Chapter 6 Elite Gathering

Ethan's POV

The Riverside bar was the kind of place where deals got made over single malt and handshakes meant more than contracts. I'd chosen the private room on the second floor—dark wood paneling, leather booths, windows overlooking the river. The bottles were already lined up when I arrived at eight-ten, but my three friends hadn't touched them yet.

Jake looked up from his watch. "Finally. You said you had a guest and needed to change locations. What took so long?"

I shrugged off my coat and slid into the booth. Christopher was already pouring me whiskey. "Traffic," I said simply.

Lie. I'd spent twenty minutes setting up the guest room for Stella, making sure everything was exactly as it should be. Dragon instincts run deep—we prepare our territory obsessively, especially when it involves someone we've claimed.

David leaned back, grinning. "A guest? You? The guy who won't let anyone past his front door?"

"Things change," I said, taking the glass Christopher offered.

These three had been my closest friends since undergrad. Jake worked in tech, Christopher in corporate law, David in finance. All human. All brilliant. All completely unaware that the man they'd known for over a decade wasn't entirely what he seemed.

"Your grandfather called me last week," Jake said. "Asked when you were planning to stop 'playing professor' and come back to Blackwood Investment."

I felt my jaw tighten. "Augustus needs to learn patience."

"The man's seventy-five," Christopher pointed out. "How much patience does he have left?"

More than you'd think. Dragon lifespans make human urgency seem almost quaint.

"I'm experiencing different stages of life," I said. "The family business will still be there when I'm ready."

David raised his glass. "To the richest adjunct professor in Massachusetts."

We drank. The whiskey burned going down, but my body temperature spiked immediately, metabolizing the alcohol almost as fast as I could swallow it. Dragon metabolism—useful for maintaining control, frustrating when you actually wanted to get drunk.

Which I don't. Not really. But I need them to think I am.

I refilled my glass, then did it again. Christopher's eyebrows went up. "You're hitting it hard tonight."

"Celebrating," I said.

Celebrating what? The fact that I married a woman who this afternoon asked for a divorce like our marriage was some kind of embarrassing mistake?

I poured another drink, letting my movements get slightly less precise. Jake was watching me now, concern creeping into his expression.

"Ethan, you okay?"

"Fine." I let the word slur just a fraction. "Just... thinking."

About her. Always about her.

I'd first heard Stella play at that Spring Break masquerade last night. Some grad student's apartment, too many people crammed into too small a space, and then suddenly—silence. She'd sat down at an old upright piano and started playing Chopin, and the entire room had stopped breathing.

There was something about the way she played, something that went beyond technical skill. Her music had weight to it, an emotional resonance that pulled at something deep in my chest.

Like magic. Like love.

Does she even know? Does she have any idea what her music does to people? What it does to me?

And then that night in Rhode Island happened. We'd talked for hours—about music, about philosophy, about things I'd never discussed with anyone. The connection felt inevitable, like gravity.

But this afternoon, she'd looked at me like I was a stranger. Asked for a divorce like the whole thing had been a drunken mistake she needed to fix.

Does she feel nothing? Was I the only one who felt that connection?

I needed to know. Needed to understand if there was anything there, or if I'd imagined the whole thing.

I deliberately let my phone slip from my pocket onto the table, screen-up. The lock screen photo was clearly visible—both of us in front of that chapel, her honey-colored hair catching the afternoon light, my arm around her waist.

That moment was real. I know it was.

Jake's eyes landed on the screen first. He went completely still, then lunged across the table and grabbed my phone.

"What the fuck?!"

Christopher and David both leaned in, and I watched their faces cycle through shock, confusion, and something that might have been betrayal.

"Ethan." David's voice was carefully controlled. "Is that what I think it is?"

I reached for my phone, but Jake held it out of range. "You got married? When? To who?"

"You saw the photo," I said, letting my words run together slightly. "That's... that's her."

"Her who?" Christopher demanded. "We don't even know her name!"

Stella. Stella Harper. Twenty-two years old, music major, and currently sleeping in my guest room because this afternoon she asked me to pretend our marriage never happened.

"Does it matter?" I said instead. "When you know, you know."

Jake was still staring at the photo. "How long have you known her?"

I gave him a look that I hoped conveyed 'long enough' without actually specifying a timeline.

"This is insane," David said flatly. "You don't do impulsive."

I poured myself another drink, my fifth or sixth—I'd lost count on purpose. My body was burning through the alcohol so fast I could feel my core temperature rising.

I could drink this entire bottle and still be stone-cold sober. But they don't need to know that.

"Maybe I wanted to be impulsive for once," I said, letting my head drop back against the booth.

Christopher exchanged a look with Jake. "He's drunk."

No, I'm not. But I need to be. Or at least, I need them to think I am.

Because drunk Ethan would call his wife to come pick him up. Drunk Ethan would need help, would give Stella a chance to show whether she cared at all.

If she comes, maybe there's something there. If she doesn't...

"I should go home," I mumbled, reaching for my phone. Jake still had it. "She's waiting for me."

All three of them went quiet.

"She?" David repeated slowly.

I nodded. "My wife. She's at home. I should... I should call her."

Please care. Please come.

My fingers fumbled with the phone screen—deliberately clumsy, deliberately uncertain.

Jake gently took the phone from my hands. "Let me help you with that."

He scrolled through my contacts, found the entry marked 'S', and hit dial.

I held my breath.

The phone rang once. Twice. Three times.

Then her voice came through, slightly breathless. "Hello?"