Chapter 4

Lucy's POV

I spend the rest of Tuesday staring at Dr. Norton's business card, her handwritten cell number on the back a tangible reminder of the choice I need to make. Fifty thousand dollars. Crisis intervention under proper supervision. A legitimate way to use my training without finishing my degree.

By Wednesday morning, the decision makes itself. I need the money. I need the work. I need to stop drowning.

At 4:17 AM, the consulting agreement arrives in my inbox. I skim it once, then close my laptop. I'll sign it at the office, during lunch, when I've had coffee and can think clearly.

The subway ride to Manhattan feels surreal. I'm going back to pretending I'm just a design assistant, like that night never happened.

I arrive at 8:47 AM. The design department looks exactly the same, but I feel like I'm walking through a stage set of my own life.

I've barely sat down when Sean Calloway appears at my desk.

"Ms. Lowe. Mr. Reid requests your presence on 45. Now, if possible."

My stomach drops.I follow him into the office.

Ethan is standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows, hands in pockets, silhouette sharp against the Manhattan skyline. He doesn't turn immediately, and I see exhaustion in the fine lines around his eyes when he finally faces me.

"Close the door," he says quietly.

The click feels final.

"You took the pill," he says. Not a question.

"Yes."

"Good." He moves to his desk but doesn't sit, maintaining physical distance even as his gaze holds me in place. "I've been thinking about that night. About what happened, and what needs to happen next."

My pulse spikes. "Ethan—"

"Let me finish." His voice is steady, military-precise. "I'm not good at this. Relationships, emotional navigation, any of it. But I know responsibility. I know consequences. And I know that what happened that night wasn't just your fault or just mine—it was both of us."

"It was a mistake," I say automatically. "We were both under stress, you were having an episode—"

"Marry me."

I stare at him, certain I've misheard, but his expression is completely serious.

"What?"

"Marry me. We'll go to Connecticut this weekend. I have a lawyer who can expedite the paperwork. Forty-eight hours, and it's done."

My brain short-circuits. "You're insane."

"I'm practical." He moves closer, and I smell cedar. "We didn't use protection. You took Plan B, but it's not one hundred percent effective. If you're pregnant, you'll need health insurance, medical care, legal protection. If you're not, we can get it annulled quietly in six months. Either way, this solves the immediate problem."

"The immediate problem," I repeat, voice rising. "You're talking about marriage like it's an insurance policy."

"Isn't it?" His eyes are too steady. "You're twenty-two, working entry-level with no family support and five hundred thousand in debt. I'm your boss, which means the power dynamic is already complicated. If this becomes public without legal protection, your career is over. People will say you slept your way up. But if you're my wife, that narrative changes. It becomes a love story instead of a scandal."

The cold calculation makes something in my chest crack. "A love story. Is that what you think this is?"

"I think this is two people who made a choice that has consequences, and I'm trying to do the right thing."

"The right thing would have been not sleeping with your employee in the first place."

"You're right. But we can't undo that. We can only move forward." Something vulnerable flickers across his expression. "I'm not asking you to love me, Lucy. I'm asking you to let me take care of this. Let me protect you from the fallout."

"I don't need you to protect me," I say."I need you to respect that I can handle my own life."

"Can you?" Not cruel, just genuinely questioning. "You're working in a field you don't care about, hiding your real training, drowning in debt from a scandal that wasn't your fault. You're brilliant, and you're wasting it on fashion sketches when you should be practicing psychology. How is that handling your life?"

The accuracy makes me want to scream. "That's not your business."

"It became my business when I woke up and you were the reason I could breathe again." His voice drops, rough. "You pulled me out of a flashback using techniques that require significant training. You knew exactly what to do. And then you disappeared before I could even thank you."

"I disappeared because what happened after shouldn't have happened."

"But it did happen. And now we deal with it." He pulls a small box from his desk drawer, sets it between us. "I'm not romantic, Lucy. I don't know how to be. But I know how to keep people safe. Let me do that for you."

I don't open the box. Don't need to. "This would destroy my career. The second people find out I married the CEO, every piece of work I've done becomes suspect. They'll say it's because I'm sleeping with you, not because I earned it."

The silence is crushing. Ethan's expression shutters completely, that mask sliding into place. "I see. You're right. This was inappropriate. I apologize for putting you in this position."

He's retreating, and I should let him. But something in his eyes—that flash of hurt—makes me hesitate.

"I'm not saying no forever," I hear myself say. "I just need time. This is too much, too fast, and I can't think clearly when you're looking at me like I'm a mission objective."

Understanding flickers across his face. He steps back, creating physical distance. "You're right. "

He runs a hand through his hair. "I don't know how to do this. Care about someone without trying to fix everything. But I'm trying to learn."

The admission costs him something. "I need time to think, to process, to figure out what I actually want instead of just reacting."

"How much time?"

"I don't know. More than five minutes."

Something like a smile ghosts across his expression. "Fair enough." He puts the box back in the drawer. "But I need you to understand something. This isn't just about responsibility. When I woke up Friday and you were gone, I felt—" He stops, searching for words. "Dr. Norton says I have alexithymia. Difficulty identifying emotions. But whatever I felt when I realized you'd left, it wasn't relief. It was loss."

My throat tightens. "Ethan—"

"You don't have to say anything. I just need you to know this isn't purely transactional, even if I'm terrible at showing it." He pulls out his phone. "Take your time. Think about it. But while you're thinking, I want you to have a way to reach me that isn't filtered through work channels."

A moment later, my phone buzzes: Ethan Reid would like to send you messages.

"Add me," he says quietly. "Not as your boss. As someone who wants to give you choices instead of ultimatums."

I stare at the screen, thumb hovering over Accept. This is a line, and once I cross it, there's no pretending we're just CEO and employee.

I press Accept.

"Good. Now go back to work. I'll give you space. But Lucy? When you're ready to talk, I'll be here."

I leave before I can ask what he meant by loss. Back in the design department, Ellie is on me immediately. "What happened? You were up there for twenty minutes."

"Nothing. Just a project discussion."

But my phone buzzes: Thank you for listening. Take all the time you need. I'm not going anywhere.

I'm still staring at the screen when Wendy Foster appears at my desk, flanked by two allies. She's wearing a Gucci blazer that costs more than my monthly rent, expression falsely concerned.

"Lucy! So glad you're back. We were all worried." Her voice carries across the floor, deliberately loud. "I wanted to talk to you about something. Do you have a minute?"

Every instinct screams no, but refusing would feed her narrative. "Sure."

Wendy pulls out her phone, holds up a design sketch—structured blazer with asymmetric panels, similar to something I submitted last month. "This is a design I've been working on for weeks. I shared it in the team folder March fifteenth. But then I saw your submission, and honestly, I was shocked. The silhouette, panel structure, contrast detail—almost identical to my concept."

The accusation lands like a blow. Around us, keyboards go silent.