Chapter 21 Whispers Behind My Back
"I think I've had enough for tonight," I said quietly, looking down at the scattered tiles.
I know I'm not actually good at this game. Everyone's just letting me win to be polite, and it feels patronizing. These fake victories are worse than honest losses.
Alexander's shoulders visibly relaxed.
Nathan immediately jumped in. "I'm starving anyway. Should we head to dinner? The kitchen prepared something special tonight."
Ethan's hand found my lower back, his thumb tracing small circles against the fabric of my dress.
"Tired?" he asked, his voice lower than usual.
I nodded slightly. I half-expected him to insist we continue playing, but instead, he simply stood.
"Dinner sounds good," he announced to the group, effectively ending the game.
We moved to the club's top-floor restaurant, a space that somehow managed to feel both intimate and imposing.
Ethan guided me to a seat beside him at the head of the table. As we settled in, a waiter appeared almost instantly.
"The usual for Mr. Bennett?" he asked.
Ethan shook his head. "I'll have the filet, medium rare." Then he turned to me. "The California chili steak for Ms. Reed. She likes spicy food."
My eyebrows rose involuntarily. I did enjoy spicy food, but I couldn't remember ever mentioning this to Ethan.
He leaned closer, his breath warm against my ear. "If you don't like anything, tell me. I'll have the chef prepare something else."
The table fell momentarily silent. I glanced up to find Nathan and Alexander exchanging looks, while Tiffany stared openly.
"I'm not picky," I said quickly, uncomfortable with the attention. "I'll eat whatever."
The spell broke as two women approached our table—one I recognized immediately as Madison White, the Hollywood actress whose latest film had broken box office records. Her companion, a tall brunette with razor-sharp cheekbones, surveyed the table with practiced nonchalance.
"Madison, Jessica," Alexander stood to greet them. "Glad you could join us."
"Ethan," she exclaimed, "they said you might be here, but I didn't believe it." Her gaze shifted to me, curiosity evident. "And who is this?"
"Olivia Reed," Ethan replied before I could speak, his hand possessively settling on the back of my chair, fingers brushing against my spine.
I smiled politely.
As dinner progressed, the conversation flowed around topics I had little input on—business acquisitions, celebrity gossip, political connections. I nodded and smiled at appropriate intervals, feeling like an anthropologist observing a strange tribe's rituals.
After the main course, Alexander suggested moving to the bar next door.
"They've got a new Japanese whiskey I've been dying to try," he said.
"Olivia doesn't drink," Ethan stated flatly.
"The billiards room, then?" Nathan proposed. "I've been practicing, Ethan. Ready for a rematch?"
Ethan glanced at me, then nodded. "Fine."
The billiards room was less crowded, with dark wood paneling and green felt tables that glowed under pendant lights. The men quickly organized a game, and I settled into a leather armchair to watch.
Ethan played two games, winning the first and falling behind in the second. Just as Alexander lined up what would likely be a winning shot, Ethan glanced over at me and then placed his cue on the table.
"I'm done," he announced.
Alexander looked up, genuinely surprised. "You're not going to finish?"
"No."
Alexander let out a short laugh. "Well, that's a first. Never seen Ethan walk away from a game he hasn't won."
Ethan ignored the comment and came to sit beside me. "Do you want to stay longer, or should we head back?" he asked quietly.
I was tired, my social battery depleted by hours of navigating unfamiliar waters. But the thought of being alone with Ethan again—the intensity that always came with that privacy—made me hesitate.
"We can stay a little longer," I whispered.
After a moment, he nodded and returned to his seat, his gaze never leaving me.
Nathan caught Alexander's eye and raised an eyebrow.
After another half hour of watching the men play, I excused myself to find the restroom.
As I rounded a corner, voices drifted toward me. I slowed my pace, not intending to eavesdrop until I heard my name.
"—Olivia. She's got him wrapped around her finger already." It was Tiffany's voice.
"She looks so innocent," another voice—Jessica, I thought—replied. "Like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth."
"That's her game," Tiffany continued. "Looks all sweet and helpless, but she's calculating. Alexander told me she was Blake's girlfriend first. She went to the estate with Blake, saw Ethan had more power and money, then seduced him behind Blake's back."
My blood ran cold. I pressed myself against the wall, heart hammering in my chest.
"But surely Ethan wouldn't fall for someone like that?" Jessica asked. "He's too smart."
Tiffany sighed dramatically. "Men, especially alpha types like Ethan, are suckers for that fake innocence act. Girls like her activate their protective instincts."
"What about Madison? She's gorgeous."
"Madison's too independent, too much of a career woman. Neither Ethan nor Alexander go for that type. They want submissive little dolls like Olivia who'll cling to them and have no life outside of being their trophy."
Jessica's voice dropped even lower. "She's just a plaything, though. The Bennetts would never actually accept someone like her. She's what, eighteen, nineteen? Ethan's just enjoying her young body while it's fresh. Once he's had his fill, he'll discard her like yesterday's newspaper."
My fingernails dug into my palms so hard I feared they might draw blood.
I could have confronted them. Should have, maybe. Instead, I silently backed away, turned, and fled down another corridor, swallowing the lump in my throat.
I wandered aimlessly through the club's quieter sections, trying to compose myself, when the sound of a piano stopped me. The haunting melody pulled me forward until I found myself outside a partially open door.
Inside was a music room with a grand piano in its center. A young man sat at the keys, his fingers dancing across the ivories with practiced ease. When I inadvertently pushed the door wider, it creaked, and he looked up.
"I'm sorry," I stammered. "I didn't mean to interrupt."
He smiled, fingers still moving. "Not at all. Music is meant to be shared."
"Daniel Crawford," he introduced himself without stopping his playing. "Alexander invited me to perform a little improvisation tonight."
The name clicked immediately. "The Grammy-winning producer?" I blurted before I could stop myself.
He chuckled. "Guilty as charged."
"That's Rachmaninoff's Prelude," I said. "I've loved that piece since I was little."
His eyebrows rose with interest. "You play?"
"A little," I admitted. "Nowhere near your level."
"Music isn't about levels, my dear. It's about connection." He gestured to the bench beside him. "Would you like to join me?"
I smiled and sat beside him on the bench. Our shoulders nearly touched as he showed me a particular passage.
As we leaned closer over the piano, I heard a slight creak from the doorway. Looking up, I felt my stomach drop.
Ethan stood there, his face a mask of controlled fury.