eyes, the dissatisfaction rising in my chest. "You can't continue to close me out, Ethan. Assuming you anticipate that I should assume this part, to be your wife in the presence of the world, then, at that point, you owe me some genuineness."
He stands unexpectedly, the seat scratching against the floor. "I owe you nothing, Emma."
The words hit like a slap, and before I can answer, he leaves, abandoning me with my unanswered inquiries.
Soon thereafter, I meander through the estate, attempting to shake the waiting pressure from breakfast. The staff moves quietly around me, their presence a consistent sign of how awkward I am here.
It's in the library that I meet him.
Oliver Blackwell is all that I'd anticipate from somebody in Ethan's world— sharp suit, more honed eyes, and a quality of certainty that boundaries on pomposity. He's standing by the floor-to-roof windows, a glass of scotch in his grasp as he watches the waves run into the precipices underneath.
"You must be Emma," he says without pivoting.
I hold back in doubt in the doorway, uncertain how to answer. "Also, you must be… ?"
"Oliver Blackwell," he replies, finally turning to face me. His smile is charming, but there's something predatory about it that puts me on edge.
"Ethan's colleague," I say, sorting it out.
He nods, taking a taste of his drink. "Furthermore, evidently, his wife babysitter today."
I seethe at the remark, folding my arms. "I needn't bother with a sitter."
"Perhaps not," he says, his eyes restricting somewhat. "However, you really do require an aide if you are going to survive in Ethan's world."
"Survive?" I make a reverberation, my stomach turning.
Oliver steps nearer, his voice bringing down. "Ethan's world isn't like yours, Emma. It's ferocious, merciless. What's more, in the event that you don't figure out how to assume your role impeccably, you'll regard yourself as bitten up and let out before you even see it coming."
"I'm not scared of Ethan," I say, however my voice falters marginally.
"It would be ideal for you to be," Oliver answers, his tone matter-of-reality. "Not on the grounds that he'll hurt you, but since he will not hold back to safeguard what's his. What's more, at the present time, that incorporates you."
The heaviness of his words settles vigorously on my shoulders. I need to argue, to let him know he's not right, but in all actuality, I don't know Ethan all around ok certainly.
"For what reason are you letting me know this?" I ask at last.
"Because I've seen what happens to people who underestimate Ethan Grayson," he says, his gaze steady. "Don't be one of them."
Ethan
I hear their voices before I see them.
Emma's sharp tone, edged with defiance. Oliver's smooth drawl, laced with just enough condescension to irritate me.
I step into the library, my presence immediately silencing them. Oliver looks up, his expression unreadable, while Emma crosses her arms and glares at me.
"Ethan," Oliver says, his tone casual. "Your wife and I were just getting acquainted."
"Were you?" I reply coolly, my eyes flicking to Emma.
She doesn't back down, her chin lifting slightly. "Oliver was just giving me some advice. Apparently, I need to play my role if I want to survive in your world."
My jaw tightens, and I glance at Oliver, who raises his glass in mock salute. "Always happy to help," he says before slipping past me and out of the room.
Once we're alone, I turn to Emma, my patience hanging by a thread. "What did he say to you?"
"Nothing I didn't already know," she replies, her voice sharp.
"Don't play games with me, Emma," I warn, stepping closer. "What did he say?"
She meets my gaze head-on, her eyes blazing. "He told me to play my role. To be the perfect little wife so I don't embarrass you or ruin your precious image."
My jaw tightens, and I take another step closer, my voice dropping. "And do you plan on taking his advice?"
Her laugh is bitter, the sound cutting through me. "Why does it matter, Ethan? You've already made it perfectly clear that I'm just a pawn in your game."
The accusation stings, but I don't let it show. Instead, I close the distance between us, my voice low and firm. "You agreed to this arrangement, Emma. You knew what you were signing up for."
"Did I?" she snaps, her voice trembling. "Because it feels like every day I'm discovering another secret, another lie. How am I supposed to play my role when I don't even know the rules?"
Her words hang in the air, and for a moment, I don't know how to respond.
Emma
Ethan's silence speaks volumes.
I shake my head, the frustration and doubt swirling in my chest threatening to overwhelm me. "You keep telling me to trust you, Ethan, but how can I when you won't give me a single reason to?"
He exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. "Trust isn't something I give freely, Emma. It's earned."
"And yet you expect it from me," I counter.
The pressure between us snaps like a live wire, however before both of us can say another word, Ethan's phone hums. He looks at the screen, his demeanor solidifying.
"I need to take this," he says, his tone cold.
Obviously he does.
As he leaves, I'm left remaining in the library, my chest hurling with frustration. The locked entryway, Oliver's warning, Ethan's deflections— it's really quite a lot.
I don't have any idea who Ethan Grayson truly is, however I'm beginning to figure I probably won't approve of the response.
That night, I make a decision as I lie in bed.
In the event that Ethan won't offer me the responses I really want, I'll track down them myself. Beginning with whatever is behind that locked door.