Chapter 3 - The Marriage That Was Never Meant to Be Happy
I left Ethan the next morning.
At least, I tried to.
Walking out of a billionaire’s penthouse with eight stitches in your heel and an armed security team watching every elevator was more complicated than dramatic movies suggested.
Still, by nine in the morning, I had packed one suitcase.
Ethan stood in my bedroom doorway while I folded sweaters.
“You can’t leave.”
I did not look at him.
“Watch me.”
“It isn’t safe.”
“Neither is apparently standing near decorative objects in your apartment.”
“Olivia.”
I slammed the suitcase shut.
“No.”
He became quiet.
That was one of Ethan’s habits.
When most people argued, they raised their voices.
Ethan lowered his.
It was more intimidating.
It was also useless against me now.
“You knew there had been attempts on my life.”
“Possible attempts.”
“You just told me three.”
“I said three incidents I believe may have been intentional.”
I stared at him.
“Do you hear yourself?”
“Yes.”
“You sound like a man discussing software failures.”
His jaw tightened.
“That’s because if I let myself discuss this the way I actually feel, I won’t be useful.”
The answer stopped me.
I looked away first.
“That isn’t my responsibility.”
“I know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because you’re right.”
I hated when he did that.
It would have been easier if he defended himself.
If he told me I was ungrateful.
If he reminded me that he had paid my father’s debts.
Instead, he stood there and accepted every accusation.
That left me with nowhere to put my anger except where it belonged.
Inside myself.
“You let me believe you didn’t care.”
His voice changed.
“I cared too much.”
“Then you should have trusted me.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you?”
He looked toward the windows.
“Because twelve years ago your mother trusted someone.”
The room became still.
“And she died.”
I swallowed.
“You still don’t know who.”
“No.”
“Then tell me the three incidents.”
He hesitated.
I crossed my arms.
“Now.”
“The first happened seven months after our wedding.”
I remembered that winter.
Snow.
A charity luncheon I had almost attended.
“You were scheduled to attend a museum fundraiser with my mother.”
“I canceled.”
“Yes.”
“Because I had the flu.”
“The car assigned to you lost its brakes on the FDR.”
I stared.
“What?”
“The driver survived.”
“You told me there had been a mechanical problem.”
“There was.”
“You didn’t tell me the brake line had been cut.”
“No.”
The room tilted.
“The second?”
“Last year. The balcony.”
I immediately knew.
A railing panel had broken while a maintenance worker tested it.
The penthouse sat forty-eight stories above Manhattan.
I had used that balcony nearly every morning during summer.
“The bolts were loosened?”
“Yes.”
My stomach tightened.
“The third?”
Ethan looked at me.
“Your father.”
“What about him?”
“Someone attempted to force him into a car six months ago.”
I stared.
“Where?”
“Atlantic City.”
“He told me he was mugged.”
“I told him to.”
My hands curled into fists.
“You controlled what my father told me too?”
“I was trying to keep you from panicking.”
“I had a right to panic!”
“Yes.”
“Stop agreeing with me!”
He actually looked startled.
I grabbed my suitcase.
Pain shot through my heel.
Ethan moved.
I pointed at him.
“Do not carry me.”
He stopped.
“Fine.”
“I’m going somewhere else.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“That is exactly the problem.”
“I have friends.”
“Name one whose address isn’t searchable.”
I opened my mouth.
Closed it.
He continued.
“Anyone following you can find every apartment connected to your name within fifteen minutes.”
“That doesn’t mean I stay here.”
“No.”
That surprised me.
“I have another property.”
“Of course you do.”
“A townhouse in Brooklyn Heights. It’s secure and registered through a holding company.”
“I am not going to another one of your cages.”
“Then choose a hotel and let Marcus secure a floor.”
“I don’t want Marcus securing anything.”
“Olivia.”
His voice cracked.
Just slightly.
I looked at him.
For a second, I saw the man from the kitchen again.
Not the CEO.
The terrified husband.
“I cannot stop you from leaving,” he said. “But I am asking you not to disappear where I can’t protect you.”
My anger softened around the edges.
Not enough to forgive him.
Enough to listen.
“I’ll go to the townhouse.”
He nodded once.
“I’ll stay here.”
“No.”
I frowned.
“You said—”
“I said you should go somewhere safe.”
“What about you?”
“I’m the reason people know where you are.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I’m not taking the chance.”
That afternoon, Marcus drove me to Brooklyn.
The townhouse did not look like a billionaire’s fortress.
That was probably intentional.
It was narrow, red-brick, elegant without being showy.
Inside were warm wooden floors, shelves of books, and furniture that looked as though someone had actually sat on it.
I stood in the entryway.
“You own this?”
Marcus placed my suitcase down.
“Mr. Carter bought it five years ago.”
“Does he use it?”
“No.”
“Why buy it?”
Marcus looked uncomfortable.
“Mrs. Carter—”
“Olivia.”
He hesitated.
“Olivia, there are questions I think Ethan should answer.”
“That means you know the answer.”
He sighed.
“Yes.”
“Why did he buy it?”
Marcus looked around.
“He thought you would like it.”
I stared.
“What?”
“He bought it after the bookstore.”
My heart stumbled.
“Before we married?”
“Yes.”
That made no sense.
Unless Ethan had been thinking about me before my father’s debt.
Before the contract.
Before any excuse existed.
I walked farther inside.
There was a window seat overlooking a small garden.
The shelves contained fiction.
Not business books.
Novels I had mentioned loving during that twenty-minute conversation in the bookstore.
Austen.
Baldwin.
Wharton.
Morrison.
Fitzgerald.
My throat tightened.
“This is insane.”
Marcus said nothing.
“Did he stalk me?”
Marcus almost smiled.
“He would object to that word.”
“I don’t care.”
“He saw you once. Then learned your name. Then learned who your mother was.”
“And decided to buy me a house?”
“He decided someone else had already noticed you.”
The warmth disappeared.
“Who?”
“We don’t know.”
I turned.
Marcus looked older than I had realized.
There were silver threads near his temples.
“How long have you worked for Ethan?”
“Eleven years.”
“So you knew his father?”
“Yes.”
“My mother?”
“No.”
“Richard?”
“Yes.”
I studied him.
“Do you trust him?”
Marcus did not ask who.
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
“Why?”
“Because Richard Carter never does anything unless it benefits Richard Carter.”
I thought about the night before.
Richard staring at my blood.
“Does he know about the trust?”
“Yes.”
“Could he have killed my mother?”
Marcus’s expression hardened.
“I don’t know.”
“But you’ve considered it.”
“Everyone close to Ethan has.”
That phrase bothered me.
Everyone close to Ethan.
Apparently, there was an entire world of suspicion happening around me while I folded napkins.
I spent the afternoon reading files Ethan had allowed Marcus to bring.
My mother’s history unfolded page by page.
Claire Bennett had been brilliant.
She had studied computer science at MIT.
She had worked beside Jonathan Carter and Richard Carter in a converted warehouse in Boston.
She had written large portions of the architecture that eventually became Carter Technologies’ most profitable infrastructure platform.
Then something happened.
There were legal disputes.
Private settlements.
My mother left.
Three years later, she married my father.
Two years after that, I was born.
She never returned to technology.
But she never completely surrendered her ownership.
The trust made sure of that.
At seven that evening, someone knocked.
Marcus immediately drew a gun.
My heart stopped.
“Stay here.”
He approached the door.
A security monitor showed Ethan standing outside.
Alone.
Marcus looked at me.
“Your decision.”
I almost told him not to open it.
Then I saw the paper bag in Ethan’s hand.
“Fine.”
Marcus unlocked the door.
Ethan entered.
He looked exhausted.
No tie.
Sleeves rolled up.
Rain on his coat.
Just like the first night he entered my old apartment.
“What’s in the bag?” I asked.
“Food.”
“I have food.”
“This is from Rosa’s.”
My favorite Italian place.
Of course he knew.
I sat at the dining table.
“You bribing me?”
“Trying.”
“With lasagna?”
“You’re difficult to bribe.”
“That may be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
The corner of his mouth almost moved.
We ate in uncomfortable silence.
Then I placed my fork down.
“Why did you buy this house?”
Ethan stopped.
“Marcus told you.”
“Yes.”
“He shouldn’t have.”
“Don’t punish him for telling me something you should have told me three years ago.”
“I won’t.”
“Why?”
He looked around.
“Because after I met you at the bookstore, you told me your dream was to live somewhere with books in every room and enough space for herbs in the kitchen.”
I remembered.
It had been casual.
A stranger asking why I worked in a bookstore.
I had joked that books were cheaper than therapy.
Then somehow we had talked about houses.
“You remembered that?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
His eyes met mine.
“Because I remembered everything you said.”
My chest hurt.
“Ethan, normal people ask women on dates.”
“I know.”
“You bought real estate.”
“I’m aware.”
“Do you understand how disturbing that is?”
“Yes.”
I rubbed my forehead.
He leaned back.
“I intended to ask you to dinner.”
“What stopped you?”
“I discovered your identity.”
“Because of my mother.”
“Yes.”
“And then?”
“I found your father’s debt.”
His expression darkened.
“The people holding the debt were connected to a shell company.”
“Whose?”
“We didn’t know at the time.”
“And now?”
“We identified one beneficial owner this morning.”
I straightened.
“Who?”
Ethan slid a paper across the table.
The name printed there was familiar.
DANIEL BROOKS.
I stared.
“Your CFO?”
“Yes.”
“The man who called me the help.”
“Yes.”
“Why would he own my father’s debt?”
“That’s what I intend to find out.”
I looked at him.
“You’re still hiding something.”
He became still.
“What?”
“The marriage.”
“I told you.”
“No. You told me marrying me made protecting me easier.”
“Yes.”
“But there are easier ways to protect someone.”
He said nothing.
“You could have hired security.”
“Yes.”
“You could have paid the debt anonymously.”
“Yes.”
“You could have told me the truth.”
Silence.
I leaned forward.
“Why marriage?”
His eyes dropped.
“Because of the trust.”
My heartbeat changed.
“What about it?”
“There is a clause.”
“What clause?”
“If you die before taking control at twenty-eight, the shares revert.”
“To who?”
Ethan looked at me.
“The Carter family.”
Cold spread through me.
“So someone in your family benefits if I die.”
“Yes.”
“Anyone else?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“The company board.”
I stared.
“Seventeen percent is enough to change control.”
“Yes.”
“And marrying you changed that?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“If you die while legally married, the trust passes temporarily to your spouse pending probate.”
I felt sick.
“To you.”
“Yes.”
I pushed back from the table.
“So you benefit too.”
He did not flinch.
“Yes.”
I laughed once.
It sounded broken.
“Wonderful.”
“Olivia.”
“No wonder you didn’t tell me.”
“I didn’t marry you for the shares.”
“How convenient.”
“I don’t want them.”
“But if I die, you get control.”
“Temporarily.”
“You still get it.”
His face hardened.
“I would burn Carter Technologies to the ground before I let anyone touch you.”
The room went silent.
I looked at him.
He looked furious.
Not at me.
At the idea.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
Ethan’s expression changed.
“Don’t answer.”
I answered.
“Hello?”
Static.
Then my father’s voice.
“Liv?”
I stood.
“Dad?”
He sounded terrified.
“I’m sorry.”
“Where are you?”
“I should have told you.”
“Told me what?”
A sound in the background.
A door.
Then someone spoke far from the phone.
My father whispered quickly.
“Your mother left you more than money.”
The line crackled.
“What?”
“She left proof.”
“Proof of what?”
“Your husband knows.”
I looked at Ethan.
His face went pale.
“Dad?”
My father’s voice dropped.
“Ask Ethan what happened the night Claire Bennett died.”
Then the line went dead.
I stared at the phone.
Slowly, I looked at my husband.
He did not ask what my father had said.
He already knew.
“What happened the night my mother died?”
Ethan remained silent.
My hands began to shake.
“Ethan.”
He closed his eyes.
And when he opened them again, I saw the one thing I had not expected.
May you like
Shame.
“My father was there.”
