Chapter 6

Ethan's POV

I watch Lucy's retreating figure disappear through the frosted glass doors of my office suite, and something uncomfortably close to regret twists in my chest. Too fast. You pushed too fast.

The thought surfaces with the kind of clinical clarity I usually reserve for analyzing quarterly reports or hostile acquisition attempts. But this isn't a business negotiation. This is Lucy—the woman who pulled me back from the edge of a PTSD flashback with nothing but her voice and her hands, the woman whose psychological notes are more sophisticated than half the designs my creative team produces, the woman who looks at me like I'm simultaneously her greatest threat and her only anchor.

And I just cornered her. Again.

"Shit," I mutter, rotating the heart rate monitor on my wrist. 72 bpm. Perfectly steady. The watch doesn't register emotional turmoil, only physiological stress. Which means right now, according to the data, I'm completely calm.

The data is lying.

Sean appears in the doorway, tablet in hand."Sir, you have the investor call at four, and the design review at—"

"Reschedule them."

"May I ask why?"

"Because I just made a tactical error." I finally turn to face him, and whatever he sees in my expression makes him take a step back. "And I need to figure out how to fix it before I lose her completely."

Sean's neutral mask slips for just a moment, revealing something that looks almost like sympathy. "With respect, sir—maybe giving her space right now is the fix."

"I've been giving her space for three days. She's been avoiding me. Different elevator banks, different lunch hours, leaving her desk five minutes before I usually walk the floor." I move to the windows, hands in pockets, watching the miniature figures on the street below.. "She accepted my contact information. She signed the crisis intervention contract. But the moment I ask for an actual answer about us, she runs."

"Because you're terrifying when you want something, sir."

The bluntness catches me off-guard. Sean rarely breaks professional protocol, but when he does, it's usually because I need to hear it. "Explain."

"You run a ten-billion-dollar company. You have military training. You have family connections that most people only read about in Forbes. And you just destroyed a fifty-million-dollar business relationship to defend her professional reputation." Sean sets his tablet down, and there's something almost gentle in his voice now. "From her perspective, you're not asking her to marry you. You're conscripting her into a contract she can't negotiate her way out of."

The observation lands like a physical blow. Because he's right. I've been approaching this entire situation the way I approach everything else—identify the problem, allocate resources, execute the solution. But Lucy isn't a problem to be solved. She's a person with agency and trauma and a spine made of steel wrapped in self-protective thorns.

And I've been treating her like a tactical objective.

"I don't know how to do this any other way," I say quietly. It's the closest I've come to admitting vulnerability in front of Sean, and the words taste strange in my mouth. "Dr. Norton says I have alexithymia. I can't differentiate between emotional states. I don't know if what I'm feeling is love or dependency or just... relief that someone finally understands what it's like to live in my head."

"Does it matter?" Sean asks. "Sir, I've worked for you for three years. I've seen you manage hostile board members, navigate corporate espionage, and run this company with the precision of a military operation. But I've never seen you sleep through the night until last week. I've never seen you go forty-eight hours without a panic attack until she showed up. Whatever label you put on it—that's real."

"She thinks it's pathological transference."

"Maybe it is. But that doesn't make it less real." He picks up his tablet again, back to business. "For what it's worth, I think you're both overthinking this. She's scared you're going to consume her. You're scared she's going to leave. And neither of you is actually talking about what you want."

"I told her what I want. I want her to be my wife."

"No, sir. You told her what you think she needs. Protection. Financial security. A solution to her professional reputation problem." Sean heads for the door, then pauses. "You never told her that you wake up at 0300 every night and check your phone to see if she has sent you a message. You never told her that you can't focus in meetings anymore because you're listening for her voice in the hallway. You never told her that the reason you fired Wendy Foster wasn't about company policy—it was because someone hurt her, and you can't tolerate that."

He leaves before I can respond, and I'm left standing in my office, staring at the city below, trying to process the uncomfortable truth in his words.

I pull out my phone, start typing. Delete it. Start again. Delete it again.

I'm sorry. Too simple.

I didn't mean to pressure you. Too defensive.

Take all the time you need. Too passive.

Finally, I settle on: I handled that badly. I'm not good at this. But I meant what I said—I don't want to just survive anymore. And I can't do that without you.

I hit send before I can second-guess myself, then immediately regret it. Too vulnerable. Too honest. Too much like the man who breaks down at 0200 and tells a stranger on an encrypted line that he doesn't know how to be human anymore.

But it's done. And maybe Sean is right—maybe the problem isn't that I'm asking for too much. Maybe the problem is that I'm not asking for the right things.

My phone buzzes. Not Lucy—Sean.

Security flagged something. Lucy's boy friend Quinn Matthews just entered the building. He's asking for Ms. Lowe at reception.

Every muscle in my body goes rigid. Quinn Matthews. The ex-boyfriend who chose venture capital over loyalty. The man who, according to the background check I ran three days ago, is now engaged to Diana Lawson and running a failing mental health tech startup. The man who has no business being anywhere near Lucy.

Where is she?

Still at her desk. Third floor, design department.

I'm moving before I finish reading the message. The private elevator descends with agonizing slowness—45, 44, 43. My heart rate climbs: 89, 95, 102. Not panic. Something else. Something that feels dangerously close to territorial rage.

The design floor is mostly empty—it's nearly 6 PM, and most people have gone home. But Lucy is still at her desk, bent over her tablet, that crease between her eyebrows that means she's deep in concentration. She doesn't notice me approach.

She also doesn't notice Quinn Matthews stepping off the main elevator, scanning the floor until he spots her.

I watch from behind a column as he walks toward her desk.