The morning after was painfully calm.
The silence wasn't peaceful—it was hollow. Like a beautiful vase smashed from the inside, leaving its form untouched, but its soul gone.
Ethan stirred before the sun had fully risen, his eyes opening to the pale ceiling above. He didn't move for several long minutes.
Then, slowly, he turned and curled to the side where Lena used to sleep.
He reached out instinctively, fingertips brushing against the now-cold sheets. He dragged his hand over the fabric, slow and aching, like he could summon her back with a single touch.
Her scent still lingered faintly—soft lavender and citrus—like a ghost haunting the bed.
He sat up and crossed to her side of the room.
Her wardrobe stood ajar.
He opened it fully and stood still, staring at the neat rows of clothes. Her bright, mismatched palette clashed violently with his muted tones. Yellow beside gray. Florals beside solids. Oversized sweaters hanging beside elegant blouses.
He smiled—a real one—for the first time in hours.
A broken, wistful smile.
She'd always said she didn't care about matching. "Fashion is about comfort and chaos," she used to tease. "Like us."
He reached forward and touched a scarf. His throat tightened.
Then—a knock.
He blinked, grounded suddenly by the sound. He cleared his throat, straightened up.
An older maid stepped in with a slight bow. "Sir, the legal team has arrived. They've requested your presence in the study."
Reality slammed back into him.
"Alright," he said hoarsely. "Tell them I'll be there shortly."
The door shut again, and Ethan exhaled.
This was going to be a long day.
He made his way to the bathroom, trying to breathe through the heaviness sitting in his chest. The bathroom had always been his calm—his reset.
It used to work.
But ever since Lena started joining him—just sitting beside him, saying nothing—it had become more than therapeutic. It had become a place of quiet intimacy.
Now, it was just quiet.
Everywhere he turned, there was a trace of her. Her slippers. Her toothbrush. Her favorite candle by the tub, nearly burned out.
He undressed and stepped into the shower, letting the water cascade over him. It was too hot, almost scalding—but he didn't adjust it.
He needed to feel something.
---
After drying off, he walked into the dressing room with damp hair, towel still around his neck. The closet felt cold and mechanical without her playful teasing.
She used to tug at his shirts, asking, "Why do you dress like a funeral every day?"
And he'd respond, "Because I'm always burying emotions."
She'd roll her eyes and hand him something outrageous.
Today, he picked a navy suit and forced himself not to pause too long.
He hurried downstairs, hoping movement would keep the thoughts from swallowing him whole.
But there it was again.
Her favorite rose blooms, now placed beside his lilies at the dining table. He stared at the arrangement for a beat, something tight squeezing his chest.
He watered them quietly, as if it were a ritual.
Then he headed into the study, where a group of sharply dressed men and women waited, briefcases open, files spread out like war plans.
He adjusted his cuffs, his posture kingly—shoulders back, face unreadable.
"Good morning, ladies and gents," he greeted, lowering into the seat at the head of the long table. "What do we have today?"
A younger man with sharp glasses cleared his throat. "We've received formal notice, sir. A case has been reopened. A serious one."
Ethan's gaze sharpened. "Go on."
"The charges are tied to an incident from three years ago. You were involved in a car crash. Back then, it was closed quietly. But someone—an old enemy, possibly a former associate—has stirred it up again. The police force, particularly their new leadership, has decided to reopen the investigation. Apparently, election year's the perfect time to make a statement."
Ethan clenched his jaw. "Who's handling the case?"
"We don't know specifics, but our inside man said a particularly sharp officer is taking the lead. They've been told to dig—hard. And since it's an O'Martin-related case, there's pressure to make a name."
Ethan leaned back. "Do we have anything to stall?"
"For now? No." The man hesitated. "They've given us two months to prove innocence. After that, charges will be filed officially."
Ethan's voice dropped. "What kind of charges?"
Silence.
He looked at each of them.
"Don't make me repeat myself."
A woman from the legal team finally spoke, her tone careful. "Sir... they're looking at reckless driving resulting in death. Combined with the opioid levels found in your blood at the time, you could be facing 9 to 15 years if convicted."
"Nine to fifteen?" Ethan's voice cracked. "That's insane. I wasn't high. I didn't drive recklessly. I don't even remember what happened that day."
He stood abruptly, pacing. "I blacked out—I woke up in a hospital. No one ever gave me straight answers. And you're telling me they're resurrecting this now?"
"We're doing everything we can," one of the men said. "But right now... we're working blind."
Ethan paused. "What about the street cams? Traffic footage?"
"Reportedly down that night. We're still verifying."
He ran both hands through his hair. "Contact some of my father's old lawyers. See if they've got leverage or... anything."
"Yes, sir."
He paused.
Then muttered, almost to himself, "If only my father were alive... he'd know what strings to pull."
They were all silent.
After a few more questions, Ethan dismissed them with a nod. "Let's prove my innocence. I'm not going to prison for something I didn't do."
The room emptied. But Ethan stayed seated, head bowed.
He picked up his phone and hovered over Lena's contact.
He hadn't heard from her.
His thumb hesitated, then pressed "Call."
Voicemail.
He tried again. Same.
His chest caved a little.
He left a message.
> "Hey... babe. If I'm still allowed to call you that. Just checking up on you.
Talk to me if you can. I could use some comfort right now.
Take care... I love you."
He ended the call and stared at the screen, willing it to ring back.
It didn't.
---
Meanwhile, outside, Christian stood beside the waiting lawyers. They were packing up their briefcases.
"How's he handling it?" one asked.
Christian's expression was unreadable. "As expected. He hasn't asked who reported it yet."
"Are we telling him?"
"Not until I talk to her."
The lawyers exchanged glances.
Christian turned, eyes landing on the tall windows of the study.
Ethan sat alone, hunched slightly, as if the weight of the unknown had finally started crushing him.
Christian's jaw tensed.
He couldn't watch him crumble.
Not without trying.
He grabbed his coat, got into his car, and headed to the hotel.