"Keep being a smartass and I might." But there's warmth in his tone that makes my chest tight. Sometimes I forget how lucky I am to have a friend like him.
"Isabella was here." The words burst out before I can stop them.
Ethan's head snaps up. He follows me to the kitchen, where I desperately make another coffee. "When?"
"This morning."
"Before the migraine started?"
I wince, remembering the thundering pain. "No. She was... she was here when it happened."
Ethan's eyebrows shoot up, and I know he wants the full story.
With a sigh, I lean against the counter and tell him everything—the confrontation, Bella's version of what happened fifteen years ago, my memory of Father interrogating Evelyn, Evelyn's death, my mother's call. Each word feels like pulling teeth, but somehow lighter once they're out.
"Holy fucking shit on a gold-plated cracker." Ethan lets out a low whistle, running a hand through his hair.
"Yeah, and Evelyn is dead." My voice cracks. "While I was off at Swiss boarding schools and fancy universities, she was working herself to death because of my parents."
"Hey." Ethan's hand grips my shoulder. "This isn't on you. You were a kid."
"I should have known. Should have questioned—"
"What? Your parents? The people who controlled every aspect of your life since birth?" His voice softens before turning thoughtful. "But you know what's bugging me? Those payments to Wells. Two million is a lot of hush money just for planting evidence."
I frown. "What are you thinking?"
"That conversation you overheard? Your father grilling Evelyn about a missing document in his office?" Ethan leans forward, his expression intense. "What if Wells is connected to that somehow?"
The implications turn my stomach.
"The question is," Ethan's eyes narrow, "what could be worth that kind of money? And how does it connect to what happened to Isabella and Evelyn?"
I sigh. "I don't know. But what I do know is that I won't let Isabella get caught in this shitstorm. Not again." The words come out rough, like they're being dragged across broken glass. "Those photos of me at her place? Mother saw them. Said she will 'handle' it."
"And let me guess—you told Mommy Dearest to back off?" Ethan's lips twist into a sardonic smile. "Because that always works so well. Might as well ask a shark to go vegan."
I grunt.
"Come on." Ethan grabs my shoulder, steering me toward the door. "You need food, alcohol, and not necessarily in that order."
I let him guide me down to the hotel's upscale bar and restaurant, too drained to argue. The space is dimly lit, all dark wood and leather, perfect for hiding from the world. We slide into a corner booth far from prying eyes.
"Maybe now that they've seen my resignation letter, they'll finally get the hint that you're not coming back," Ethan says after we order, his usual playful smirk softening into something more genuine.
I snort, tracing the condensation on my water glass. "Doubt it. They see what they want to see. To them, this is just another phase, another act of rebellion they need to contain."
"Like that time in Switzerland," he says, eyes dancing with mischief, "when we snuck out to that local pub?"
"You mean when you convinced me it was a 'cultural experience' we couldn't miss?"
"Hey, those sheep farmers taught us some quality German curse words." His grin is infectious. "That was the first time I saw you really laugh. Not that polite Saint chuckle, but actually laugh."
The memory warms something in my chest. "Father was furious when the principal informed him."
"Yeah, but it was worth it." Ethan's voice turns serious. "That's what I'm trying to say, man. The real you? The one who laughs at stupid jokes and stands up for what he believes in? That guy's worth all this chaos."
I meet his gaze, grateful not for the first time that he ended up as my roommate all those years ago. "When did you get so wise?"
