It was Ethan.
Three years had changed him. He was leaner, taller, his tailored suit accentuating the faint outline of his chest muscles.
Back when we were together, I loved resting my hands on his chest.
Every time I did, he'd blush and squirm, mumbling about how shameless I was.
"You're my boyfriend," I'd tease. "Who else would I touch?"
...
I snapped back to the present, turning off my phone as I stood up to face him.
"Is there something you need?" I asked.
"I came to see you."
"To see me? But we don't really—"
"Don't pretend you don't know me," he interrupted, a sardonic smile on his lips. "Should I remind you of how well I know you?"
I hesitated, unsure of how to respond. My gaze dropped to my shoes. "So, what do you want?"
---
"Agree to the marriage. Marry me."
I froze, staring at him in disbelief.
"I'm not a White anymore. Marrying me won't benefit you at all."
His eyes lingered on my chest briefly before he replied, "Whether you're useful or not depends on how I use you."
I sighed. "I'm being serious."
"So am I," he said, stepping closer. His gaze softened as he studied my face. "Estelle, I want to marry you."
"Why?" I asked, genuinely baffled. "There's nothing in our history that suggests undying love."
"You're right. There isn't."
"Then why?"
His expression darkened slightly before he shifted topics.
"You're no longer the White family's daughter."
"Yes. So?"
He let out a humorless laugh. "Your luxury bags, your luxury dresses, all your yachts, cars, and villas—gone. Unless you marry me, of course."
He didn't finish the sentence, but the threat was clear.
Unless I married him, I'd have to endure a life of diminished means.
But that wasn't what bothered me.
It was the fact that he was trying to coerce me into marrying him.
Why?
---
Just as I opened my mouth to question him, dizziness swept over me. Unable to steady myself, I leaned against the couch.
"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice tinged with concern.
"Low blood sugar," I whispered. "Could you get me something to eat?"
After a moment's hesitation, he draped his suit jacket over me and rushed out.
When he returned, he was carrying a large plate of food—all my favorite chocolate-flavored treats—and a glass of lemon tea, my favorite drink.
He used a fork to cut a piece of chocolate cake and brought it to my lips.
I took a small bite, feeling some strength return to my body.
Watching him fuss over me, calling a doctor and failing to hide the worry on his face, I was struck by a faint, unfamiliar feeling.
"Ethan," I asked, half-jokingly, "do you still like me?"
He froze, then shrugged helplessly, a gentle smile softening his features."Yes," he admitted quietly.
Maybe he never intended to hide it.
I stared at him, incredulous. "But I humiliated you. I gave you a scandalous public breakup."
"Yes."
"I had someone beat you up."
"Yes."
"I treated you like that... and you still like me?"
"I stared at him, shocked, my eyes wide."
"Ethan Caldwell, do you have some kind of masochistic streak?"
He chuckled, the tension in his face easing. Dimples appeared on his cheeks as his lips curled into a reluctant smile.
Removing his gold-rimmed glasses, he rubbed his eyes wearily and beckoned to me.
"Come here."
I shook my head decisively.
He paused, then took the initiative, stepping closer and closer until he had me cornered against the wall.
"Is it really so hard for you to accept that I like you?"
What else could it be?
"I treated you horribly, and you still like me... how is that even possible?"
Ethan let out a soft laugh.
"I spoke to that guy you were involved with. He told me it was just a transaction, not a real betrayal."
"And for these three years, I couldn't forget you."
"So, Estelle, will you marry me?"
