Chapter 3
Ethan's POV
The day had started earlier than usual. Lucas, my assistant, had delivered the message with his usual clipped efficiency.
"She'll be there this afternoon," I told him, my voice low, measured. "Penthouse. Braverman project. Make sure she understands — perfection is non-negotiable."
Lucas nodded and left. I stayed behind the glass wall of my office, staring at the skyline, already feeling the tension coil in my chest. She would arrive, portfolio in hand, polite and obedient. And yet… every time she obeyed so silently, my body reacted as though she had power over me I didn't want to acknowledge.
The thought of her mother, Clarissa Hart, invaded me. Fifteen years ago, the same obedience, the same quiet compliance had been a trap. I had buried the memory, yet it surged now as if the past had been waiting, patient, for the moment she stepped into my life again.
I swore to myself I would not let history repeat itself. And yet… I wanted her near. Wanted to see her struggle, wanted to see her succeed, wanted to see her.
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Lena's POV
Lucas's words had left me frozen for a moment. Penthouse. Ethan Cole's penthouse. I had walked past it in the elevator lobby more times than I could count, always intimidated, always careful to avoid eye contact with the rumors surrounding him. And now I had to be there. Alone.
I took a deep breath and forced my legs to move. I had my portfolio, my sketches, my notes. I was prepared. Professional, they called it. Composed, they said. Obedient, I realized silently.
The elevator opened, and I stepped into his world. The glass walls reflected the skyline, the polished floors glinted like steel under the sun, and I felt impossibly small.
"Mr. Cole," I said softly, portfolio pressed to my chest.
"Yes. Put it there."
I obeyed. Knees together. Back straight. Hands folded. My stomach twisted, my mind buzzing with stress that wasn't entirely work-related. I had deadlines. Multiple projects. Professors hounding me. And now this. And yet, despite the stress, there was something in the tension of this space — in the presence of this man — that made my heart race.
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Ethan's POV
She obeys immediately, as she always does. And it should calm me. It shouldn't matter, and yet it does. Every obedient action she takes pulls me further into a storm I thought I'd left behind.
I glance at the layouts on the glass table. Sloppy, inconsistent. I snap, even as I hate myself for it.
"These layouts are inadequate. How many times do I have to tell you that perfection is non-negotiable?!"
Her flinch, the way her hands tremble, makes my chest tighten. And then it hits me — Clarissa Hart, all over again. The obedience. The quiet compliance. The fear. Fifteen years buried, and she's alive again in her daughter's posture, her small, careful hands.
I hate myself instantly. Hated her mother for what she did, and I hate that her daughter brings it all back.
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Lena's POV
My hands shook as I opened the portfolio again. "I… I've been trying—"
"Trying?" His voice cut through me like a whip. "Trying isn't enough! Not here! Not in my office! Not on my projects!"
I wanted to explain myself. My life had been a balancing act for weeks. Deadlines stacked on deadlines. Client demands that never ended. Sleep that felt like a memory. And now this — another pressure from the man who ruled my work life like a storm cloud.
"I… I've been managing deadlines, trying to balance everything…" My voice faltered. "Sleep, my other projects, everything is… it's too much."
"Stop talking!" he snapped. "Just do the work!"
I bit my lip and forced my pencil to move. I obeyed. I always obeyed. I had learned early that obedience kept me safe, kept me moving forward, even when life felt like it was trying to crush me.
Yet the tension in his presence pressed on me. I felt him behind me, silent, like a shadow. My stomach twisted, my heart raced. Every command, every scolding word, every glance from him left an ache somewhere deep inside, a mixture of fear, respect, and something I couldn't name.
Hours stretched on. The Braverman project sprawled across the glass table, and I worked in silence, precise, focused. The city lights reflected across my papers, glittering, and I felt small but necessary in this world that belonged entirely to him.
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Ethan's POV
She continues, obedient and precise. And I should feel satisfaction, pride even, but all I feel is a tightening in my chest. She is here. Alone. And I am yelling at her. Scolding her. Hating myself for every word.
I pace behind her. Floor to ceiling glass, polished wood, the city below. Everything is perfect. Except me. Except the way my past claws at me — Clarissa Hart — and the way it coils around her presence, her quiet movements, the way she complies without question.
I want to push her away. I want to scold her into leaving. And yet… I want her closer. I hate the fact that I do. I hate the ache in my chest that comes from watching her work, obedient, perfect, under my authority.
Why can't I stop wanting her near?
Why do I hate myself for wanting her here?
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Lena's POV
Finally, I gather my papers. My hands ache. My back stiffens. My chest still pounds from the tension.
"Mr. Cole," I whisper, voice careful, polite. "I… I've finished. I'll submit it first thing tomorrow."
He doesn't answer immediately. He leans against the glass, hands pressed to his face. For a moment, I see the flicker of something else — guilt, frustration, desire. A storm behind his composure that he tries desperately to hide.
"Good," he says finally, low and clipped. But I can see it. I feel it. The weight of him, the storm inside him, the obsession he hides behind his harshness.
I leave quietly, obedient as always. Heart racing, palms sweating, mind spinning with everything I can't say aloud. And yet, I know this isn't over. Not for me. Not for him.
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Ethan's POV
The door clicks closed. Silence.
I sink into the leather couch, hands over my face. She is gone. And yet, I ache for her presence. Hate myself for scolding her. Hate myself for wanting her near. Hate myself for the memory of her mother that she resurrects simply by existing in my space.
Some ghosts aren't buried. Some echoes wait fifteen years to return. And Lena Hart… she has returned them all.
And I can't stop wanting her near.