Ethan's POV
I reached home after work, loosened my tie, and called out, "Ember?"
No answer.
I checked the kitchen. The guest room. The balcony.
She wasn't here.
My chest tightened.
I was just about to call her when Damian's name flashed on the screen.
"She's with me," he said casually. "We're out with some old friends. Don't worry, I'll drop her late."
He hung up before I could respond.
I stared at the screen for a second longer before placing my phone harshly on the desk.
Why didn't she tell me?
I left the office early today—for her. And she just left, no word, no note. With him.
I told myself I didn't care. That she could do whatever she wanted. She wasn't really my wife—this was all temporary.
But I still waited.
Each minute felt heavier than the last.
At around 11 p.m., I heard tires screech outside. I moved to the window instinctively.
Damian's car.
He walked around and opened the door for her. Ember stepped out, giggling—barefoot, holding her heels in one hand, the other clinging to Damian's arm for balance. Her little black dress clung to her figure, and her eyes were glossy from either the night or drinks.
My jaw clenched.
Anger rose in me like a wave. I didn't want to admit it, but it burned seeing her like that—with him.
Damian helped her up the steps like some damn prince. Her laughter echoed faintly in the hallway as they reached the door.
I stayed still, watching, my fists tight at my sides.
She wasn't mine.
But damn it—I didn't want to share her either.
Damian brought her inside, her arm still looped around his. Her laughter had dulled to a soft murmur, and her eyes were glassy.
"I'll take it from here," I said, stepping forward and gently taking Ember from him.
Damian hesitated, eyes narrowing slightly as if wanting to say something, but he stepped back. "Take care of her," he said and left.
I didn't take her to the guest room.
I don't even know why.
My legs moved on their own, leading her to my room.
She stumbled a bit and looked around in confusion.
"Ethan," she giggled, "why are you bringing me here? Just throw me into any room. I'm just the homewrecker, right?"
I paused, turning to face her.
She stared at me—eyes gleaming with unshed tears, though her lips curved in a smile that didn't quite reach her soul. "You should just convince Veronica to come back," she whispered. "You loved her, didn't you? With all your heart?"
She laughed bitterly, then muttered, "It's me... I ruined everything. Why don't you tell them that?"
She looked straight at me now, voice shaking. "I don't care what people call me anymore."
Her vulnerability pierced something inside me. I just… stared. Silent.
She looked beautiful and broken—because of me.
I couldn't hold back.
I stepped closer, cupped her face gently. She blinked, startled.
And then I kissed her.
Not gently.
It was a kiss fueled by frustration, longing, guilt—and need.
Our clothes fell away piece by piece, and before I knew it, we were tangled in each other, her breath against my neck, her fingers in my hair. I didn't think of Veronica. I didn't think of anything but her.
That night… again, it ended with a fire I never expected—never meant—but couldn't stop.