Chapter 7
2772words
The terms were straightforward: a one-year marriage with no interference in each other's private lives; Ethan would cover all medical expenses for her father; Rachel would receive a "compensation fee"; they would divorce amicably when the term ended.
"All signed?" Ethan descended the stairs in casual clothes—a gray cashmere sweater and black lounge pants—looking softer than his office persona.
Rachel nodded and extended the document. "Including the final page."
As Ethan took the papers, his fingers brushed against hers, sending an unexpected jolt through her. Rachel quickly withdrew her hand, pretending to smooth her shirt to hide her reaction.
"Your room is second on the right upstairs," Ethan said, placing the contract on the coffee table without even glancing at it. "It's been prepared according to your preferences."
Rachel looked up, surprised. "My preferences?"
"White and light wood tones, workspace by the window, linen bedding." His tone was matter-of-fact, as if reading a report. "If anything's not to your liking, it can be changed."
Rachel stared at him, speechless. How could he know these details? She couldn't recall ever mentioning them.
"Thank you," she finally managed.
Ethan nodded. "Dinner at seven. Mrs. Miller runs the household—tell her if you need anything." With that, he turned and walked toward his study, leaving Rachel alone in the cavernous living room.
Rachel carried her suitcase upstairs and found the room. When she opened the door, she gasped—this wasn't just any guest room; it was as if someone had plucked her dream bedroom from her imagination. Spacious and flooded with natural light, it featured floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking an immaculate garden. A solid wood desk occupied the sunniest corner, complete with professional drafting equipment and a high-end computer. The bed was dressed in luxurious linen, exactly as Ethan had described. The white and light wood palette created a peaceful, airy space.
On the nightstand stood a framed photograph of Rachel with her father. Her hand trembled as she picked it up—this was from her college graduation, the same photo that had sat beside her bed in her apartment. How had Ethan gotten it?
She set down the frame and opened the wardrobe, only to be stunned again. It was filled with clothing—casual wear, business attire, formal dresses—all in her size and in the minimalist style she preferred. More disturbing still, even the underwear matched her preferred styles and brands.
"This is impossible," Rachel whispered, examining a navy blue dress. The tag showed her exact size, but what caught her eye was a small "R" embroidered inside the collar—her initial.
A gentle knock interrupted her thoughts.
"Come in."
The door opened to reveal a warm-faced middle-aged woman. "Miss Adams, I'm Mrs. Miller. Mr. Blake thought you might want to rest, so I can bring dinner to your room if you prefer."
"That's not necessary—I'll come down," Rachel replied. "May I ask about these clothes?"
Mrs. Miller smiled knowingly. "Mr. Blake selected everything personally. For weeks, he brought home design magazines and studied them late into the night." She lowered her voice. "I've worked here ten years and never seen him so invested in anything."
Rachel's pulse quickened. Last month—before Milan, before she'd discovered his study.
"Mr. Blake seems cold, but he notices everything," Mrs. Miller continued. "He even remembered your preferred shampoo brand and stocked the bathroom with it."
Rachel could only nod, speechless. Mrs. Miller excused herself, leaving Rachel staring at the wardrobe, her mind racing.
What was Ethan thinking? If she were merely a substitute for Sophia, why such attention to detail? If this was purely contractual, why personally select even her underwear?
At dinner, Rachel found Ethan at the far end of the long dining table, cutting his steak with surgical precision. The scene felt more like a business meeting than a meal between newlyweds.
"Is the food to your liking?" Ethan asked, glancing up.
Rachel looked at her plate—steamed sea bass, stir-fried vegetables with lily bulbs, and a rich bone broth with Chinese yam—all her favorites. "It's perfect, thank you."
"Mrs. Miller is an excellent cook," Ethan said simply, then fell silent.
The clink of silverware echoed in the vast dining room. Rachel studied Ethan surreptitiously—his features remained sharp, but his eyes seemed softer in the warm light. He ate efficiently but gracefully, every movement betraying his privileged upbringing.
"My father," Rachel ventured, breaking the silence, "in Switzerland…"
"All arranged," Ethan replied, setting down his utensils. "Transfer scheduled for Monday. A specialized team will oversee his care. You'll have daily video access."
Rachel's eyes misted. "Thank you. I mean, thank you so much."
Ethan seemed momentarily surprised by her informal address but quickly recovered. "It's contractual. No thanks necessary."
Another silence fell. Finally, Rachel gathered her courage. "Why me?"
Ethan looked up. "Meaning?"
"You could have chosen anyone for this arrangement," Rachel pressed. "Why me specifically?"
The air seemed to crystallize between them. Ethan's fingers drummed lightly on the tablecloth. "Because you won't develop inappropriate expectations."
His words cut like a precision blade. Rachel forced a smile. "Of course. We both understand this is purely transactional."
Something flickered across Ethan's face before his mask of indifference returned. "The driver will take you to work tomorrow. I have a board meeting and will arrive separately."
The subject change couldn't have been more obvious. After dinner, Rachel retreated to her room, closed the door, and exhaled deeply. One day into this marriage, and she was already emotionally exhausted.
…
Three months passed as Rachel adjusted to their peculiar arrangement.
Weekdays followed a pattern: they traveled to work together but maintained strict professional boundaries; evenings found them occupying opposite ends of the mansion like cordial strangers. Weekends, Ethan retreated to his gym or study while Rachel visited her father—Ethan provided a car but never offered to join her.
The one evolution was Rachel taking charge of Ethan's nutrition. Discovering he still skipped meals, she resumed preparing his lunches and occasionally cooked dinner. Ethan never commented, but he always cleared his plate—a wordless appreciation that pleased her more than verbal thanks would have.
"Miss Adams, a package arrived for you." One Saturday morning, Mrs. Miller delivered an elegantly wrapped box.
Inside, Rachel found W&K's newest professional design tools—even more sophisticated than her current set.
No card accompanied it, but the sender was obvious. Similar gifts had appeared regularly over the past months—rare art books, premium supplies, even exclusive exhibition invitations—all items she'd coveted but couldn't justify purchasing.
Rachel held the tools, conflicted. Ethan remembered her every preference and anticipated her needs, yet maintained an emotional distance that confused her more than outright coldness would have.
Her phone rang—her father calling via video. When she answered, his face appeared on screen, noticeably healthier than before.
"Rachel, look!" He proudly held up a small wooden carving. "I made this myself!"
Rachel's throat tightened with emotion—his speech was clearer, his hands steady enough for detailed work. Six months ago, this would have seemed impossible.
"That's incredible, Dad! What do the doctors say?"
"They say I'm their star patient!" he beamed. "All thanks to Mr. Blake's arrangements. How is he treating you?"
Rachel's smile faltered momentarily. "He's fine."
"Are you two… happy together?" her father asked carefully. "He's been so generous with my care, I wondered if perhaps…"
"Dad!" Rachel cut him off. "Everything's fine. Don't worry about us."
After ending the call, Rachel moved to the window, gazing at roses blooming in the garden below.
Her father's question had struck at the heart of what she'd been avoiding—what was this marriage, really? Why was Ethan so attentive to her and her father's needs?
Initially, she'd assumed it was all about Sophia. But in three months, Ethan had never treated her as a replacement. Instead, he respected her boundaries, supported her career, and remembered her every preference—far beyond what any contract required.
Unless… unless he genuinely cared for her.
The thought made her pulse quicken. Then she remembered his words at dinner: "Because you won't develop inappropriate expectations." Her heart sank anew.
Another knock—this time Ethan himself stood at the door, holding a folder. "Latest medical report from Switzerland. Your father's progress exceeds expectations."
Rachel took the report, their fingers brushing. This time, Ethan didn't immediately pull away but let the contact linger a moment before withdrawing.
"Thank you," she said softly, noticing his hair wasn't styled today. It fell naturally across his forehead, making him look younger, more approachable. "Would you like to come in?"
Ethan's eyes swept the room, pausing on her workspace. "New project?"
Rachel nodded, stepping back to let him enter. "For next month's exhibition."
Ethan approached her desk, studying her sketches with genuine interest. Sunlight streamed through the windows, softening his features. Rachel found herself staring—without his usual armor of tailored suits and rigid posture, he seemed almost… accessible.
"Here," he pointed to a detail, "if you curved this line, wouldn't it create more movement?"
Rachel leaned closer, her hair accidentally brushing his arm. She felt him tense but noticed he didn't move away.
"You're right," she agreed, reaching for a pencil. She deliberately took her time making the correction, allowing their arms to remain in contact.
Ethan's breathing changed subtly, but he didn't retreat. For a moment, the only sounds were the pencil against paper and their quiet breathing.
"Rachel," Ethan said, his voice lower than usual, "I need to travel to the States next month. Two weeks."
"Oh," Rachel said, trying to mask her disappointment. "When will you return?"
"The day before your exhibition," he said, then added, "I'll be there."
Rachel looked up, surprised. "You're coming to the exhibition?"
"Of course," he replied, looking slightly puzzled. "Why wouldn't I?"
"It's just a small gallery show. Nothing important."
"It's important to you," he said simply, as if that explained everything.
Something shifted in Rachel's chest—a feeling both sweet and painful. Ethan always did this—expressing profound support through the simplest statements.
"Then I'll wait for you," she said softly, not specifying whether she meant for the exhibition or something more.
Ethan held her gaze for a long moment before nodding and leaving. When the door closed, Rachel leaned against it, her heart hammering in her chest.
This ambiguous relationship was slowly consuming her sanity, and she wasn't sure how much longer she could bear it.
The day of the exhibition arrived. Rachel reached the gallery early to oversee final preparations. Though small in scale, this first solo show represented a major milestone in her career.
For the past month, she'd immersed herself in her work, partly to distract from Ethan's absence. Since his departure, communication had been minimal—just brief emails confirming his return date.
"Rachel! We need your approval on this lighting," Ms. Lee, the gallery owner, called.
Rachel went to help, and as she worked, her phone vibrated. A message from Ethan: "Flight delayed. May miss opening. Sorry."
Disappointment washed over her, but she quickly replied: "No problem. Work comes first." She took a steadying breath and refocused on the exhibition.
The opening attracted numerous industry professionals, some clearly attending only because of their connection to Ethan. Rachel wore a simple white dress and maintained a professional smile, though her thoughts kept straying to the man who should have been beside her.
"Ms. Adams, what inspired this centerpiece?" a critic asked, gesturing toward her signature work.
Rachel refocused. "This is 'Facets of Light,' inspired by—"
"The refraction and reflection of light through varying mediums," a familiar deep voice finished from the doorway.
Rachel turned sharply to see Ethan standing in the entrance, his suit slightly rumpled, hair windblown—clearly having come directly from the airport. Their eyes met across the crowded room, and the corner of his mouth lifted in a subtle smile meant only for her.
Warmth flooded through her. He had come. Despite delays and exhaustion, he had made it.
"And you are?" the critic inquired, eyebrows raised.
Rachel hesitated, uncertain how to introduce him. Husband? Employer? Friend?
"Ethan Blake," he said, moving to her side and slipping his arm naturally around her waist. "Rachel's husband and her most devoted admirer."
The casual intimacy of his touch and the unexpected introduction brought heat to Rachel's cheeks. His hand at her waist felt warm and steady, sending a current of awareness through her body.
"Ah!" The critic's expression cleared. "I see the Blake influence now—that elegant minimalism with unexpected power."
Ethan shook his head. "Quite the opposite. Rachel taught me what gives design its soul."
The exchange drew attention from nearby guests. Rachel glanced up at Ethan and found him studying her work with genuine pride and admiration. For a moment, she could almost believe their marriage was real, that his appreciation was for her alone and not some ghost from his past.
After the exhibition, Ethan drove her home himself rather than calling the driver. The car smelled of leather and his cologne, creating a cocoon of unexpected intimacy.
"The exhibition was excellent," Ethan said, breaking the silence. "Congratulations."
"Thank you for coming," Rachel said quietly.
"I said I would," he replied simply, as if keeping his word required no special acknowledgment.
The car pulled up to the mansion. Instead of getting out immediately, Ethan turned to her. "I need to tell you something."
Rachel's pulse quickened. "Yes?"
"Your father can return home next week," he said. "His treatment has been remarkably successful. He can continue rehabilitation here."
The news hit Rachel like a physical blow. Her father's recovery meant the primary reason for their arrangement no longer existed.
"That's wonderful news," she managed, keeping her voice level. "Thank you for everything you've done for him."
Ethan nodded and came around to open her door. That night, Rachel lay awake considering the implications. According to their agreement, she could request a divorce now that her father was recovering. But the thought of leaving Ethan—of ending whatever this was between them—caused an unexpected ache in her chest.
Unable to sleep, Rachel went downstairs for water. Passing Ethan's study, she heard his voice through the partially open door:
"Yes, everything's arranged. No, she doesn't know yet. There's no need to inform her at this stage."
A pause, then Ethan's voice rose with unusual emotion: "Because she deserves better than that!"
Rachel froze, unsure whether to retreat. Suddenly the door swung fully open, and Ethan stood there, phone still at his ear. Their eyes met in a moment of startled recognition.
"I was just getting water," she stammered.
Ethan ended his call abruptly. "Did I disturb you?"
"No, I couldn't sleep," Rachel hesitated. "Was that about my father?"
Ethan's expression revealed nothing. "Partly."
"And the rest?"
A long silence stretched between them. Finally, Ethan spoke. "I've been making arrangements concerning your future."
"My future?" Rachel echoed, confused. "What does that mean?"
"With your father's recovery, our arrangement can end early," Ethan said, his voice carefully controlled. "If you wish to pursue your design career fully, there's an exceptional program in Paris. I've taken the liberty of arranging—"
Rachel felt as though the floor had dropped from beneath her. Was he trying to get rid of her? Just when she'd begun to hope their relationship might evolve into something genuine?
"I see," she said, fighting back tears. "Thank you for your consideration, but I can manage my own future."
Ethan's expression grew troubled. "Rachel, that's not what I—"
"No explanation necessary," she cut him off. "A contract is a contract. I'll find my own place as soon as possible."
"There's no rush," Ethan's voice softened. "You can stay as long as—"
"No. I want to end this quickly." Rachel turned to leave, but Ethan caught her wrist.
"Rachel," his voice held an unfamiliar urgency, "is there someone else?"
The question caught her completely off guard. She turned back, surprised to see genuine anxiety in his normally composed expression.
"Why would you ask that?"
Ethan released her wrist, his mask of indifference sliding back into place. "Simply confirming the terms of our agreement. If there is, I won't interfere."
His words cut deeper than any blade. So that was it—he was only concerned about contractual obligations, about maintaining the business arrangement.
"No," she heard herself say, "but I'm sure I will. As you said, the agreement can be terminated early."
She turned and walked quickly to her room, holding back tears until the door closed behind her. Through the door, she heard Ethan remain in the hallway for a long moment before sighing softly and walking away.
Two rooms. Two broken hearts. Both choosing silence as their shield.
