Chapter 193 Burn the Past
Ethan sat in the back seat, eyes closed, head tilted back against the leather. His throat stretched taut, Adam's apple sharp and prominent in the dim light.
Harry glanced at him through the rearview mirror.
"Where to, boss?"
Ethan didn't open his eyes. His voice came out low, rough. "Anywhere."
Harry's hands tightened on the wheel. Anywhere meant nowhere.
A beat of silence.
Then: "Westwood."
The apartment complex near UCLA. Where they'd lived that first year.
Harry typed the address into the navigation screen. His finger hovered over the confirm button.
"Home," Ethan said.
Home. Reeding Waters. The house Ethan had given Olivia for her nineteenth birthday. The place they'd lived together for two years—nineteen to twenty-one.
The car pulled up to the gate. Stopped.
Ethan didn't move.
Harry waited. One minute. Two.
"Get rid of it," Ethan said finally.
Harry frowned. "Sir?"
"That." Ethan gestured at the car's dreamcatcher dangling from the rearview mirror. "Throw it out."
Harry opened his mouth. Closed it.
He'd learned the hard way—Ethan would change his mind. Probably within the hour. And Harry wasn't about to dig through trash at two in the morning.
"You listening?" Ethan's voice dropped lower. Colder. "Tell Walter to pack up everything. Everything connected to her. Photos. Clothes. All of it. Box it up. Throw it out."
"Including..." Ethan's voice caught. Roughened. "Including the oak tree. Tell Walter to burn it."
Harry twisted in his seat. "Boss, you can't—"
"I can. I am."
"That tree—" Harry stopped. Swallowed hard.
Three years ago, that oak had nearly died. Some kind of root disease. Experts said it had maybe a week left.
Ethan had been in Europe closing a deal. The second he heard, he'd canceled everything. Flew back to LA. Walked straight into the backyard in his suit and stood there while specialists explained the damage.
Then he'd written a check for two million dollars.
Hired a team from the agricultural school. Had them monitor it round the clock for months. Custom irrigation. Soil sensors. The whole nine yards.
For a tree.
Because Olivia had planted it.
"Sir." Harry's voice gentled. Careful. "Maybe sleep on it? One night. Then tomorrow—"
"You don't give me advice, Harry. You follow orders."
"Yes, sir."
Ethan stared straight ahead.
"Bennett Enterprises," he said. "The company apartment."
The place Olivia had barely touched.
Except it wasn't.
The second Ethan walked through the door, it hit him.
Autumn. Three years ago. Sunlight pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Olivia on the couch, flushed and breathless, her hands pushing at his chest while he kissed down her throat.
"Ethan, stop—not there—"
Her voice. Christ. That sweet, breathy little voice, half-protest, half-surrender.
He'd pulled her onto his lap. Stripped her dress over her head. Kissed every inch of skin he could reach. She'd been so damn sensitive. Every touch made her gasp. Made her squirm.
"Boss."
Harry's voice cut through the memory like a knife.
Ethan blinked. Stared at him.
"You good?"
"Get out."
Harry didn't argue. Just nodded and disappeared through the door.
Ethan stood there. Alone. Fists clenched at his sides.
Then he walked into the bedroom.
And stopped.
The photo on the wall. Olivia. She wore a simple dress, hair loose around her shoulders, eyes bright with something that looked almost like happiness.
When the hell had he hung this here?
He couldn't remember.
Didn't matter.
He pulled out his phone. Dialed his assistant.
"Book me a flight to—" He stopped. Stared at the screen. "Book me a flight to..."
Where?
Europe? Asia? Fuck, anywhere she wasn't?
Except she was everywhere. He'd taken her to every goddamn place his business touched. Africa. The Arctic Circle. South America. Dubai. Singapore. Thailand.
They'd watched lions hunt on the Serengeti. Stood under the Northern Lights in Norway. Walked through war zones in Syria. Got caught in monsoon rains in Jakarta.
Three years. He'd shown her the whole damn world.
But he'd never spent Christmas with her. Never brought her home for the holidays.
The plane cut through the night sky. Headed east across the Atlantic.
Ethan sat in the cabin, staring out at nothing.
LA shrank behind him. Smaller and smaller until it disappeared.
---
Olivia stood on the subway platform, phone buzzing in her pocket.
Blake's name lit up the screen.
She swiped the notification away. Went back to the video she'd been watching—some analyst breaking down tank formations in Eastern Europe. Dry. Technical. The kind of thing that used to bore her to tears back in college.
Now she watched this shit every night before bed.
Since when did she give a shit about military strategy?
Since Ethan.
That's when.
Because even now—five years later, three thousand miles away, a whole new life—some part of her still tracked everything connected to him. Military news. Financial reports. Anything that might give her a glimpse into the world he inhabited.
Another text from Blake: The guy who came at you with the knife that night—Emily Sullivan hired him. She and Ethan almost...you know
Blake sent another message: I didn't tell you before, because I'm afraid you'd think I'm stirring up drama.
Then don't tell me now.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Then: You answered.
Blake: That's the first time you've responded to me in two weeks. I texted you every morning. Every night. Asked how you were. If you'd eaten. If you needed anything. Radio silence. But the second I mention Ethan, you bite.
Blake: Liv. Do you still love him?
The train screeched to a stop. Her stop.
She stood. Pushed through the crowd. Stepped onto the platform.
Her phone buzzed again.
Not Blake this time.
Sophie: Random question—do you still have feelings for Ethan?
What the hell?
She typed back: ???
Sophie: I'm in LA now. Moved here with the company, remember? And I've been hearing things. About you and him. So I'm asking as your friend. Do you still love him?
Did she love Ethan Bennett?
How could she have no feelings for him?
Ethan was fire. Burning hot and all-consuming. When he was good, he was heaven. When he was bad, he dragged you straight to hell.
Love. Hate. Both. Neither. All of it tangled together until she couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
She'd loved him.
That was the problem. Because once you'd loved someone like Ethan Bennett, everyone else looked dim. Faded. Safe and boring and not nearly enough.
Five years. Five years of men asking her out. Nice men. Gentle men.
She couldn't love them.
Couldn't even like them.
Because they weren't him.
But she had to run.
Because if he got too close, she'd break. She'd let him back in. And this time, she might not survive it.
Olivia reached her building. Stopped under the awning.
I never loved him. Never even liked him.
She hit send.
---
Three thousand miles away, Sophie sat across from Justin at a rooftop bar in downtown LA.
She stared at Olivia's message on her phone.
I never loved him.
Justin leaned forward. "What'd she say?"
Sophie hesitated. Then turned the screen toward him.