Ethan – Thursday, 11:14 p.m. – Penthouse, London
The city glittered beneath Ethan's feet like it was trying too hard to impress him.
He stood barefoot on the cold marble floor, drink in hand, staring out through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Somewhere out there, she existed. TheWittyOne88. Emily—though he still didn't know that. Not yet. He only knew her laugh, her wit, the ghost of a smile behind those sunglasses. A voice that felt like static in his bones.
She haunted him.
Not in the obvious, infatuated way—not just. But in the quiet hours, when the penthouse echoed too loudly. When success tasted like metal and loneliness sat like a stone in his chest. She was a spark he hadn't known he'd needed. A kind of fire that could burn through years of frost.
He hadn't been this obsessed with something—someone—since...
Ethan tipped back the scotch. It burned. Good.
He didn't think about her anymore. Not really. Not the way she'd looked at him the day she left. Like he was a cautionary tale.
"Too much," she'd whispered, her eyes hard. "You suffocate everything good."
And maybe she'd been right. He'd tried to love someone once. Tried hard enough to lose pieces of himself in the process. The last time he'd fallen in love, he'd nearly lost his company, his mind, and what was left of his soul.
But this didn't feel like that. This wasn't codependent or volatile or needy.
This was quiet.
It was the way Emily made him feel—like he could laugh without permission. Like his life could be something more than a spreadsheet of scheduled meetings and perfectly curated silence.
He wasn't in love. Not yet.
But he was circling it, like a man staring at the edge of a cliff and wondering what would happen if he just… let go.
His phone buzzed.
Emily: Still up? Or does the CEO sleep in a cryogenic pod?
He grinned before he could stop himself.
Ethan: Can't sleep. Cryo chamber's on the fritz.
Emily: Tragic. Bet it's hard to find spare parts for rich-people fridges.
Ethan: Don't mock the pod. It was very expensive.
Emily: So's therapy. Which you clearly need.
Ethan: And yet, here you are, enabling me.
Emily: Only because your texts are more entertaining than my for-you page tonight.
He let the grin soften into something unfamiliar. It wasn't just flirting. It was banter with soul.
Ethan: Can I ask you something?
There was a pause. A long one. He stared at the screen, half-expecting her to disappear into the void of unread messages and bad timing.
Emily: Depends. Is it deeply personal or just mildly inappropriate?
Ethan: Personal.
Emily: Then ask. But no promises.
Ethan: What made you start posting? Like… really start. Not just the joke version.
Another pause. Longer this time. A whole minute passed. Then two.
He almost regretted the question. But then—
Emily: Honestly? I was broke. Sad. And I needed to feel seen. I posted one video making fun of wellness influencers and it went semi-viral. Suddenly, people were listening. And laughing. And I wasn't alone in my head anymore.
His chest tightened.
He knew that feeling. Deeply. Painfully.
Ethan: I get that.
Emily: You do?
Ethan: Too well.
He didn't elaborate. Couldn't.
But the truth was, he hadn't always been this. The name. The billions. The boardrooms and glossy magazines. Once, he'd been a kid with a mother who cried in the kitchen and a father who drank silence like it was water.
His parents had built a company and destroyed a marriage. Ethan had watched it happen—watched love curdle into resentment. Watched his dad die with his hand still gripping the reins of a company no one asked him to love more than his family.
By the time Ethan was twenty-two, he'd inherited the title and the pressure, and had sworn one thing:
Don't get attached. Not to anyone. Not ever again.
And for a while, it worked. Work kept him safe. Busy. Distant.
Until Emily.
Until a woman on TikTok with a bad phone camera and better jokes started cracking open the parts of him he thought were sealed shut.
Emily: Okay, my turn. Why did you join TikTok?
He stared at the question for a moment, then typed:
Ethan: Blackmail.
Emily: Haha. No, seriously.
Ethan: My best friend said I was losing my soul to spreadsheets and threatened to sign me up for a dating show.
Emily: He sounds wise.
Ethan: He's an idiot.
Emily: Still. Without him, you wouldn't have found me.
That stopped him cold.
Because it was true.
And the thought that he could've missed her—that in some parallel version of his life, he never would've stumbled across her face, her voice, her words—
He didn't like that timeline.
Not one bit.
Ethan: What if we met? Hypothetically. In real life. What would you say to me?
There was no reply. Five minutes. Ten.
He knew he'd overstepped. Pushed the fragile bubble too far.
And then—
Emily: I'd say you're taller than I imagined. And you look like you smell expensive.
Ethan: I do.
Emily: I'd also ask why you look like you're trying so hard not to smile. Like you're pretending not to be human.
His pulse thudded.
Ethan: Maybe I'd smile just for you.
Emily: Dangerous. I might fall for that.
And just like that, the breath left his lungs.
Fall for me.
He stared at her words until they blurred.
He didn't know how much longer he could keep this digital distance.
Ethan: I want to meet you.
Another pause.
Emily: Not yet.
Ethan: Why?
Emily: Because you know if this becomes real, real could get messy.
He leaned back against the cold glass and whispered to no one, "So what if it is?"
*****
Her phone burned against her chest as she lay in bed, heart thudding too fast.
Why did he make her feel this way?
She didn't know him. And yet she did. She knew the rhythm of his messages, the ache behind the jokes, the way he typed like he had something to say but was scared to say too much.
He wasn't like James. James was clean lines and plans and ambition you could choke on. Ethan felt like the opposite.
Ethan felt like trouble.
And she wanted it.
Wanted him.
And that terrified her more than anything else.