Chapter 38 Arrested

Chapter 38 Arrested
Ethan's POV

The morning light, usually a gentle hum, felt like a slap. My eyes, still gritty with sleep, blinked open. Routine. That’s what I craved, what kept everything in line. A quick shower, then emails. My laptop, always on the bedside table, was gone.

A cold dread snaked its way into my gut. I rubbed my temples. No, it couldn’t be. I always placed it there, ritualistically. My hand patted the polished mahogany, swept beneath the silk runner. Nothing. I swung my legs out of bed, feeling the cool carpet against my feet. A quick mental checklist. Did I take it to the den last night? No, I was in bed by ten.

I moved with increasing urgency, pulling back the heavy drapes, checking behind the armchair. The room began to lose its ordered precision. Cushions tossed aside, the pile of books on the nightstand disturbed. My breathing quickened. This wasn't right.

I finally called for Elena, one of the house staff. Her soft knock preceded her entrance. "Yes, Mr. D'Arden?" Her voice was always so even.

"Elena, have you seen my laptop? The silver one?" I tried to keep my tone level, but the edge of frustration was already there. My eyes scanned the now disheveled room. Wardrobe doors stood ajar, clothes spilling out where I'd frantically searched. It looked like a tornado had passed through.

Elena’s gaze flickered around the chaos. “No, sir. I tidied up last night, but I didn’t touch anything on your table. It wasn’t there when I left.”

My jaw tightened. “Are you certain?”

“Yes, Mr. D'Arden. Quite certain.” She fidgeted with her apron.
"Is everything alright, sir? The room..."

"Everything's fine, Elena. Thank you. You can go." I waved her away, dismissing her concern. ‘Everything’s fine.’ A lie, even to myself. Nothing about this was fine.

I stomped downstairs, anger now a hot, live thing in my chest. The grand hall, usually a picture of serenity, was unsettling. And there, on one of the plush sofas, was Clara. One of the other helpers, Maria, was dabbing ointment on Clara’s arm. Clara’s eyes were bloodshot, purple shadows blossoming beneath them, and she was speaking into her phone, her voice thick with sobs. Actual, loud, theatrical sobs.

For a split second, I saw her injuries – raw red marks on her arm, a faint bruise on her cheek. But the sight didn’t soften me. Not after last night. Not with my laptop missing. All I could think was, it’s always about her.

"Clara!" My voice, rougher than I intended, cut through her weeping.

She flinched, pulling the phone away from her ear, but not hanging up. Her eyes, wide and glistening, met mine. They held fake fear, I knew it.

"My laptop," I bit out. "Did you take it?"

She just stared at me, a fresh wave of tears welling up. The helper, Maria, looked between us, her face a mask of discomfort.

"Answer me, Clara!" My voice rose, unable to contain the fury.

"Where is it? What did you do with it?"

She began crying again, louder this time, into the phone.

"This is what I face! Every day! He's screaming at me, he's... he's doing it again!" Her voice cracked, a horrifying performance. She knew how to play this game.

I strode over, my patience evaporated. "Give me that phone!" I snarled, snatching it from her hand. It felt cheap, flimsy. I tossed it onto the adjacent sofa with more force than necessary. It bounced, then landed with a muted thump. I didn’t care if it shattered.

"Now," I said, leaning over her, my hands braced on the back of the sofa, forcing her to look at me. "Tell me where my laptop is. And don't play games, Clara."

Her lower lip trembled. Her eyes, still streaming tears, finally held a glint of something else. Not fear, not pain. Defiance. "I took it," she whispered, her voice barely audible, with a twinge of a smirk across her lips.

A fresh surge of anger, cold and sharp, washed over me. "Where?"

"The pool," she said, her gaze dropping to her lap. "Go check the pool."

My blood ran cold. The pool. No. Not possibly. I didn’t wait for another word. I shoved myself off the sofa, spinning on my heel, and sprinted through the French doors, across the manicured lawn. The cool morning air did nothing to calm my raging nerves.

The pool shimmered, an innocent expanse of blue under the rising sun. My eyes scanned the bottom, desperately, then landed on it. A dark, metallic rectangle, resting serenely on the tiled floor, at least ten feet down. My laptop. My soul left my body.

A primal scream built in my throat but never escaped. I plunged in, not bothering to shed my silk pajamas. The water was shockingly cold, a numbing shock. I kicked hard, reaching the bottom in what felt like an eternity. My fingers closed around the cold, inert metal. It was heavy, dead weight.

I fought my way back to the surface, gasping for air, the laptop clutched to my chest. Water streamed from it, from me. I scrambled out of the pool, dropping to my knees on the paving. My fingers fumbled with the clasp, trying to open it, knowing it was useless. Water was already leaking from the seams. It was ruined. Irrevocably, maliciously ruined.

Rage, pure and undiluted, consumed me. I scrambled to my feet, drenched and shivering, and stormed back into the house. Maria was gone. Clara sat exactly where I left her, still sniffling dramatically.

"You lunatic!" I roared, grabbing her arm. My grip was probably too tight, but I didn’t care. Her skin felt fragile.

"My laptop! Do you have any idea what was on there?" I pulled her to her feet, half-dragging her towards the front door.

"You are completely insane! What is wrong with you?"

As I reached the grand entrance, the heavy oak doors swung inward. Two people stood there. A man and a woman, both dressed in somber business attire, their faces unreadable.

"Let go of her," the man said, his voice calm, firm. His gaze was fixed on my hand on Clara’s arm.

Clara, as if on cue, dissolved into fresh, frantic tears.

"Save me!" she wailed, pulling away from my grasp, stumbling behind the unfamiliar woman.

"Please, save me from him! He's always like this!"

Fury mixed with utter disbelief. Who were these people?

"We are from the Anti-Domestic Violence Committee," the woman stated, her voice equally calm, authoritative. She looked at Clara, then back at me. "Mrs. D'Arden has filed a formal complaint."

My jaw dropped. A complaint? Against me? This was a nightmare. This was her sick revenge.

"You have no right," I began, my voice thick with indignation, "to just waltz into my home. My private property. You need to leave. Now."

The man stepped forward, closing the door behind him. "Mr. D'Arden, we are acting on behalf of Mrs. D'Arden. We have every right to be here, by law."

"By what law?" I scoffed, still dripping wet, the ruined laptop a silent, damning presence in my mind.

"This is harassment! She's lying, she's a manipulator, she just destroyed my property –"

"We understand you may not agree with Mrs. D'Arden's allegations," the woman interjected, her eyes narrowed slightly. "However, if you do not cooperate, and continue to aggressively dismiss her claims, we will have no choice but to publish the evidence she has provided us. All of it."

My blood ran cold. Evidence? What evidence? Her bruised arm, her feigned terror from last night? The theatrical sobbing now? This was all a setup. My mind reeled. They just stood there, watching me, their faces impassive. Clara, clinging to the woman’s arm, was no longer crying quite so hard. She was watching me too, a smug little glint in her purple-shadowed eyes. This wasn't just about a laptop anymore. This was about everything.