Chapter 177 Something Sweet
Olivia was about to refuse when Ethan cut her off.
"Ms. Reed, is this how you normally treat clients?" His voice dropped, emphasizing the word clients. "Especially the ones who pay your bills?"
The words stuck in her throat. She swallowed them back down.
He laughed—low, almost amused. Then leaned in closer.
"Liv." His voice softened, edges smoothing out. "If you've really moved on... then just treat me like any other client. Okay?"
She stayed silent. Her jaw locked tight.
He sighed—patient, almost indulgent—and reached for the white porcelain coffee pot. Long fingers wrapped around the handle. He poured carefully, then slid the cup toward her.
"Try it," he said. "Your boss keeps the good stuff locked away. Not bad."
She exhaled slowly. "Ethan. You said it yourself. We'd never see each other again. So why are you doing this now?"
His eyes lifted. Dark. Unreadable.
"Call me inconsistent." His mouth curved—self-mocking. "Wouldn't be the first time I disappointed you."
Her lips pressed together. Hard. She kept them that way.
He raised his hand—almost touched her face. Then stopped. Let it fall.
"If you don't want dinner, fine. Don't cry, though. Okay?"
"I'm not crying," she shot back. Cold. "And I won't. You don't affect me anymore."
His smile widened. Warm. Indulgent. "Good."
"Dinner's off the table," she said. "But if you have business requirements, we can discuss them here. You and I both know we can't interact like normal clients."
"Fine." He leaned back. "Whatever you want."
"What style are you looking for?" She pulled out her notebook, flipped it open. "Classic court-inspired vintage? Bold East-meets-West fusion eveningwear? Or something softer—retro pieces you could wear every day?"
---
He didn't answer.
She glanced up.
Ethan was staring.
Not at the notebook. At her.
Twenty-six years old. Peak of everything. Skin glowing under the overhead light. Her peach-blossom eyes—always a little too inviting—were clear now. Clean. Like freshly washed glass holding water. Impossible to look away from.
"Ethan?"
He blinked. Refocused.
"Sorry." He cleared his throat. "Let's do a collection. Theme: Romance. Vintage-inspired evening pieces."
She paused. Pen hovering. "Romantic... as in bittersweet? Dark tones, structured silhouettes with distance built in? Or lighter—playful, like lovers who bicker but adore each other?"
His eyes narrowed slightly. A faint smile.
"Sweet," he said. Quiet. "Something that makes people think—this woman's been cherished her whole life."
Her chest tightened.
She stood. Closed the notebook. "I'll put together a full proposal. Sketches, fabric swatches, everything. Once you approve, we'll move forward."
He rose too. Slow. Deliberate. "How do I reach you?"
"I'll email the proposal. Can you provide a work email?"
He raised an eyebrow. "I don't really use email anymore."
She hesitated. "Then I'll send it to Frank. He can forward it."
Ethan studied her. Long enough that her pulse kicked up.
Then nodded. "Okay."
He smiled—gentle, careful. "Take your time. Good work's worth waiting for."
If Justin saw him like this, he'd think Ethan had been possessed.
At the office, Ethan Bennett was brutal. Cold. Ruthless. A living nightmare in a tailored suit.
This? This was someone else entirely.
---
That evening, Olivia sat Jack down in their living room. They faced each other on small stools.
She held his little hands. Gentle but serious.
"Baby, we can't do what we did this morning. We can't get into just anyone's car."
Jack tilted his head. "But Mr. Bennett isn't just anyone."
Her stomach dropped.
"How long have you known him?" she asked carefully. "How did you two meet?"
Jack's four-year-old brain struggled with the details. His English was still shaky after living in the Netherlands. But after ten minutes of scattered explanations, she pieced it together.
Ethan had been hanging around their old neighborhood. Playing soldier games with the kids. Making toy guns for them.
The boys loved him.
Jack included.
He'd sought Ethan out. Asked to be taught.
She stroked his hair. "Okay. Go play."
---
Later that night, Olivia sat on the balcony with a glass of red wine. The moon hung full and yellow above the city. Beautiful.
Tomorrow would be another sunny day. Clear skies. Crisp fall air.
She'd started drinking before bed a few months back. Just enough to sleep. When she first got to Netherlands, she couldn't sleep at all. Then she slept but only dreamed—over and over, the same nightmares.
Three years with Ethan had left her... compressed. Like something folded too many times, creases permanently set.
His control. His obsession. The way he watched her, owned her, decided everything.
She'd clawed her way out.
She wasn't going back.
She wouldn't.
Couldn't.
The wine was gone. She stood, ready to head inside—
Then she heard it.
Piano.
From next door.
The melody drifted through the night. Clear. Familiar.
Mariage d'Amour.
She sank back into the chair. Let it rock gently.
A classmate in London once told her the piece had three interpretations.
First: longing for something you can't have.
Second: devotion that transcends death.
Third: sweetness and sorrow intertwined.
She'd thought of Ethan immediately. Thought of them.
Those three years.
All three meanings fit.
The music stopped.
Silence pressed in.
She stayed there. Swaying. Eyes closed.
On the other side of the wall, Ethan leaned against the railing. Cigarette between his lips. Smoke curling upward.
His eyes were dark. Empty.
Like a wilderness no one had ever crossed.