Drowning While He Fed Her Strawberries

The moment I hit the water, Ethan stayed on the shore, too wrapped up in his little moment with his secretary to even glance my way.

As I drifted farther out, bystanders rushed to help—but Ethan just scoffed, "Don't waste your time. She loves playing the victim." Then, without missing a beat, he whisked his secretary off to some romantic candlelit dinner.

By the time I dragged myself home, still shaky from the ordeal, I found Sophie stepping out of my bedroom—wearing my pajamas.

Ethan barely looked up. "She spilled wine all over herself at dinner. Figured you wouldn't mind lending her something."

I smiled and nodded. For once, I genuinely didn't care.

"Thanks, Emma! You've got great taste," Sophie chirped, all sugar and sunshine.

Ethan shot me a dismissive glance. "Please. She's a tomboy—since when does she have taste? She won't even wear skirts."

His words twisted in my chest. Did he really not remember why I stopped wearing them?

Back when Ethan was just starting his company, I'd pick him up late after his meetings—always worried, always waiting.

Then one night, the accident happened.

My leg got pinned in the wreckage while he lay there, drunk and unconscious, oblivious to the danger. In my panic, I yanked myself free—ripping skin, leaving a scar that never fully healed.

After that, I stuck to pants.

When Ethan woke up in the hospital and saw me bandaged, he cried like a kid, swearing he'd get me the best treatments to fix it.

But as his business took off, those promises faded.

Sophie, ever the innocent, piped up, "Maybe Emma just prefers pants! I could recommend some cute skirts for you."

Ethan sighed, pulling her away. "Spare my eyes. She'd look ridiculous in a dress."

"One skirt-wearer in this house is enough," he teased, flirting shamelessly while I slipped into the guest room to make a call.

"Teacher," I said quietly, "do you still need someone on your team?"

"Yes. I've realized—relationships are just distractions. I'm focusing on my career now."

The next morning, the house was empty.

I made myself a quick breakfast and scrolled through Instagram—only to see Sophie's latest post: Breakfast with my sweet boss! He took the long way just for me because he knows I'm picky.

Ethan's comment sat below: You're already a mess. If she can't handle your food quirks too, you're doomed.

I tapped like—and my phone rang instantly.

Ethan's voice was ice. "You scared her."

"If you're bored, find something useful to do instead of stalking people."