Chapter 2 - The Aftermath at the Harbor
The heat of the late afternoon hit us like a humid wave as we stepped onto the porch of St. Matthew’s. The scent of jasmine and ocean salt hung heavy in the air, mingling with the distant sound of foghorns from the harbor.
Ethan led me down the wide granite steps with practiced ease. His grip on my hand was firm, grounded, and steady—a stark contrast to the nervous, sweaty touch Jack always had when he was trying to project power he didn't possess.
"My car is parked around the corner," Ethan said, signaling to a slick black Lincoln Continental idling near the oak trees. The driver immediately popped out, opening the rear door.
"Mr. Hayes, you don't have to do this," I said, stopping near the running board. "You’re Jack’s boss. This is... complicated for you."
Ethan turned to face me, placing one hand on the edge of the open door. "Jack Conway is an employee of my company, Lindsay. He is not my friend, and after what I just witnessed, his judgment as an executive is severely compromised. A man who cannot manage his own personal commitments with basic honor cannot be trusted with a forty-million-dollar product division."
I blinked, taking in his words. There was no cruelty in his voice, only cold, precise reality.
"I left my car at the venue," I said quietly, suddenly feeling the weight of the last two hours settling onto my shoulders like lead. My dress felt heavy, my hair felt tight, and my feet were aching.
"Where are you staying tonight?" Ethan asked.
"The honeymoon suite at the Dewberry," I confessed with a dry, humorless laugh. "Non-refundable."
"Then that’s where we’re going," Ethan said, stepping aside to let me enter the cool, leather-scented interior of the sedan.
He climbed in beside me, closing the door firmly against the rising commotion outside the chapel. Through the tinted glass, I saw Rachel burst out the front doors, holding her phone to her ear, while my father followed close behind, looking grimly satisfied. I quickly rolled down the window and called out to Rachel.
"Rach! Take Dad and Grandpa to the Dewberry bar! I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes!"
Rachel gave me a thumbs-up, her face breaking into a glorious, vicious grin as she saw Ethan Hayes sitting beside me in the back of the luxury car.
The sedan pulled away smoothly from the curb, leaving the stone spire of St. Matthew’s behind.
For a few minutes, silence filled the back seat. Ethan didn't press me with awkward questions. He simply reached into a small built-in bar, poured two fingers of amber bourbon into a crystal glass, and handed it to me.
"Drink," he commanded gently. "It helps with the adrenaline crash."
I took the glass, my fingers brushing against his. A strange, warm spark shot up my arm, making my heart skip a beat. I took a small sip. The high-end liquor burned pleasantly down my throat, cutting through the bitter taste of betrayal.
"How long have you known?" Ethan asked quietly, staring out the window at the passing pastel houses of the French Quarter.
"About Chloe?" I looked down at the amber liquid in my glass. "I knew she existed. She was his college girlfriend. The one who 'got away' because she left for a design internship in Milan six years ago. Jack always spoke about her like she was some tragic figure who needed constant protection."
"And you tolerated that?"
"I thought it was empathy," I admitted, feeling a sudden surge of self-directed anger. "I thought it meant he was a good man who cared about people from his past. I didn't realize she was his priority and I was just the domestic upgrade."
Ethan turned his head to look at me, his grey eyes piercingly sharp. "You are nobody's domestic upgrade, Lindsay. I’ve read your file."
I frowned, setting my glass in the holder. "My file?"
"When Jack applied for the Vice President promotion six months ago, I conducted background checks on all executive candidates," Ethan said smoothly. "That includes their personal stability, their networks, and the people supporting them. I know you hold a Master’s in Architectural Preservation from Columbia. I know you single-handedly restored three historic properties on Meeting Street last year, generating a thirty-percent return for your investment group."
I stared at him, stunned. "Jack told me you barely remembered my name at the company dinner in Atlanta."
Ethan let out a soft, dark chuckle. "Jack told you what he needed to tell you to keep you small, Lindsay. He wanted the board to believe he was the sole brilliant mind in his household. He took credit for your market analysis on the Charleston real estate portfolio, didn't he?"
My blood ran cold. "The harbor development project?"
"The very same," Ethan nodded. "He presented your urban integration model to the board as his own work last quarter. It’s the primary reason he was awarded the regional VP title."
A sudden wave of clarity washed over me, so intense it almost made me dizzy. Every late night I had spent helping Jack refine his slides, every weekend I had spent mapping out zoning laws while he played golf with clients—he hadn't just used my emotional support; he had stolen my intellectual labor to build his career.
"He lied to me," I whispered.
"He exploited you," Ethan corrected, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly tone. "And he assumed you were too sweet, too polite, and too soft to ever call him on it."
The sedan pulled up to the grand entrance of The Dewberry. The valet stepped forward, opening the door.
Ethan stepped out first, extending his hand to help me out. As my feet hit the pavement, I looked up at the towering glass and brass facade of the hotel.
"What are you going to do now, Lindsay?" Ethan asked, standing close beside me as the valet gathered my heavy silk train.
I looked at Ethan, feeling a new, fierce flame igniting inside my chest. The quiet, accommodating girl who had agreed to marry Jack Conway was gone, left behind in the dust of St. Matthew’s Chapel.
"I’m going to change out of this seven-thousand-dollar mistake," I said, my voice as hard as granite. "And then I’m going to take back everything that belongs to me."
May you like
Ethan’s eyes flared with appreciation. He stepped closer, leaning down so his lips were inches from my ear.
"If you need an investor, a partner, or simply a man who knows how to keep his appointments," Ethan whispered, his breath warm against my neck, "you have my number, Miss Vance."
