Nights passed, and so did Ethan—through endless parties, events, and distractions that filled the void. Somehow, he believed the nightmares only came at night. So, he flipped his life. Sleep during the day, music loud, windows wide open. And at night—he partied, worked, breathed.
It wasn't sustainable.
"That's not healthy at all," Lena said, her arms folded as she stood beside Christian.
"He's messing up his mind. One day that trick won't work anymore."
"I know," Christian replied, his voice laced with worry. "Just don't let it drag you under too. Bail if it gets too much."
"Bail?" Lena scoffed. "The only escape I get is schoolwork. And now he wants me to follow him everywhere. Again, there's this event tonight. He insists I go."
"Then don't," Christian said simply.
"There's no point," she murmured. But even she wasn't sure who she was convincing anymore.
---
The night came, grand and glittering.
Another glamorous event.
As they stepped into the luxurious hall—arm in arm, camera lights flashing—Lena turned to him with a smirk.
"Do you guys ever stop partying?"
Ethan raised a brow. "Is it too much?"
"For you or me?" she countered.
He gave a half-smile. "Both?"
She sighed, adjusting the diamond earring that sparkled under the lights. "Can't speak for you, but yeah—I can't keep up. Sometimes, I feel like I'm becoming one of those girls."
"Those girls?" he asked, amused.
She shrugged. "Billionaire girlfriends. Wives. I even got added to a group chat with that exact name. Didn't exit, though."
Ethan chuckled.
The night unfolded with stunning decor, flowing champagne, and too many false smiles. Since being dubbed "Ethan's wife," Lena had drawn both admirers and critics. She made a few friends—temporary ones, she always reminded herself. She learned how to survive in this world: smile when needed, stay quiet when not addressed.
As they walked the carpet, Ethan whispered something in her ear. She laughed, as cameras caught the moment.
"How long are we staying?" she whispered.
"Two hours. Max," he replied.
His phone buzzed again. It had been buzzing nonstop since they got in the car.
"Stay busy," he said, kissing her cheek. "I need to handle something."
"If you need rescuing, let me know," she teased.
Then he was gone.
---
"Lena! Your earrings are blinding!" one of the more vain women in her circle gushed.
"Gift from Ethan," she replied calmly.
"Wow."
She made small talk, nodded when needed. Time dragged. Her phone buzzed with a message from an unknown number.
COME TO THE THIRD FLOOR. I HAVE SOMETHING FOR YOU.
She ignored it.
Another message came.
And another.
She sighed, then typed: How safe am I?
The reply came instantly:
IT'S JUST SOMETHING ABOUT ETHAN AND YOU. DON'T SHOW HIM THIS. IT WILL DELETE ANYWAY.
Her heart thudded.
Something about Ethan?
Curiosity battled caution.
She called him. Voicemail.
A man brushed past her, subtly slipping a card into her palm.
It was a VIP access pass.
Hesitant but drawn, she made her way to the elevator, swiped the card, and arrived at the third floor. It was opulent—soft lights, golden accents, and a distant, unmistakable sound of sex echoing faintly from behind closed doors.
Is this a setup? she thought.
She tried calling Ethan again.
No answer.
Then she smelled something. Familiar. His cologne.
She turned. A door was slightly open.
She peered through.
Her breath caught.
There he was—Ethan. Shirt half off. Sitting on a bed. Across from him was a woman in lacy lingerie.
Vivian.
Her heart dropped.
Vivian sauntered over to him. They kissed. Slow. Too slow.
It wasn't passion. It felt… reluctant.
"What's on your mind?" Vivian asked, pulling away.
"Nothing," Ethan muttered.
"It's her, isn't it?" Vivian accused. "You bailed on me last time. You said it didn't feel right to continue. Now you're here again, acting the same."
Ethan sighed. "Having sex with you isn't going to erase the fact that I… kinda want more from her."
Vivian froze. Her expression twisted.
"How long have you known her?"
Lena didn't stay to hear more.
She turned. Walked. Ran.
Tears streamed down her face before she even hit the stairs.
He owes me nothing, she told herself. We're not in a real relationship.
But the ache in her chest said otherwise.
She texted him:
I want to go.
---