“I’m bankrupt.”
That was how today’s sixth blind date opened.
I looked up at him. The man in a suit was about my age, sharply handsome with sculpted features. He spoke with a cool, calm expression.
“I even put the RV up as collateral. Now I’m just a regular employee at a public company.”
I sipped my coffee and nodded.
“Can you cook?”
He blinked, taken aback.
“Yes.”
“How are you at chores?”
“Pretty okay.”
“What’s your temper like?”
“Good.”
“Any messy exes or family baggage?”
“No.”
“How much allowance do you need per month?”
“…You decide?”
I was very satisfied. Then I said, “I do alright at my job. I’ve got a house and an RV, and my side gig brings in money. I’m willing to support you. Are you willing to register our marriage with me?”
He lifted his coffee and took a sip, one eyebrow raising. “I am.”
And just like that—me, Claire Bennett—at twenty-nine, I had a flash marriage.
My registered spouse was a man my age named Ethan Carter: poor but handsome, and allegedly with an eight-pack.
Okay, I hadn’t actually seen the eight-pack; Ethan told me about it to make me feel less cheated.
1.
Both our parents met at a pretty decent restaurant.
Ethan had been an entrepreneur before, and he was the master of smoothing things over. He charmed my parents—who’d once said they’d cut ties if I didn’t marry before thirty—so completely they were grinning, even agreeing to postpone a wedding banquet.
Ethan’s parents, though, looked hesitant, like they had something unsaid.
Mrs. Carter pulled me aside and quietly asked what I saw in Ethan.
I was honest. “I’m sorry, Auntie. I’m shallow. I like his face…and his eight-pack.”
Mrs. Carter replied earnestly, “But he spent all his savings paying debts. He’s working and flat broke right now. Sweetie, you can’t judge just by appearances. Think about yourself.”
I felt a little guilty. “Well, actually he’ll handle cooking and chores, and he doesn’t ask for much allowance.”
Mrs. Carter still seemed doubtful.
I added, “Don’t worry, Auntie. I make enough—I can support both of us.”
She quietly gave me a thumbs-up.
After the meal I asked Ethan why his parents had looked so awkward.
Ethan said, “Oh, they used to mock me for failing at entrepreneurship and not finding a partner. Now I end up relying on them, and I bring home a wife who’s willing to support me. Their faces hurt.”
I returned Mrs. Carter’s thumbs-up to their family.
2.
That weekend, while I was being lazy at home, Ethan drove my car over to move his stuff in.
I hugged a bag of chips and watched TV, and when he’d nearly finished tidying the spare bedroom I waved him over. “Ethan, go make dinner. I’m starving.”
He obediently sat beside me, that pretty face turned toward me. “What do you want to eat?”
Is this the joy of being a rich girl? I almost cried from happiness.
I started ordering dishes: “Spicy hot pot, sweet-and-sour carp, scrambled eggs with tomatoes, and a simple vegetable-tofu soup—enough for two.”
He nodded. “Scrambled eggs with tomatoes and the vegetable-tofu soup—okay. I’ll go to the market now.”
I stopped him. “Did you not hear the first two?”
“I did,” Ethan said calmly, “I just can’t make them.”
Suddenly I felt like I’d rushed into this.
He continued, unabashed: “I said I can cook, not that I’m a chef. I can do home-style dishes.”
Then he gave me a slightly disdainful look. “You don’t even set foot in the kitchen and live on takeout—don’t be so picky.”
Excuse me!
I am your sugar sponsor!
“You lose your allowance this month.”
“Don’t be mad. Want to see my abs?”
“Shut up,” I kicked him. “You’re a grown man who trades on looks—where’s the practical spirit?”
Ethan froze. He was clearly going there with his mind, so I grabbed the empty chip bag and tossed it at him. “I mean buy a cookbook and learn! Now!”
3.
Registering our marriage happened suddenly. My best friend Hazel Brooks came back from a work trip and dragged me out.
“How long was I gone before you lost your mind?” she demanded.
I took a leisurely bite of mousse cake, indifferent. “Isn’t it just finding someone to share life with? What’s the big deal? Quick and efficient—keeps my parents from harassing me every day.”
Hazel sighed. “So what’s he like?”
“He’s fine. My parents like him.”
“And you?”
“He handles laundry, cooking, chores, drives me to work—aside from being broke, I can’t find a fault.”
“Are you not worried he’s a ‘phoenix man’?” Hazel asked.
“Look and see.”
I waved Ethan over from behind Hazel. After one glance, Hazel’s whole expression changed.
I asked, “Worth it?”
She nodded heavily. “Worth it.”
I told Ethan to go buy more groceries.
Hazel: “So you actually plan to live with him long-term?”
“For now. Our families are on my case. If we both meet someone we actually like later…we’ll cross that bridge.”
“So you got the registration certificate to appease your parents, basically getting an in-house roommate?”
“Pretty much,” I deflected. “Ever heard of marrying first, falling in love later?”
Hazel rolled her eyes.
After Ethan finished ordering dessert, he sat by me. “What do you want for dinner tonight? Don’t plan on living on these sweets, right?”
“You’re my best friend,” I said, pointing at Hazel. “You have to treat her to a big meal.”
Ethan leaned close and whispered with a smile, “I don’t have enough allowance.”
“I haven’t asked for your paycheck yet.”
“I’m saving my salary.”
“For what?”
“In case you go bankrupt too.”
I stepped on his foot under the table.
Hazel got a call and had to run, leaving us one line: she didn’t want to eat any “couple rice” that day.
4.
Under my nagging, Ethan actually bought a cookbook and learned many new dishes. I was delighted and took him out to a nice dinner.
We passed a mall and, on impulse, I dragged Ethan into a clothing store.
Watching him try on clothes was pure joy. I sat on the sofa, critiquing him.
“Ethan, you look great in a button-down.”
“Ethan, you look great in a hoodie.”
“Ethan, you look great in a trench coat.”
He gave me a look. “Are you a broken record?”
I replied, “Can’t I compliment you?”
“My vocabulary’s scarce; it’s not heartfelt.”
“What would you know? The simplest words express the truest feelings.”
I flashed my phone’s payment QR code. “Is this heartfelt enough?”
He smiled. With the trench coat still on, he strutted over, all suave. He bent down to meet my gaze and I reflexively bumped the sofa back.
“I look better without a coat. Want to see?”
“Get outta here. I know that’s extra.”
The salesgirl nearby started giving us weird looks.
Paying for everything, I got a taste of spoiling a pretty boy. The thought of Ethan in clothes I bought, turning heads—made me strangely proud.
I nudged him. “With that face you must be popular at work, right? Do the girls flock to you?”
He grinned. “Don’t worry. Everyone at the office knows I’m officially taken now.”
I felt even better.
“Living together with you isn’t so bad,” I said.
“Promise you won’t be mad,” Ethan said.
“Say it.”
He took a step back. His serious look made my eyelid tick; for a second I half-expected him to drop to one knee.
“I threw your favorite set of pajamas in the wash and ruined it. I was afraid you’d notice, so I tossed them.”
“…!”
I clenched my fist. “No wonder I couldn’t find them! Ethan, you’ll pay!”
He looked innocent. “You know I don’t have money.”
I didn’t care. I dragged him into a pricey store and bought a new set. He bit his lip and bought himself a matching set—couple style.
5.
Ethan’s foresight paid off.
My mom, having come down from the high of our registration, sensed something off. She and my dad had a fight and, on a sunny Saturday morning, stormed over to our place.
I was sleeping hard when I felt a kiss on my forehead. Groggy, I opened my eyes and saw Ethan’s magnified handsome face.
He stroked my hair indulgently and smiled, “Claire, wake up. My mom’s here.”
I jolted awake.
For a moment I couldn’t tell which was scarier: my mom standing at the doorway with a cold face, or Ethan standing bedside with a fake smile.
I sat up and forced a smile. “Mom, you could’ve called.”
She snorted. “Called? How would I know how you’ve been treating Ethan?”
I blinked. “What are you talking about?”
“You do nothing and he does everything, and he still gets no thanks—over a ruined pajama, you’re mad enough to sleep in separate rooms?”
Her sharp gaze swept over our matching pajamas. “Don’t you have PJs to sleep in?”
Okay, I got the picture. I had to admit—Ethan was clever.
After we freshened up, Ethan kindly went downstairs to buy breakfast while Mom planted me on the couch for a lecture.
“Claire, you can’t just assume you make the money and dump all the household stuff on him. You found a husband, not hired a housekeeper! This isn’t right!”
I mumbled, “Isn’t that how you treat Dad?”
My mom snapped, “Don’t bring your father into this! He kills every plant I give him even when I ask him to repot it. He won’t admit fault—just mention him and I get furious!”
I patted her back. “Okay, okay, won’t mention him.”
She glanced at my hand. “When is the wedding going to be? No ring—how will anyone know you’re married?”
I tried to smile. “Everyone around us knows. We’re busy with work—no time for formalities.”
She rolled her eyes. “And when are you having kids? You’re not getting any younger. You should start planning.”
My smile froze. First the marriage nagging, now the baby nagging—typical Mom.
"Ay, no rush, no rush. We have our own plans."
My mom and I dance around each other for a while before Ethan comes back. I practically abandon my mother and rush to meet him, taking the breakfast from his hands.
I whisper, annoyed, "Why did you take so long?"
Ethan ruffles my hair like it’s adorable, pretending to be affectionate. "Had to make sure we didn’t blow our cover. I picked up a few extras."
"Extras?"
He bends, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. His voice is soft; his warm breath skims my skin, both hot and ticklish. "Trojan."
Boom—
Those three ordinary words explode in my head. I freeze, my face flaming all the way down to my neck.
And yet, I have to admit: Ethan is uncannily accurate.
A prophet. Seriously.
6. My mom boots Ethan and me out the door—tells us to go on a date and not clutter up her house.
Ethan and I sit in the car giving each other the side-eye, until I give up and pull out my phone to find something to do.
"Hey, there’s a new escape room downtown. Want to try it?" I ask.
He’s peeking at my screen. "Never done one."
"Then let’s go."
I get a little smug. "I’m basically an escape-room pro. I’ll show you the ropes."
Ethan sets the GPS and shrugs casually. "Is that so?"
I huff like it doesn’t matter. "You’ll see soon enough."
An hour later I’m buried in Ethan’s arms, shivering, my hands locked around his waist like he’s an anchor. No leaving allowed.
He chuckles, his chest vibrating. "Escape-room pro, huh? Mm?"
I sound like I’m about to cry. "It’s your fault! You insisted on the scary one with NPCs. I told you I couldn’t handle it. Why not a plain puzzle room?"
Ethan tosses an arm around my shoulders, his voice low and lazy. "If we’re going to do it, do the most thrilling one. Come on—move it along. The other players are waiting."
I close my eyes and slowly unlace my arms from him, then grab his forearm and hug it to my chest. "Is that ghost gone?"
"Yeah. He went out through the side door."
"Will anything else jump out?"
"Shouldn’t—"
My eyes adjust to the dim light.
There are cracked walls, battered chairs, rust and dried blood everywhere. A few skeletons litter the floor.
I breathe out. It’s not seeing the scary things that freaks me out—it’s the split second before something appears, when my heart feels like it’s about to leap out of my throat.
"Let’s go," Ethan says, pointing to a low iron grate. "We need the key."
I stare at the blackness behind the bars, frozen. "Do I have to reach in?"
"I’ll get it. Just stay with me."
I steal a glance at him; his calm steadies me, so I follow. He reaches through the bars, feeling around. I’m on high alert for movement. Something brushes my forehead and chills race down my spine.
There’s something above me.
I look up before I can stop myself. Grimy black hair hangs down and sways, a soft keening sound coming with it. Then—warm hands cover my eyes, and Ethan’s voice whispers in my ear: "Don’t look."
I Married a Broke Charmer
All my senses go numb except for my heart pounding—thud, thud—sharp and loud in the silence.
"Got the key. Let's open the next door."
I tuck myself back against Ethan's arm and follow silently.
Closed-in horror rooms are breeding grounds for paranoia. I immediately regret dragging Ethan here.
And then it gets worse.
The fourth room is big; everyone scatters to find clues. Ethan tells me to wait on the side. He flips up a tablecloth against the wall—nothing under it—so I curl up and wait, knees hugged, feeling safe.
An NPC in a mask crawls out of a hidden wall compartment and comes eyeball to eyeball with me crouched there.
A scream rips out of me. The poor NPC freaks, stumbles back. I spring toward Ethan—straight onto him.
My arms clamp around his neck, my legs curl around his waist.
Ethan freezes, instinctively supporting me so I don't fall. After a beat he bursts into laughter—a big, loud laugh.
I'm mortified. "Don't laugh!"
Maybe the person playing the ghost is embarrassed at scaring off a coward. He pops out again and brings another helper through the door. People scatter and keep shrieking.
Ethan holds me in the corner like a statue.
One of the NPCs hangs around in front of him a while, then loses interest and leaves. I peek and see a lone girl inching toward him, reaching for his jacket.
My brain is foggy. I blurt out, "He's my husband." I emphasize "my" on purpose.
The girl freezes, awkwardly steps back.
I freeze, too, and look at Ethan. He's grinning teasingly. My cheeks flame and I scramble off his lap.
Long story short: three hours of humiliation in front of Ethan, and now I have a deep-seated trauma toward escape rooms.
7. Ethan is merciless. He had the staff print photos of my mortifying moment, then showed them to my mom and they laughed together.
I give Ethan a cold kick under the table. "Peel me an apple. I'm hungry."
My mom slaps the table. "Peel your own if you're so spoiled!"
I clutch my head in outrage. "I'm your daughter!"
I glance at the time. "Isn't it late? Aren't you going home?"
She lounges. "Not until your dad apologizes to me. You can sleep here if it bothers you."
My face drops.
My place has three bedrooms; I turned the smallest into a study because it wasn't necessary. If my mom sleeps here, that means Ethan and I share a bed.
I nudge Ethan's hand twice, pleading silently.
He shrugs helplessly—he's no help.
I plaster on my most ingratiating smile and drape myself over my mother like Velcro. "Fine, Mom. You sleep with me."
She replies, "Get out."
Great.
After my shower, Ethan is at the nightstand, staring inside a drawer with a strange expression. I peek—three boxes of contraceptives. One's already opened.
My face goes dark. "Why'd you buy so many?"
"Ehm?" Ethan arches a brow. "Aren't they reasonable for newlyweds?"
"Why's that one opened?"
"I opened it before I left and tossed a couple. Just now I opened the drawer and noticed someone had been in it."
I blush hot. "My mother rifled through my nightstand!"
Ethan puffs up, smug. "Luckily, I was prepared."
He snaps the drawer shut, grabs pajamas, and leaves for the bathroom. I sit on the bed scrolling my phone, but my eye keeps straying to that drawer. Curiosity wins and I slide it open like a thief, examining the opened box. It's the larger size.
My face flares. I was about to slam it back when Ethan pokes his head out of the bathroom. "Claire, I forgot a towel—"
My hand jerks and the box falls. Little wrappers spill out.
Oh no—
Ethan goes quiet, then chooses his words. "If you want—"
"No! I don't want—"
I leap up. "I'll get your towel."
That night I spam Hazel with a ridiculous number of messages about how much I want to move to another planet. Hazel replies with a barrage of teasing stickers, every single one different.
"I can picture your straight face sending those. Could you be more sincere?"
"How? You're showing off married life to a single girl. The audacity."
"It's not showing off. Repeating: not showing off. The worst part is—tonight I have to sleep next to him."
"Behave. It should be the man making the move."
"??? Get lost!!!"
I dig for more taunting stickers. The bed sinks behind me and my heart skips—I kill my screen.
"What were you messaging that's so guilty? Can't I look?"
"Mind your own business," I snap, glaring. "This is private… Why aren't you wearing clothes?"
I leap upright and yank the covers up, eyeing Ethan on the edge of the bed, towel around his waist, drying his hair.
Droplets run down his bare back into his narrow waist. His wet hair hangs over his forehead in a messy fringe. He somehow looks almost boyish—until he opens his mouth.
"Hm? Weren't you into this earlier?"
My eyes go wide.
"Fine. Shower was hot. I'll put clothes on in a bit."
That night I have an explicit dream where I pin Ethan to the bed, going too far using that opened box until he croaks in a helpless voice for mercy. I wake up shaking. Ridiculously arousing.
The next day I wired my dad a thousand bucks and begged him to apologize to my mom. Otherwise life was impossible; my blood pressure would explode.
8. After my mom—the human Buddha—left, life returned to normal. Still, whenever I remembered that dream, I couldn't help but get fluttery.
Almost thirty and acting like a lovesick teenager. I despise myself.
My coworkers know I have a model husband who dotes on me. Sometimes at team dinners they even call Ethan to pick me up after work and tease us about having the wedding already. Their red envelopes are practically clenched in their hands.
Ethan handles it like a pro, blending with my coworkers as if he's one of their bosses.
I suddenly realize I've never met Ethan's colleagues. I ask him, "Do you ever do after-work dinners with them? I don't see you there. Is it that you're short on allowance?"
He smiles. "We have dinners."
"Then why don't you go more often? Won't they think you're hard to get along with?"
"No," Ethan says.
Ethan said with a straight face, "I told them I was going home to make dinner for my wife. They all praised me for having a strict wife."
I turned my face away, unable to stop the smile tugging at my mouth. "Next time you should go. I'll grab something quick and take the subway home."
Ethan agreed.
After their team finally finished a long-delayed project, the team lead treated everyone to dinner.
Ethan messaged me about it. I thought he was just letting me know, but he insisted I come along.
"Uh… is that really a good idea?"
"The team lead said I'm the main contributor and worries I won't show. He told me to bring you."
"…Your 'strict wife' image really stuck. Time to redeem yourself."
"You're slacking on free food. That's a problem."
Fine.
Since Ethan went out of his way to pick me up, I begrudgingly carved out the time and bolted from the office.
His coworkers were friendly, except for one young woman who kept glancing me over.
A woman's intuition is rarely wrong. I leaned in and asked Ethan quietly, "Is she a coworker too?"
"No, she's the client's project lead. She's visiting the company today, so the team lead invited her."
I understood then. "No wonder you're the main contributor. Did that face of yours confuse the client?"
Ethan smiled. "You should trust my skills."
His team lead joked that seeing Ethan wrapped around my finger made him think I must be some kind of formidable woman.
I raised a glass and thanked him for looking out for Ethan.
As drinks and plates were passed around, Ethan kept putting my favorite dishes on my plate. The others watched with teasing looks, as if they were picturing the way he's bossed around at home.
I told Ethan to help himself and that I didn't need special treatment, then got up to use the restroom.
On my way out I ran into that client woman—Olivia Grant—who was finishing touching up her makeup in front of the mirror. She turned to face me.
Out of nowhere she asked, "Do you know Ethan Carter well?"
Her eyes had a hint of provocation. A thousand guesses flashed through my head and all I ended up saying was, "Do you need something?"
Olivia smiled in a way that meant more than it said. "I could tell earlier—you don't know him at all."
Before I could respond, she picked up her designer bag and floated away, tossing over her shoulder, "So, is your marriage a sham or are you just waiting to split?"
9.
I didn't feel great.
Because I had a sinking feeling Olivia was right about a lot of it.
At home I sulked and asked Ethan, "Is that Olivia rich? She looks wealthy."
Ethan looked puzzled but answered honestly, "Her dad is the CEO at the company. Why are you asking?"
I stared at his harmless, pretty face and suddenly got annoyed. I pinched his right cheek hard.
"Some rich girl set her sights on you and comes to poach you from me, and then she says I don't know you at all."
Ethan handed me a peeled apple and I let go of his cheek.
"That's nonsense," he said expressionlessly, picking up another apple to peel. "You even know my measurements."
I choked on my apple and spat it out. The remote flew from my hand and thudded against his back. "Ethan Carter! You will not get away with that!"
He raised an eyebrow and grinned at me with a mischievous look. "Did I say something wrong? Why are you blushing?"
I almost cursed.
"This movie is boring. I'm going to bed."
"It's only nine. Can you even sleep?"
Ethan grabbed the remote. "I'll put on a thriller, Final Destination. Want to watch?"
"I don't like ghost movies."
"There are no ghosts, and I promise it's good."
Half convinced, I sat back down.
By the end of the movie I was curled into a trembling ball in his arms, sweating. Ethan's voice was lazy and amused. "See? I didn't lie. No ghosts, and interesting, right?"
I wanted to cry. That was scarier than a ghost movie—the suspense was relentless. I kept imagining the kitchen knife on the table lunging at me.
"It's half past ten. Go shower and get some sleep."
Ethan shifted, trying to free his arm, but I had a death grip on him; he couldn't pull away.
"E-Ethan, I know this is probably too much, but could you… sleep with me tonight?"
My voice shrank smaller with every word, and finally, shamelessly, I wrapped my arms around his neck and buried my face in the crook of it. "I'll add to your allowance."
Ethan chuckled. "I provide talent, not my body."
"I don't care. You made me watch that—you're responsible!"
"You were the one who insisted on staying to the end—"
"I'm curious—"
He laughed until his shoulders shook. Annoyed, I bit his neck.
He took a breath and pulled me off him. "Don't bite."
Ethan stood. "Hurry up and shower. Afterward I'll sleep with you."
I ran back to the bedroom flushed. He showered in the hallway bathroom; when I was drying my hair he came in and we turned the lights off. I climbed into his arms.
Maybe remembering the last time, when we slept with a gap between us like it could fit another person, Ethan gently patted my back.
"You're really that scared?"
"Yeah…"
He sighed softly. "My bad. I won't make you watch horror anymore."
I nodded.
"As compensation, I'll sleep with you these next few nights, okay?"
I looked up at him in surprise.
In the dark I couldn't see much, but I could feel Ethan's gaze—warm, intent. His scent filled my nose, familiar and oddly intoxicating. Something stirred inside me that felt off-kilter, but my mouth answered before my brain did.
"Okay."
My voice had a small tremble that betrayed how excited I felt.
Ethan moved my hand from his shoulder to his waist and shifted into a more comfortable position.
Wasn't this basically him letting me take advantage?
I didn't think twice and let my mischievous hand roam his abs.
"What are you doing?"
"Can't sleep. Trying to distract myself."
Ethan gently moved my hand away. After a beat of silence he said quietly, "It's getting late. Later, okay?"
I must be a shameless horny animal to him.
"You have the wrong idea."
I rolled over, facing away from him, and covered my chest to steady my wildly galloping heart.
10.
Okay, I admit it. I'm fallen.
After thinking it through, I told Hazel Brooks I was going to pursue Ethan.
Hazel lectured me at length—basically, she said I was insane.
I looked at her, crestfallen. She sighed resignedly. "I knew you'd lose control eventually. So how does he act?"
I gritted my teeth. "Ethan is like a monk. I sleep in his arms and he doesn't react. He won't even let me make a move."
Hazel gave me a lazy, disdainful look. "With the way you lounge around at home—messy hair and wearing black—I wouldn't be interested either."
"Stop scolding me."
So Hazel dragged me through the mall all afternoon, determined to overhaul my wardrobe.
By the time we got home it was late. I toted bags and bags to the door and, exhausted, shouted for Ethan to help carry them.
Ethan's been busy lately. After work he's been glued to his keyboard in the study, wearing thin metal-frame glasses and a loose-necked loungewear top that showed off a refined collarbone. He hit every one of my aesthetic weak spots.
I kept calling and after a few calls he finally emerged from the study.
He barely frowned when he saw my French blouse and fitted skirt. "You went shopping?"
His calm reaction disappointed me—Hazel, who rarely praises, had said the outfit made my waist look tiny and my legs long.
"Mm," I said, handing him the shopping bags while swapping shoes in the entryway.
He flipped through them. "I thought you didn't like skirts. Why so many today?"
"Want to switch up my style, okay?" I rolled my eyes. "Don't I look good in skirts?"
He hesitated. "They look pretty."
"Don't force it. If you don't want to compliment, don't."
"No," Ethan said, lowering his gaze. "The skirts you bought… they're kind of short."
I shuffled forward in slippers. "Short makes legs look long."
"Not practical for work."
I glared back. "Then should I only wear them at home for you?"
"Fine," Ethan smiled. "Wear them at home."
I stumbled and almost bumped the coffee table. Ethan's reflexes were quick; he steadied my waist.
The skirt was high-waisted, and his hand landed right where my waist was the narrowest. I used his support to steady myself—he didn't let go.
I wanted him to release me. I lifted my head and met his deep dark eyes behind the lenses.
Ethan pulled me into his arms, removed his glasses with one hand, and leaned down.
Was he going to kiss me?
Was he?
I forcefully kept my mouth from smiling and shut my eyes.
The imagined kiss never came. Ethan merely leaned in and sniffed my neck. "Wearing perfume? It's a little cloying. I prefer your shower gel."
"…"
I'm tired. Really tired.
I messaged Hazel that my money had been wasted—Ethan seemed utterly oblivious. Normally a sharp man, he was maddeningly dull at key moments.
Hazel told me not to lose hope. Maybe he was just worn out from work and not thinking about romance. She suggested I cook him a meal to cheer him up.
I eagerly woke early and made porridge. Nodding off for a second turned plain rice into burnt black porridge, filling the kitchen with a smoky smell.
Ethan was quiet when he lifted the lid. I hovered behind him and asked cautiously, "Is it salvageable?"
He turned. "Change. I'll take you out for breakfast. Remind me to buy a new pot after work."
"…"
11.
Fancy tactics clearly weren't my thing. I decided on a straight approach.
Ethan's birthday was coming up—a perfect opportunity.
Hazel asked what my plan was. I answered with four words: simple and brutal.
Before we could discuss details, something else distracted me.
Question: What do you do if your ex-boyfriend suddenly appears as your boss?
And it was a humiliating breakup — the kind where I dumped a whole bottle of red wine on him and screamed until I blacked out.
When Nathan Pierce appeared in the director's chair, I could feel my facial muscles twitch. In that moment my smile must have looked worse than a ghost’s cry.
Nathan seemed to already know I worked there. He wasn’t surprised when he saw me; he just gave a faint smile.
Great. Unemployment was looming.
After work I bolted. Ethan had a meeting; I didn’t wait. I grabbed a cab and went straight home.
My thoughts were a mess. When Ethan came back, I was curled on the couch, knees hugged to my chest, staring blankly at the empty beer cans I’d finished.
He watched me for a beat, then sat down beside me. “Why are you drinking at home? What happened?”
I whined, “Ethan, I might lose my job. I can’t afford to keep supporting you.”
Maybe it was just me, but I thought Ethan’s mouth twitched into a small grin.
He reached out and ruffled my hair. “It’s okay. I got promoted. My salary doubled. You don’t have to support me.”
“Promoted? Since when?”
I sat up. “No wonder you’ve been so busy lately.”
“We’ll talk about that later.” Ethan cleared the beer cans from the table. “Tell me why you think you’ll be fired.”
I sighed. “It’s a feeling. My ex is my new boss — how could that end well?”
Ethan paused. “Ex?”
So I told him about Nathan. It wasn’t an epic tale — the usual tired story.
Nathan and I dated in sophomore year. We were together three years; I started working after graduation while he went to grad school.
We planned to marry after he finished, but just before he left, he told me he was going abroad. The night before he left, in that perfect little Western restaurant, my hope turned to total disappointment and I felt like a clown.
In a fit of rage I dumped the whole bottle of wine on him, yelled until I couldn’t, and broke up with him.
The more I talked, the more I felt like crying. “If I’d known he’d become my boss, I would’ve stayed out of it — poured less wine, said fewer mean things. Now who knows what he’ll do to spite me? Boo-hoo…”
Ethan gave a half-laugh, half-exasperated look. “Is he really that petty?”
“He’s petty as hell. When we were together he got jealous over everything. If I spoke to a male intern he’d fuss and make trouble. I thought he cared so much… and then he just left without a word.”
Seeing Ethan’s face go progressively darker, I shut up like a good girl.
“Claire, you still can’t get over him?”
“I’m not— I just—”
A knock cut me off. Ethan looked at me long and hard, then got up and opened the door. Two minutes later he came back with a delivery box.
“You ordered something?”
“No, I haven’t shopped online lately.”
Ethan flipped the label over. “It’s addressed to me, but the phone number is yours.”
I frowned. “Open it. I don’t remember buying anything.”
He slit the tape with scissors and tore off the packaging in two snips.
When I saw the small pink box inside, a bad premonition bubbled up. Ethan shook out the thing — and the room went silent.
Twelve. Where did a transparent lace camisole nightie come from?
The fabric was sheer as a cicada wing. What was the difference between wearing it and not wearing it?
Ethan arched an eyebrow at me. “You perv.”
The accusation blazed from his eyes without needing words.
My face flushed dark as liver. I snatched the garment and protested, “I didn’t buy this! I can show you my order history.”
Ethan waved a hand as if he knew all about it.
I felt stuck. Barefoot, I went to the bedroom to grab my charged phone. The lock screen lit up with a message from Hazel.
— “The dress I bought you shows delivered. Did you open it? Did Ethan open it? I changed the name on the delivery — simple and brutal, right?”
— “…You’re toxic.”
— “I knew you wouldn’t want to look bad. Sisters helping sisters. Dinner for me and it’s even.”
I opened my mouth to explain to Ethan, but he was already behind me with a slipper in hand. I sold Hazel out without a second thought.
“It was Hazel. Not me.”
Ethan reached for my phone. “Let me see your phone.”
I gasped. No way. Girls’ chats with their best friends are secrets you’d rather die than expose.
“No!” I hid the phone behind me. “It’s private.”
Ethan stepped forward to grab it; I stepped back and slipped onto the bed. Ethan, mischievous, leaned over me and tried to grab the phone.
Seeing him not give up, on impulse I loosened my shirt’s neckline and shoved the phone into my cleavage, staring up at him challengingly.
Ethan froze, his hand hanging awkwardly in midair. Then his ears reddened — he was flush, and since he was so close, I could see it clearly.
Ethan Carter — who handled everything with ease — could actually blush. It felt like discovering a new continent. I lifted slightly and breathed into his ear.
He jerked back. I didn’t let him off easy; clutching my chest, I laughed, “Ethan, why are your ears so red? Are you hot?”
He let out a cold scoff. “Wearing your new nightie tonight? If not, I’ll wash it for you.”
“…”
Why did I provoke him? I was totally outclassed. “I’ll have Hazel return it.”
“You sure you won’t try it on?” Ethan teased. “What if it fits perfectly?”
I bent to grab the slipper beside the bed. Ethan, sensing the joke had run its course, shut up and went to the kitchen to cook dinner.
I reopened my chat with Hazel and sent a one-minute voice message in a rage. Before Hazel replied, I received a friend verification from Nathan.
I wanted to ignore it, but I know Nathan. If I didn’t accept, he’d show up at work tomorrow.
I didn’t want to be the office gossip, so after a few moments’ hesitation, I approved.
Nathan’s message came fast.
— “Claire, can we talk?”
— “Say it.”
— “Are you free tomorrow night? Let me buy you dinner.”
— “Anything, say it here. Director Pierce, it’s not appropriate for us to meet privately.”
A voice call came through and I hung up.
— “Director Pierce, you know I’m married, right?”
— “Claire, we’re colleagues now. Do you want this awkwardness to last forever? Let’s talk.”
I couldn’t refuse. If I wanted to keep working without drama, I agreed.
Closer to clock-out, I told Ethan I’d be working late and he didn’t need to pick me up or make dinner.
Nathan wanted to take me back to that old Western restaurant. I declined and picked a different spot I liked.
Still awkward, I kept my eyes on my phone, chatting with Hazel to distract myself after we ordered.
“Claire,” Nathan called.
I looked up at him.
“I’ve heard you married.”
“Mm.”
“Why no wedding? I heard you and he registered less than a month after you met. Do you really love him? Do you know him?”
“He treats me well.”
“Claire,” Nathan stared into my eyes. “Are you rubbing me the wrong way?”
I almost laughed. “You’re overthinking it, Nathan. If I wanted to spite you, I wouldn’t have waited four years to get married. When you meet the right person, a quick marriage is nothing.”
His expression paled at my pointed remark.
“Claire, back then I had nothing, but I wanted to give you a better life. I don’t know how to explain it — the opportunity I had was rare. If I came back I could be set up with a very good position. But you waited too long and I was afraid you wouldn’t agree, so I… ”
I cut him off. “Nathan, you know exactly why we broke up. In your future plans I was always optional. I don’t want to be in an uncertain place.”
Nathan gave a bitter laugh. “So you married a man who depends on you for everything?”
I had come with the intention to reconcile, but hearing him call Ethan that set me off.
“I don’t know who told you what about my husband, but he is not what you’re saying. I hoped you’d give us your blessing today, but if you have other intentions, then I don’t need to finish this meal.”
I picked up my bag to leave. Nathan grabbed my arm to block me, making one last attempt. “He didn’t even buy you a ring. Is that the marriage you want?”
“Nathan, have you ever taken the time to understand me?” I pulled my arm free. “I never cared about those things. He’s kind to me, he compromises, he cares for me. Being with him is simple and happy — that’s what I want.”
I pushed past Nathan. “You did remind me that life needs small moments of ceremony. My husband’s birthday is coming up; I’m going to buy his gift. Goodbye, Director Pierce.”
After picking out a present for Ethan at a boutique, I felt better. I wanted a snack and bumped into one of Ethan’s coworkers, Emily, out with her boyfriend.
“It’s a small world. Dating tonight?” I greeted.
Emily recognized me and waved. “Ms. Bennett.”
She glanced behind me. “Why are you alone? Isn’t Mr. Carter with you?”
At the cashier my hand froze. I turned to her. “Mr. Carter?”
Emily looked startled, then a little embarrassed smile flickered. “Oh, Claire, we all know. No need to pretend.”
I was bewildered. “Know what? That Ethan got promoted?”
Emily’s smile stiffened and her tongue tripped. “Claire, you… you don’t actually know, do you?”
I opened my apartment door in silence. The living room was dark.
A small light was on in the entryway. I changed my shoes and headed to the bedroom, not noticing someone sitting on the couch.
“Why are you back so late?” Ethan switched on the living room light. “Where did you go?”
I squinted, adjusting to the light. “Went shopping.”
“By yourself?”
I looked at him. He’d showered and changed into pajamas. Remembering how stingy he used to be with his money made me unsure how to look at him now.
“Mm.”
Ethan Carter strode up to me, and I could feel the anger he was holding back.
I hadn't even snapped yet, and he was already getting in my face.
I pushed at him. "Move. I'm resting."
He didn't budge. He pulled out his phone, opened a photo, and shoved it in my face. "Working late? Shopping alone?"
It was the picture of me in the restaurant with Zach grabbing my wrist.
I replayed it in my head. When I came into the restaurant, I’d brushed past Olivia Grant; we barely knew each other, not even an exchange of glances.
I was too annoyed to entertain Ethan. When he wouldn't move, I tried to walk around him. The moment I stepped, he grabbed my arm.
"Claire, aren't you going to explain?"
"Explain what?"
He was provoked—his grip tightened until it hurt. "Claire, what do you take me for? Some servant you can call and dismiss at will? Your ex shows up and suddenly you don't want me anymore?"
I almost laughed at how absurd he sounded. I yanked free of him. "Ethan, what gives you the right to question me? What do you think I am, some experiential prop you use when you feel like 'living'?"
My glare at him shifted from angry to lost. "Mr. Carter, you've never told me your company's big boss happens to be a Carter too, with the same name as your father."
"Claire, it's not what you think—"
"I'm tired. We'll talk tomorrow."
I tried to slip past Ethan, but he shoved me back. My bag hit the floor and a small square box rolled out.
His face went completely dark. He picked up the box and stared at me with heavy eyes. "What's this?"
"Can't you read?"
His knuckles whitened on the box. "A ring, right?"
I stayed silent.
"He gave this to you? You accepted it?"
I snapped. "Ethan, do you think I'm—" I couldn't finish before he tossed the box aside, shoved me against the wall, and clamped his hands on the back of my head, kissing me without asking.
Ethan was usually calm and composed, but this kiss was wild and urgent. I nearly broke under it, letting out a few muffled sounds as he tightened his hold, kissing me deeper.
When it ended, I was gasping, tears almost spilling out.
He watched the redness in my eyes, pulled me into his arms, and after a long silence said softly, "I'm sorry."
His voice was low and rough—right where it hit the deepest part of me.
His embrace wasn't forceful; I easily pushed away. He looked down, disappointment masked by clenched fists, and watched me pick up the box.
Against my stubbornness, I opened it and held it up for him, turning my head away. "You see for yourself."
He was right—the box did contain a ring. But it was the ring I had bought for him, meant as a birthday gift and my clumsy little confession.
Ethan didn't move. When I looked at him, his dark eyes burned like they wanted to carve into me.
I was irritated. "Can't you tell? It's a man's ring. A men's ring!"
He looked like his brain short-circuited. I grabbed his hand, slipped the ring onto his ring finger. "What, Mr. Carter, rich as you are, you look down on a ring I paid over ten grand for? Even if you don't like it, wear it. The marriage certificate says you're mine. You don't get a choice—"
My rant cut off when Ethan pulled me back into his arms, holding me tight. I could feel his powerful heartbeat.
His voice was hoarse. "You're not mad at me anymore?"
"Mad? I'm about to die of it," I snapped, rolling my eyes. "I almost threw the ring down a sewer. I thought I couldn't even afford you—didn't want to waste money."
Ethan let out two low laughs. "You can afford me. My dad's the rich one, not me. He wants to be a hands-off boss and exploits me, so I was forced into this. Honestly, I don't even want to work so hard."
"Well, neither of you are blameless," I muttered. "Lesson learned."
"Don't be angry, okay?" Ethan pressed his forehead to mine. "I make more now. I'll hand over my salary card willingly."
"Who wants your salary card."
"Then I'll give you myself."
"Who asked for you—"
I paused. "Are you serious?"
He scooped me up. "I knew you've been coveting me for a while."
"No, no—" I grabbed his shirt. "I'm exhausted today. Another day, please."
"I've even got new pajamas ready for you," he murmured, pressing his lips to mine. "Wear them for me."
(End)
Epilogue: Later I found out Ethan had really been broke then.
He'd emptied his savings to cover debts and borrowed from his dad. Mrs. Carter told me Ethan looked easygoing, but he was stubborn as a mule.
She and Mr. Carter had worked half their lives to give him an easy path, but Ethan refused to take it.
We sat on the sofa flipping through his childhood photos—Ethan in the kitchen with the nanny, busy and small. Oh, right—this was Ethan's parents' house: a standalone villa with a garden and a pool.
Ethan as a kid was obedient, thin and pale, a quiet kid—so different from the man he became.
Mrs. Carter pointed to a photo from his fifteenth birthday. "That was when your father and I were on the rise. We were so busy. Ethan bought a cake and cooked a whole meal after school to wait for us. We were proud—other kids his age were rebellious, but he was so sensible. He learned to cook and do chores without us asking. We thought providing for him materially was enough.
"But we ignored how he felt. After college, he refused to join the family company and insisted on starting his own business. Your father was furious and joked his rebellion was late.
"Starting out was hard. We were veterans and saw it. Your father wanted to help but couldn't swallow it, so he made conditions: if you failed, you'd come back to work. Ethan agreed. Competition was fierce; once he took the helm he didn't want our help. He was okay for a while, but in the last two years the industry slumped and his small company couldn't survive.
"He lost his assets. Your father filled the gaps and smugly dragged him by the collar, urging him to come home. Ethan, angry, sent resumes and took a regular job to pay back debts.
"Your father was still riled—constantly nagging about him being almost thirty and unmarried, wanting to set him up with someone stable. Ethan refused. He even tried a dating site—and met you."
Mrs. Carter gently smoothed a stray hair behind my ear. "When he told us, we couldn't believe it. Who would give everything up for a man like that? We thought he told you everything and you were humoring him. But he kept it from you.
"He had a girlfriend during his early startup days, but she left him for someone rich when she couldn't wait. Then you came along, saying you liked his homebody ways and were willing to support him."
I blushed, remembering what I'd told her, mortified.
Mrs. Carter read my face and smiled kindly. "Claire, you're a good girl. He's lucky to marry you. You know? The more comfortable he got after marriage, the more your father dragged him away from his desk. You should've seen it—hilarious."
I pictured it and burst out laughing: the stern Mr. Carter catching Ethan slacking at work and dragging him off amid trembling coworkers and Ethan's tearful protest. My laugh probably got out of hand, because Ethan shot me a look and I immediately sat up straighter.
He took the photo album from my hands. "Dinner's ready."
Mrs. Carter chided him. "You've been gone so long, you didn't even stay to chat. You slip into the kitchen and disappear."
Ethan said, "I've been too busy to cook for my wife. I wanted to make it up to her."
He wiggled his left hand in front of Mrs. Carter like it was no big deal.
She stood. "All right, all right. We know the ring was from his wife. Stop showing off."
He smiled.
When I walked past him, I couldn't help rolling my eyes. "Are you childish or what?"
He wrapped his arm around my waist, pecked my cheek, and leaned in. "Childish? You'll find out tonight."
"Ethan!"
I pinched his hand and glanced at Mrs. Carter already heading to the dining room. "Behave yourself."
He chuckled and kept his hand on my waist. "What can I do? I can't help it."
I had once thought he was a paragon of restraint. Turns out he was just pretending.
That camisole nightgown—he coaxed me into wearing it once, and the strap tore on the first try.
Dreams and reality are opposites. Here, the one being teased into saying no was me, not him.
I felt stifled, shoved him off. "If you can't behave, go sleep in the guest room and cool off."
Ethan was unexpectedly hurt when I pushed him away; a flash of upset crossed his dark eyes. Before he could say more, I marched to the dining room.
But of course Ethan was Ethan. That night he blocked the guest bathroom drain, wrapped in a robe, and knocked on my door.
His robe belt hung loose, revealing a broad, fit chest. He looked innocent and contrite.
I knew it was deliberate, but I swallowed hard and let him in.
Somehow I ended up pressed down into the bathtub, sitting on him in a thoroughly suggestive position.
"Ethan! Let go!"
His lips brushed my neck and his low voice was intoxicating. "Why all of a sudden separate from me? What did I do wrong?"
…What you did wrong was have stamina and zero restraint—I've got a sore back.
"Wifey," Ethan whined, "just think of it as my reward—"
"A reward for what?" I demanded.
Ethan buried his face against my neck. "Consider this a reward for quietly planning our wedding all these days."
"Tomorrow, will you let me take your wedding photos?"
I melted like putty. "…Okay."
Ethan immediately started tugging the drenched clothes off me.
"No—"
I tried to stop him. "I meant—tomorrow we can go—"
Ethan kissed me, cutting off any chance for me to refuse.
