Chapter 123 Could You Marry Me
I stepped out of the bathroom to find Ethan leaning against the sofa, one hand in his pocket, the other cupping his chin, his index finger tapping rhythmically against his cheek. His eyes were focused on some invisible point across the room, brows slightly furrowed in concentration. Whatever was on his mind had him completely absorbed—he didn't even notice I'd returned.
Was he thinking about work? Or perhaps something to do with the Bennett family drama that seemed endless these days?
Not wanting to disturb him, I turned quietly toward the balcony, hoping to slip away unnoticed.
"Olivia." His voice stopped me in my tracks.
I turned back, my expression slightly dazed. "Hmm?"
Ethan crossed the room with purposeful strides until he stood directly in front of me. His hand reached for mine, fingers wrapping around my wrist in that possessive way I'd grown accustomed to.
"Your grandmother called Justin," he said, his tone matter-of-fact.
My face immediately tensed, jaw clenching as my expression hardened.
"She wants me to buy your father a car," he continued, his thumb absently stroking my wrist.
My frown deepened, eyes narrowing as the corners reddened slightly. The familiar burn of frustration crept up my throat.
Ethan's free hand came up to caress my cheek, his touch gentle despite his penetrating gaze. "Don't worry. I haven't agreed to anything yet."
I remained silent, staring at him with cold eyes.
The corner of Ethan's mouth twitched upward as he observed my reaction, amusement dancing in his eyes.
"What's with that look?" he asked, his voice taking on a sharper edge. "I offer to buy your family houses and cars, and you're the one who's unhappy? Do you think my money grows on trees?"
I pressed my lips together, choosing my words carefully. "I just don't want you to waste your money."
Ethan's laugh was cold and cutting. "Is it that you don't want me to waste money, or that you don't want to be entangled with me any deeper than you already are?"
I maintained my silence, lips pressed firmly together.
His fingers squeezed my chin slightly. "Whether you want to be entangled or not, Olivia, you already are. It's not up to you."
His words—"not up to you"—left me feeling helpless and defeated. A thousand responses died on my tongue, dissolving into a silent sigh.
"Ethan." I forced a smile, pulling his hand away and leading him to the sofa. Once seated, I looked at him with deliberately soft eyes. "Ethan, we only have two years left. Actually, less than two—one year and eight months, to be precise. During this one year and eight—"
Ethan's cold laugh cut me off. "You've calculated it down to the month, haven't you? Counting the days until you're free of me?"
"No," I protested weakly. "I just happen to be good at math."
"Is that so?" His lips curved into a mocking smile. "If I remember correctly, your SAT math score didn't even break 700."
I felt my cheeks flush hot with embarrassment.
There's a saying about not hitting someone where they're vulnerable or exposing their weaknesses. Ethan had just done both.
Math had always been my Achilles' heel. While my SAT reading and writing scores soared above 700—my essays even circulated as examples in class—my math scores consistently hovered between "barely acceptable" and "complete disaster." On my official test day, I'd crashed spectacularly with a 680, falling far short of my self-imposed "at least 700" standard. It became one of my biggest teenage regrets.
Later, when applying to colleges, my advisor took one look at my portfolio and test scores and steered me toward art and design. I gratefully embraced fashion design—not only could I legitimately avoid advanced math like calculus and statistics, but I could transform my childhood passion for drawing dresses and matching fabrics into a career.
Yet this man—this infuriating man—had just mercilessly dragged my mathematical shortcomings into the light.
"You're so good at math! You're so superior! You're so amazing!" I snapped, glaring at him.
The tension in Ethan's expression melted away as he laughed, genuine amusement replacing his earlier coldness. "Don't be angry. Come on, let's go downstairs for dinner."
"You always do this," I said, pushing his hand away. "You never let me finish what I'm saying."
His expression softened slightly. "Fine. Go ahead."
I took a deep breath. "My father was never there for me. My birth was just an accident to him. He didn't raise me, so I have no obligation to support him."
I paused, gathering my thoughts. "But my grandparents raised me. I owe them for their care, which is why I asked for your help when my grandfather got sick."
Looking directly into Ethan's sharp eyes, I continued, "If you consider me your girlfriend, you should be on my side and respect my feelings. The people I don't like—even if they're blood relatives—I hope you won't be kind to them, and please don't use them to guilt-trip me."
"Also, with only one year and eight months left, I hope we can get along well and avoid fighting. When we eventually part ways, at least we can remember the good things about each other, not hatred."
I spoke sincerely, my voice gentle but firm.
Ethan said nothing. His face grew cold, his eyes sharp and merciless—like that stormy evening at the West Wing when I first met him. Rain had lashed against the windows as he sat in his wheelchair, his gaze equally cutting and vicious.
After a long, tense silence, it was me who broke eye contact first.
"I'm not constantly thinking about leaving you, but Ethan, do you think we have a future? Or more specifically, could you marry me after I graduate?"
I deliberately used "could" instead of "would."
"Would" implied his willingness—his subjective desire. "Could" addressed objective possibility—whether it was within his power.
Wanting to do something and being able to do it were entirely different matters.
I knew Ethan couldn't marry me. The price would be too steep—he'd have to fight his entire family. And beyond his family, he'd face even greater opposition.
Between power and a woman, which would a man choose?
A twenty-eight-year-old Ethan might not make the "right" choice immediately, but what about at thirty or forty?
Ethan smiled, his eyes downcast, the curve of his lips cold and sharp.
"You're right," he said, locking eyes with me, his gaze intense and cruel. "I definitely won't marry you, because you don't qualify to be my wife."