Those words aren’t meant for me to hear, but I do. And they matter more than I want to admit. Because in a place where power is currency, and appearances are everything, I still want to be seen for the right reasons.
I’m not just Ethan’s fiancée. I’m still Natalie. I still have work to do.
The pressure is different now, heavier. It’s not just about getting numbers right or managing client expectations. Now it’s about proving something. Every minute of every day.
That I earned my place here. That I didn’t sleep my way to the top. That I can hold my own against Ethan Wilder.
Because the rumors don’t stop at the engagement. They spiral. There are whispers about favoritism. About how long we’ve been involved. About whether I’m the reason Ethan’s been more distracted in meetings lately.
They don’t know the truth. That we’re still navigating whatever this is. That there are no rings. No wedding dates. Just sleepless nights, lingering touches, and more danger than either of us expected.
Yet, the narrative has already been written. And now I’m walking through it, trying to hold my head above the words others have chosen for me.
I bury myself in work. There are still performance evaluations that have to be done, updating the payrolls, dealing with HR complaints. I still have to deal with issues from the warehouse and the factory. It’s easier to hide in spreadsheets than to confront the awkward silence that follows me down every corridor. It also doesn’t help that Ethan keeps checking in on me. He comes to my office so many times, I have half a mind to lock him in his own and swallow the key.
But at night, I sense his fear as he holds me close, the tension within him as he claims my body with desperate intensity.
He loves me.
He’s scared of losing me.
I couldn’t hear it louder if he screamed it at me.
And me?
I find myself running my fingers through his hair as he sleeps beside me, restless, trying to soothe him, to tell him I’m here, that I’m not going anywhere.
And when he’s deep under, I whisper the words I don’t have the courage to tell him just yet.
‘I love you.’
Deep down, I’m still recovering too. My body is healing, but my mind? Not so much. I still flinch when I cross the street. I still dream about the screech of tires, the way Roland’sbody shielded mine. The way I thought it would all end in a blink.
But I survived. Because of Roland.
I owe him more than I can say.
Ethan has kept his word. He takes me to see Roland every morning before we come to work. Roland’s sometimes sleeping, but he’s always happy to see me. He talks about everything and anything, but each word drips with the loneliness of an old man who has no one in his life. Perhaps he had been seeking comfort in someone, and he liked me. But there’s nothing romantic in the way he holds my hand and talks to me, or in the way he smiles at me.
His recovery is going well. In another two weeks, he’ll be discharged.
But as the weeks go by, the police are still clueless about the driver of the car who tried to run me down. Ethan is getting angrier by the day. I’m not at the receiving end of his temper, but everybody else is.
“You’ve got to relax,” I tell him as he sits on the couch at home, brooding. “You’re not helping anyone by getting this worked up. I’m being careful, aren’t I? I don’t go anywhere without you. Our baby is safe.”
When he doesn’t respond, staring into his glass of unfinished scotch, I let out a sigh.
“Ethan? Ethan, are you listening to me?”
“I am.”
“Are you hearing me?”
“I’m not deaf.”
Glaring at him, I walk over and straddle him. That gets his attention.
“What was I saying?” I demand.
