Chapter 187 Ruthless Criminal
Olivia finally got Jack to sleep after three bedtime stories. She kissed his forehead and slipped out of his room, closing the door softly behind her.
In the living room, she grabbed her laptop and opened LinkedIn to handle work messages. As she scrolled through her feed, her hand froze on the trackpad.
Ethan Bennett shared 9 photos.
Nine photos. Professional shots—Ethan on a yacht, Ethan against an ocean backdrop, Ethan with his sleeves rolled up looking like he'd walked off a magazine cover.
What the hell?
She'd known him for years. In all that time, he'd never posted a single personal photo. His LinkedIn was always strictly business—company updates, industry news. That was it.
This wasn't like him. This wasn't like him at all.
Her pulse kicked up as she studied the images. The background looked tropical. Southeast Asia, maybe. And she'd sent him those design files at noon—Project Romance Initial Designs.pdf—and hadn't heard a word back.
But he'd had time for this?
Her stomach knotted. What if something's wrong? What if he's in trouble?
She remembered what Alexander had said about dangerous overseas deals, about enemies who'd love to see Ethan dead.
Before she could second-guess herself, she clicked the message icon.
[You okay?]
The response came almost instantly.
Ethan Bennett: [Got a problem.]
Her heart dropped.
[What kind of problem?]
Ethan Bennett: [Ran into a ruthless criminal.]
Shit. Shit. Her mind raced to the worst possibilities—cartels, warlords, kidnapping. After all, she'd taken a knife for him once. She knew how dangerous his world could be.
[Are you hurt?]
Ethan Bennett: [Yeah.]
[Where? How bad?]
Ethan Bennett: [My heart. Been injured for five years. Still hasn't healed.]
Olivia stared at the screen.
Read it again.
That motherfucker.
She slammed the laptop shut and stood up, face burning. He'd been messing with her.
Her phone buzzed on the coffee table. She grabbed it—notification from LinkedIn. Incoming call from Ethan Bennett.
She declined without thinking.
It rang again immediately.
Declined.
Again.
Declined.
After the third rejection, a message notification appeared on her phone screen.
Ethan Bennett: [Either answer or I'm posting screenshots of this whole conversation. Let everyone see how much you care.]
Her jaw clenched so hard it ached. She grabbed her laptop again and typed furiously.
[You're still as shameless as ever, Ethan.]
Ethan Bennett: [Liv, I miss you. So fucking much.]
Ethan Bennett: [Baby, please. Just pick up for a minute. I just want to hear your voice. Sixty seconds. That's all I'm asking.]
Something cracked in her chest, but she forced it down.
[Say that kind of shit again and I'm blocking you.]
Ethan Bennett: [Okay. Okay. I won't. Don't block me. Please.]
Olivia didn't respond. Instead, she went into his profile settings and blocked his posts from her feed, then blocked him from seeing hers.
Done.
---
Late that night in Los Angeles, rain poured down on Oakwood Estate. Ethan had just gotten off the plane from Myanmar. He walked straight to the back garden and stood before the oak tree.
Autumn rain fell in dense sheets. The oak's branches hung heavy, leaves plastered against the trunk, deep green bleeding into sickly yellow.
"Oak trees symbolize endurance and good fortune. In a few years, it'll grow into something strong."
Her voice echoed in his memory, young and sincere.
"Happy birthday, Ethan."
But the year after she planted this tree, she'd left.
He'd waited. From the moment that thin sapling went into the ground, he'd waited. Waited for the first leaves. Waited for the trunk to thicken, for branches to reach his window. Waited for it to grow strong enough to weather any storm.
Five years. And she never came back.
Eight years since they met. Three years together. Five years apart.
It had always been his obsession alone.
Ethan's lips twisted into a bitter smile. His hand loosened, and the umbrella fell. Cold rain soaked through his clothes. He didn't move.
---
The next morning, Ethan woke with a fever. He refused medicine, refused to see a doctor. His temperature climbed to 103 degrees.
Olivia had just arrived at the office when her phone rang—an unfamiliar LA number.
"Hello?"
"Miss Reed?" An older man's voice, formal and careful. "This is Walter Harris."
Her hand tightened on the phone. "Walter. Is something wrong?"
"I apologize for the intrusion, but..." He paused. "Mr. Bennett stood in the rain last night for hours. He's developed a high fever and refuses medication. He won't see a doctor. I was hoping... perhaps you could come?"
"I'm sorry, Walter. I have Jack. He's still so young. I can't just—"
"I understand, miss. It's just that Mr. Bennett's condition..." He sighed heavily. "I know what he did in the past was... excessive. But he truly—"
"Walter, I'm at work. I have to go."
She hung up quickly, heart pounding.
After a long moment, she took a deep breath and pulled up Jackson's contact.
[Ethan's sick. If you're free, could you check on him? Maybe convince him to see a doctor.]
---
Jackson woke up that afternoon with a splitting headache. Last night's party had been brutal. He squinted at his phone and saw Olivia's message.
He called Ethan immediately.
"Hey, man." Jackson's voice was rough from the hangover. "Olivia said you're sick. How bad is it?"
Ethan's voice came out even rougher. "How does she know I'm sick?"
Jackson laughed. "Hell if I know. She texted me this morning, said you were sick and asked me to check on you. Seriously, though—you okay?"
"I'm fine. Don't worry about it."
"You sure? Because you sound like shit."
"I said I'm fine." Ethan's tone went cold. "You don't need to come."
Jackson chuckled despite the dismissal. "With that body of yours? You could fight off a plague and still bench-press three of me. Take care of yourself, man."
After the call ended, Ethan reached for the picture frame on his nightstand.
Olivia at nineteen, on Venice Beach. Sunset behind her, walking backwards with wind in her hair, that smile on her face—sweet and flirtatious. Their second year together. The best year.
A photographer had captured the moment. Ethan had bought the print and kept it beside his bed.
For five years, this photo had been the last thing he saw before sleep.
Looking at that sweet smile now, his throat burned like it was being torn apart.
"Sir." Walter's voice came from the doorway.
Ethan kept his eyes on the photograph, voice hoarse. "What."
"This morning, I obtained Miss Reed's number from Justin and called her."
Ethan's eyes didn't even flicker. "Don't do it again."
"Understood, sir."
After Walter left, Ethan finally set the frame down. He forced himself up, showered, changed into comfortable clothes, and went to his study.
When Walter brought medicine and water to the study, Ethan barely glanced at them.
"Leave it."
Ethan's fingers never stopped moving across the keyboard. "Tell Frank to relocate the company headquarters to LA."
He paused, then added, "Two tracks. One, Frank relocates. Two, we establish a design studio in New York. Keep both options open."
"Understood, sir."
"And Justin—don't let her know. Not yet."
"Yes, sir."