Chapter 31 — Ethan: What She Doesn't Know
( Ethan's POV)
Westbrook was supposed to be temporary.
A quiet little town tucked between green hills and forgotten roads, perfect for escaping headlines and investors. I came to finalize a land acquisition deal—a gallery space, actually—but I left with something I wasn't looking for.
Arya.
It started with a conversation about color palettes and canvas textures. She was showing me around her gallery—the one she built from nothing but grit and paint-stained dreams. She didn't treat me like a billionaire. She didn't ask about my bank account or my car. She asked what made me feel.
No one had asked me that in years.
We became friends. Slow, steady, surprisingly natural. She would let me sit in her gallery while she painted, music humming in the background. Sometimes we'd talk, sometimes we wouldn't. I learned she liked honey in her tea. That she painted with her fingers when she was really lost in her work. That she was healing.
I never meant to fall for her.
But I did.
Not in a loud, cinematic way. Not with a kiss or a confession. It was quieter. Like rain soaking through a roof you didn't know was cracked.
I told myself I was content with being her friend. She needed someone to trust. Someone who didn't push, didn't lie. So I gave her that. Even when it tore at me.
Then one morning, everything shifted.
She told me Damon was back.
The ex. The one who broke her.
Her voice was small when she said his name, like it tasted unfamiliar. I remember how her fingers fidgeted with the chain around her neck as she talked about him—about their history, their pain, their son. Liam.
I didn't say much. Just nodded. Asked the right questions. Let her process.
And when she told me they were trying again, I forced a smile so sharp it might've cut my own heart in two.
"Do you think it's stupid?" she asked me that day.
"No," I said, lying like a pro. "I think… sometimes, people deserve second chances."
What I didn't say was: not all of them. Not him.
Because he had already been her first.
And I'd only ever been her almost.
After that, I tried to go back to who I was. The parties, the women, the distraction. But none of it felt right. They weren't her. Their eyes weren't as curious. Their laughs weren't as real. Their presence never silenced the noise in my head.
Still, I kept the mask on.
We stayed friends.
She called sometimes—sent pictures of her new paintings, asked for my opinion. I always picked the pieces with stormy colors. She didn't realize why.
Because those were the ones that felt like me.
Today, I stood in her gallery again. She'd invited me to a private showing—one she was proud of. I stood near the back, whiskey in hand, pretending to study the art while watching her.
She moved between guests gracefully, her pale blue dress flowing like paint across a blank canvas. Her hair was pinned up messily, the way she always wore it when she was too busy creating to care. She looked happy.
And it killed me.
She made her way toward me, her smile warm and familiar. "Hey, stranger."
"Hey yourself," I replied. "Your work's getting better."
"You always say that."
"That's because it's always true."
She laughed, soft and light. "Thanks for coming, Ethan. It means a lot."
"You know I'll always show up," I said. I didn't mean for it to sound so heavy. But it was.
Her smile faltered just slightly before she looked down. "I know."
She stood beside me, her gaze drifting toward the large canvas on the wall—a swirl of deep reds and charcoals, tangled like emotion itself.
"That's one of my newer pieces," she said. "I painted it after I came back from Westbrook."
My heart stalled. "It's… intense."
"It's about conflict," she whispered. "About feeling torn."
I looked at her. Her eyes were still fixed on the painting, but I could see it—the sadness she tried so hard to hide. She still carried it. Even with Damon back in the picture.
"He treats you well?" I asked before I could stop myself.
She blinked. "Yes. He's trying. It's not perfect. But we're working on it."
I nodded and sipped my drink to avoid speaking. I couldn't tell her that I dreamed of being the one who treated her right. That I had played every possible what-if in my head until I hated them all.
We stood in silence for a while.
And then she said it—quietly, almost like a confession.
"Sometimes I wonder... if I made the right choice."
My eyes snapped to her, but she didn't look at me.
"I don't regret giving him another chance," she added quickly. "But part of me wonders... if I chose safety over possibility."
The breath left my lungs.
"Arya—" I started.
But she shook her head gently and smiled again—this time sad and distant. "Never mind. Forget I said that."
I wanted to pull her close, tell her everything. That I would've built a life around her. That I would've changed for her and meant it. That I wasn't afraid of her broken pieces.
But I couldn't.
Because she was never mine to lose.
So I gave her the only thing I had left: space.
As the night wore on, I slipped out before the final toast, disappearing into the city lights like a shadow.
She didn't chase me.
And I didn't look back.
Because I already knew how the story ended.
With her loving someone else.
And me pretending I never wished it had been me.