Chapter 71 You're Coming With Me
Oakwood Estate had transformed into my personal hell. I couldn't even step outside the main gate. The elegant perimeter walls now looked menacing, topped with iron railings and what Ethan casually mentioned was an electric fence. "Touch it," he'd said with clinical detachment, "and you'll either get electrocuted or at least knocked unconscious."
He'd confiscated my phone and laptop. The TV was my only connection to the outside world, and even that I could only watch under Ethan's supervision. He controlled what channels I could access, what programs I could view.
But the loss of freedom wasn't what kept me up at night. What truly terrified me was that Ethan hadn't used protection since that night of his rage. Not once. He'd finished inside me multiple times, and he'd forbidden me from taking any contraceptives.
His intention was crystal clear—he wanted me pregnant.
My period was due in two days, and anxiety gnawed at my insides. I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep. The mirror reflected my transformation—the softness in my cheeks had melted away, leaving behind a sharp, angular face. I'd lost seven pounds in a week.
I sat on the living room sofa, staring blankly at whatever mindless show Ethan had allowed on the television, when I heard the front door open. My spine instinctively stiffened. Ethan wasn't supposed to be home for hours.
I didn't turn around. Didn't acknowledge him. Maybe if I ignore him long enough, he'll get bored of his little pet project and let me go.
Suddenly, a shadow fell over me, and the cushion beside me dipped under his weight. His warm, dry hand cupped my face, thumb gently rubbing the corner of my mouth.
"I'm home," he said, voice low and intimate.
"Oh," I replied flatly, refusing eye contact.
With one swift motion, he grabbed my waist and pulled me onto his lap. His eyes were dark as he studied my face. "Did you miss me?"
I kept my gaze downcast, refusing to engage.
Ethan laughed softly. "Your father was arrested for drunk driving."
My head snapped up, eyes locking with his. My pulse quickened as my pupils contracted in fear.
After a moment, I forced myself to look down again. "Whatever. It has nothing to do with me."
Ethan's hand moved to caress my face, his tone deceptively concerned. "Your grandmother had a hypertensive crisis. She's in the hospital. Half her body is paralyzed. Without proper treatment, I'm afraid..."
I looked up again, panic flashing across my face. My eyes welled with tears as my throat tightened painfully.
His thumb traced my lower lip as he smiled faintly. "Want to make your grandmother better, Liv?"
I didn't speak, just stared at him with tear-filled eyes.
He handed me my phone. "Call home. Check on them."
As Ethan set me back on the sofa and went upstairs, I sat trembling, phone in hand. With shaking fingers, I unlocked it and scrolled through my call history. There was an incoming call from my grandfather two days ago—two minutes long. Three days before that, a call from my grandmother—also just over two minutes.
A tear splashed onto the screen. I tried to wipe it away, but more followed, falling faster than I could catch them. I hadn't meant to cry—didn't want to give Ethan the satisfaction—but I couldn't stop. My tears came in a flood, and I buried my face in the sofa cushions to muffle my sobs.
In the end, I couldn't do it. I couldn't let my grandmother die. Blood ties were complicated—I could hate the relationship and still be unable to sever it completely. My grandmother had raised me.
This compromise would be my repayment for her years of care.
After showering, I deliberately chose a silk nightgown. I walked to his study door and knocked softly.
"Come in," his deep voice called from inside.
I gripped the doorknob until my knuckles turned white, then turned it and pushed the door open.
Ethan sat at his desk with his legs crossed, talking on the phone. I entered but stayed by the door, uncertain.
"Book two tickets to Brussels," he instructed whoever was on the line. "As soon as possible. Tomorrow if you can." He hung up and turned his attention to me. "What is it?"
I walked over to him, my heart hammering against my ribs. I met his gaze with eyes still swollen from crying and bit my lip. "Don't be angry anymore," I said, my voice soft and pleading.
Ethan opened a cigar box on his desk, took one out, and put it between his lips. He tilted his chin up at me expectantly.
I immediately took the lighter from the desk and lit it for him. His arm snaked around my waist, pulling me onto his lap. He removed the cigar from his mouth and pressed his lips against mine, blowing smoke into my mouth.
I coughed violently, my face flushing crimson as my lungs burned.
Ethan smiled, stroking my cheek. "There's that color I like. Pink suits you better than pale."
I'd been toyed with, but I couldn't afford to be angry. Not now. I didn't even dare frown.
"Please help me again," I whispered, the words tasting like ash.
Ethan raised an eyebrow. "So you can leave me afterward?"
My lip trembled as tears welled up. "I never wanted to leave. You were the one who suddenly stopped talking to me."
Ethan extinguished his cigar. He gripped my waist, lifted me, and repositioned me so I was straddling him, facing him directly.
I wasn't used to sitting like this—it felt too intimate. I tried to move back but was immediately stopped by his firm grip.
"Don't move," he commanded, pressing me closer until I felt his arousal beneath me.
Ethan wrapped one arm around my lower back while his other hand cradled half my face. "Do you hate me?" he asked quietly.
I hesitated before shaking my head. "No."
How could I not hate him? I hated him with every fiber of my being, but I was powerless against him. And I needed his help.
"Liv," he said, kissing the corner of my mouth, "you can hate me, but you can't leave me. And you can't have another man in your heart."
"I don't," I repeated mechanically. "There's only you."
Ethan nodded. "Fine. Let's put the past behind us."
I wanted to laugh at the absurdity. He was putting the past behind us? After everything he'd done? But I knew better than to voice such thoughts. Power doesn't care about fairness—it simply is. And Ethan embodied power in its purest form.
"Are you going abroad tomorrow?" I asked softly, changing the subject.
"Yes," Ethan replied. "You're coming with me."
I looked at him in surprise. "Me?" I frowned. "But my grandmother is sick. I thought..."
Ethan's tone turned authoritative. "Don't worry. I've arranged for people to take care of your family situation. You going there wouldn't help anyway."
"But you're going for business," I protested weakly. "Is it appropriate for me to come?"
Ethan's lips curved into a smile. "Appropriate or not is for me to decide."