Chapter 5 Unexpected Discovery
Stella's POV
"Come in," Ethan's voice came through the door, low and measured.
I pushed the door open, and the first thing that hit me was the scent—warm wood and something clean, like cedar mixed with expensive cologne. The kind of smell that made you want to breathe deeper without meaning to.
Focus, Stella.
The room was exactly what I'd expected from him. Dark furniture, minimalist. A bookshelf lined one wall, every spine perfectly aligned. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in the city lights, and there was a leather armchair positioned to catch the view. Everything had its place, everything was controlled.
My eyes landed on the desk by the window, and I froze mid-step.
Holy shit.
The desk looked like a museum exhibit. Rows of pens were arranged across the surface—ebony, ivory-white resin, carbon fiber, bamboo, glass dip pens. Under the warm glow of the desk lamp, they gleamed in shades of amber, deep brown, pearl white. Some had gold inlay running along the barrel. Others had silver clips that caught the light.
I moved closer without thinking, my brain trying to process what I was seeing. These weren't just pens. These were art pieces. The kind of thing you'd see behind glass at an auction house.
And they were covered in metal. Gold bands. Silver accents. Platinum nibs.
He said he was allergic to certain metals.
"So..." The words came out before I could stop them. "You're only allergic to cheap metals, then?"
I heard the chair creak as Ethan turned around. When I glanced over, he was watching me with that unreadable expression he always wore, but there was something at the corner of his mouth. Amusement, maybe.
"Professional necessity," he said, his tone perfectly even. "I prefer handwriting my lecture notes and paper drafts."
I nodded mechanically. "Oh. Right. That makes sense."
No, it doesn't. Who the hell handwrites papers anymore? And that doesn't explain why you're touching gold and silver when you can't even use a metal fork.
But I didn't say any of that. Instead, I crossed the room quickly and held out his phone. "Someone keeps calling you."
He took it, glancing at the screen. "David," he said, then tapped to answer and put it on speaker.
"Ethan! You all set?" A cheerful male voice filled the room. "We'll be at your place by seven-thirty. You said you were cooking, so I'm expecting something impressive—"
My entire body went rigid. I felt my throat close up, and I had to force myself to swallow.
A party. Here. At this apartment.
I started shaking my head frantically, waving my hands in the air like I was trying to flag down a plane. No no no no no—
Ethan's eyes flicked to me, and for just a second, I swear I saw his mouth twitch. Then his expression smoothed out, and he spoke into the phone like nothing was wrong.
"Sorry, David. Change of plans. I have a guest over tonight. It's not a good time."
I stopped mid-wave, my hands frozen in the air.
Guest?
I'm not a guest. I'm your wife. Your legally registered, state-of-Rhode-Island-certified wife.
"How about Riverside instead?" Ethan continued. "My treat."
"Sure, no problem," David said easily. "See you at eight?"
"Perfect."
Ethan ended the call and stood, slipping the phone into his pocket. He walked over to where I was still standing like an idiot with my arms half-raised.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I should have checked with you before making plans."
My face heated up. "No, I'm sorry. I ruined your dinner party. You were going to cook and everything—"
"It's fine." He cut me off, his voice firm but not unkind. "This situation is complicated enough without adding my friends to the mix."
Right. Because explaining why your student is living in your apartment would be a nightmare.
"I'll set up the guest room before I leave," he continued. "If you're tired, don't wait up."
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
Twenty minutes later, I heard the front door open and close. I was still standing in the living room, exactly where I'd been since he'd walked out of his bedroom in a charcoal coat, told me the door would lock automatically, and reminded me to text him if I needed anything.
The apartment felt bigger now that he was gone. Quieter.
I looked around slowly, taking in the details I'd been too overwhelmed to notice before. The throw blanket folded perfectly over the arm of the couch. The stack of economics journals on the coffee table, edges aligned. The bookshelf organized by color, like some kind of design magazine spread.
Who organizes books by color?
I sank onto the couch and pulled my knees up to my chest.
"Stella Harper," I whispered to the empty room. "What the hell are you doing?"
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out and saw Lucy's name lighting up the screen.
Oh God.
I'd been so caught up in everything that I'd completely forgotten to text her back. After we'd gotten back from Rhode Island this morning, I'd sent her a quick message saying I was fine, but nothing since then. She was probably wondering where I'd disappeared to.
I opened the message thread.
Lucy: Where are you? Haven't seen you all day
Lucy: You okay? Don't tell me you got yourself lost or something
Lucy: Stella seriously
Lucy: If you're still hungover from last night just say so
Lucy: But at least tell me you're ALIVE
I winced. I could practically hear her voice getting more frantic with each message.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard. What was I supposed to say? Hey, sorry, I got married to Professor Blackwood in Rhode Island and now I'm living in his apartment?
Yeah, that would go over great.
I typed out a response.
Me: I'm fine. Staying with family for a few days. Something came up. I'll explain later.
The reply came back in seconds.
Lucy: Family? Seriously?
Lucy: Since when do you visit your family voluntarily
I turned my phone face-down on the couch and pressed my palms against my eyes.
I can't deal with this right now.
The apartment was so quiet I could hear the hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen. I dropped my hands and stared at the ceiling, trying to organize my thoughts into something that made sense.
Yesterday morning, I'd been a normal college student. My biggest problem was finishing my music therapy paper on time.
Now I was married to a man who owned a collection of pens worth more than my tuition, who couldn't touch metal forks but had no problem with gold and silver, whose skin ran hot enough to warm a glass of ice water.
And who made our wedding photo his phone wallpaper.
My face heated up at the memory. I'd been trying not to think about it, but now that I was alone, it was all I could think about.
Why would he do that?
He'd been so calm about everything. So practical. Talking about divorce timelines and career implications like we were discussing a business merger.
But then he'd gone and made that photo—that photo, where we were both smiling like idiots—his lock screen.
It doesn't make sense.
I grabbed the throw pillow and hugged it to my chest, curling up on my side. The leather was cool against my cheek, and I could smell that same cedar scent from his room clinging faintly to the fabric.
Stop overthinking this, Stella. He probably just hasn't had time to change it yet.
