The days that followed their confrontation were eerily quiet. Too quiet.
Ethan had disappeared.
Not just from her gallery, but from everywhere. No unexpected visits, no teasing remarks, no lingering stares that made her heart race. It was as if he had vanished into thin air.
Violet told herself she didn't care. It was good, right? Less chaos, less confusion. She should be relieved. Then why did it feel so... wrong?
She tried to shake it off, bury herself in work, but she caught herself zoning out more than usual. Every time the door chimed, a flicker of hope shot through her before she quickly masked it with indifference. But the worst part? Jade noticed.
And Jade never let anything slide.
"Alright, spill it."
"Spill what?" Violet looked up from her sketches, feigning confusion.
"You've been acting weird," Jade crossed her arms, leaning against the desk with an infuriating smirk.
"Not at all, Jade."
"You keep looking at the door like a lovesick fool."
"You're imagining things," Violet scoffed, rolling her eyes.
"Am I?" Jade arched a brow. "So you're not wondering where he is?"
"Why would I?" she felt her stomach twist, but she schooled her expression into indifference.
"Violet, come on. You might be able to fool yourself, but not me," Jade let out a dramatic sigh.
Violet refused to engage. She focused back on her work, but the strokes of her pencil felt aimless, her concentration shattered.
"Admit it. You're worried. And maybe, just maybe... you miss him," Jade leaned forward, resting his chin on his palm, eyes glinting with mischief.
"I am not worried. And I certainly do not miss him," Violet snorted.
Liam, who had been unusually quiet, suddenly chimed in, "What if something happened to him?"
"Why would something happen to him?" Violet froze for half a second before scowling.
"I don't know. Just saying, he disappears for days after spilling his heart out to you? What if he got sick? Or in an accident? Or... " Liam shrugged.
"Okay, that's enough," Violet interrupted, irritation flaring in her chest. "He's probably just busy."
"Oh, so now you're making excuses for him?" Jade smirked.
"I am not... "
"Face it, Vi, you're Ethan-sick."
"I will throw something at you," Violet muttered, reaching for a napkin as a fake weapon.
"You know, there's a simple way to fix this," Kathy grinned.
"I swear, if you say go find him... "
"Go find him," Jade and Kathy exchanged a knowing glance before turning to Violet at the same time.
"You people are insufferable," Violet groaned, burying her face in her hands.
And yet, when she was alone later that night, she couldn't stop thinking about what they said.
What if something had happened? No, that was ridiculous. He was fine. He had to be.
Then why hadn't he shown up?
That night, as she lay in bed, she found herself scrolling through her phone, her thumb hovering over Ethan's name. She never saved his number, but it was still there from the last time he called.
A part of her itched to text him. Just a simple Where are you?
But she didn't. She turned off the phone, rolled onto her side, and squeezed her eyes shut.
And yet, sleep never came easily when her mind was stuck on him.
The next morning Violet grabbed her coat and stormed out to find Ethan in his office. But as she made her way to Ethan's office, her steps slowed. What if he really was avoiding her? What if she had pushed too far?
When she arrived, the receptionist barely looked up before saying, "Mr. Sinclair hasn't been in for three days."
Violet's stomach twisted. Three days. Right after their fight.
Was he sick? Injured? Out of town?
"Do you know if he's… okay?" she hesitated before asking.
"I... uh, I wouldn't know, ma'am," the receptionist blinked at her, surprised.
Muttering a quick thanks, Violet walked out, more unsettled than before. Her feet carried her without thinking, without hesitation, until she found herself outside Ethan's apartment building. She bit her lip, staring up at the windows. Was she really about to do this? With a deep breath, she marched inside and pressed the buzzer for his apartment.
No answer.
She pressed it again.
Still nothing.
Her worry spiked. Ethan was always in control, always predictable in his own infuriating way. This... this silence, this absence... wasn't him.
So, before she could second-guess herself, Violet turned to the doorman and asked, "Has Mr. Sinclair been home in the last few days?"
"I saw him come in two nights ago. Haven't seen him leave since," the doorman hesitated before nodding.
Violet swallowed hard. He was in there. She squared her shoulders and knocked firmly on his door. And waited.
No response.
A slow, uneasy feeling crept over her. She knocked again, harder this time.
"Ethan? Are you in there?"
Silence.
Her pulse quickened. Something wasn't right. Without thinking, she reached for the door handle and turned it. It was unlocked. Violet pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The apartment was dim, curtains drawn shut, leaving only the soft glow of city lights filtering in through the cracks. The air was stale, thick with the scent of whiskey and something else... something heavier.
Violet stepped inside hesitantly, her pulse racing.
"Ethan?" she called out again, her voice softer now.
No response.
Then she heard it... a sharp clink of glass against wood. Her gaze shifted toward the living room, and there he was.
Ethan sat slumped on the edge of the couch, his posture undone in a way she had never seen before. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, wrinkled like he had been wearing it for days. His hair was messier than usual, like his fingers had raked through it too many times. A nearly empty bottle of whiskey sat beside him on the table, the amber liquid catching the dim light. His sleeves were rolled up haphazardly, revealing tense forearms, veins prominent against his skin.
But it was his face that made her stomach twist.
Dark circles shadowed his eyes, his jaw covered in faint stubble. His usually sharp, controlled expression was gone. In its place was something raw, something tired, something painfully lost.
She had never seen him like this. Not once.
"Ethan," she said again, stepping closer.
He didn't move.
Her fingers clenched at her sides before she knelt in front of him, lowering herself until she was at his level. Only then did he look up.
His eyes were bloodshot, dark circles shadowing his face.
For a long moment, he just stared at her, as if unsure whether she was real or just another fragment of his thoughts.
"You shouldn't be here," he muttered without looking up, his voice hoarse.
"You disappeared, Ethan. I—" she hesitated. "I was worried," Violet swallowed, stepping closer.
"Worried," he echoed, the word sounding foreign on his tongue. "Funny," a dry, humorless chuckle escaped his lips.
"Ethan, what's going on with you?" she frowned, inching forward.
At that, he finally lifted his gaze to hers. And it hit her like a punch to the chest.
His eyes... bloodshot and unfocused... held something she wasn't ready to see. A mess of emotions she had spent years convincing herself he wasn't capable of feeling.
He leaned back against the couch, tipping his head up with a bitter smile. "I tried to stay away," he murmured, voice slurring slightly. "Told myself it was for the best." His fingers tightened around the glass. "But you... you just keep showing up. In my head. In my damn dreams."
"Ethan... " Violet inhaled sharply, her chest tightening.
"I'm tired, Vi," he whispered, his head dropping forward again. His elbow rested on his knee as he ran a hand over his face. "So fucking tired."
She had no words. None that would make sense right now.
Then, he laughed... soft and broken. "You still care, don't you?" His gaze flickered up to hers, something unreadable in his expression. "Even after everything."
"I... " her throat went dry.
"You do," he cut in before she could deny it. His smirk was laced with something bitter. "You wouldn't be here if you didn't."
Violet clenched her jaw, feeling an infuriating sting behind her eyes. "You don't get to do this," she whispered. "Not when you're like this."
"Like what?" Ethan tilted his head, eyes half-lidded from exhaustion and alcohol. "Drunk? A mess? Pathetic?" His lips curled. "That's the thing about you, Violet. You always saw me as something more, didn't you?"
She hated how much those words cracked something inside her. Taking a slow breath, gently, she pried the glass from his fingers and set it aside.
"Enough, Ethan," she said, voice steadier than she felt. "You need to rest."
His gaze softened just a fraction as he studied her, as if memorizing her face. "You always did that," he muttered. "Tried to fix things. Fix me."
"I was never trying to fix you," she said quietly. "I just... I just wanted you to let me in," Violet swallowed past the ache in her throat.
"And if I did?" he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "Would you have stayed?" Ethan blinked, his lashes heavy with exhaustion.
The question made her breath catch. She didn't know how to answer that. Not now. Not when he was like this.
So instead, she exhaled softly and placed a hand against his jaw, her thumb grazing over the stubble on his skin.
"Get some sleep, Ethan," she whispered.
His eyes lingered on hers for a moment longer before they fluttered shut, the weight of exhaustion finally pulling him under.
Violet sat there, her hand still resting against his face, her heart twisting painfully in her chest. Because for the first time in years, Ethan Sinclair had let his guard down.
And it was breaking her.