His Ring Her Rules

It was three days later.

Three long days of courteous silence and deftly sidestepped conversation on marble floors and reverberating throughout.

Being present without physically being there was a skill I had mastered. Dinners where my fork pushed food more than it lifted, nods that didn't mean yes, and smiles that didn't reach my eyes.

Ethan took note.

He was observing me during breakfast as I added almond milk to my cereal as if it had offended me directly. At first, he remained silent and simply sipped his coffee more slowly, his brows furrowed as if I were a problem he couldn't solve with code.

Finally, putting down his mug, he asked, "Is everything okay?"

"Peachy," I said with a smile so tight it probably squeaked.

Slowly, without pushing, but obviously not buying it, he nodded. Normal Ethan. His brand was emotional restraint. But there was a flicker of something in his eyes, perhaps confusion. or shame.

I discovered a note in his neat, incisive handwriting on the kitchen island later that afternoon.

Tonight's dinner. Not a press. No cameras. Only us.

I booked a reservation. Put on something that gives you trouble.

—E

I should have stopped staring at it sooner. It resembled a linen napkin wrapped around a truce flag. Curiosity won out even though I wasn't sure I wanted peace.

Problem?

That's something I could do.

The restaurant was warm, dark, and mercifully free of the icy hum of business stress. I wasn't the star of the show tonight, and we weren't at a gala. I was just Grace.

He was Ethan, too.

And the way he gazed at me upon entering?

It wasn't business, that's true.

He seemed to be remembering more than just my dress as his eyes lingered. His mouth opened slightly as if he wanted to say something but couldn't remember how. Ethan Blackwood appeared uncertain for once.

Additionally, I felt dangerous.

As we sat there, his gaze openly admiring the curve of my neck, he said, "You clean up well."

"You've stated that previously."

"It's still true."

I made an effort to avoid blushing. I didn't succeed.

It was quiet for the first few minutes. No talking in the boardroom. Don't ask baby questions. Avoid using passive-aggressive prenuptial agreements. Just the sound of glasses clinking and perfectly cooked scallops.

Then he bent closer. Not in his customary composed manner, but rather as a man attempting to reach across something he was unaware was broken.

"You have been aloof."

"I've been thinking," I said thoughtfully.

"Roughly?"

I took a sip of my wine. "If it's still worth pretending."

He clenched his jaw. "Acting like a fool?"

"That this... works." that it's typical. that we are not merely two strangers confined to an opulent apartment with a tacit agreement to avoid discussing anything that is truly important.

He glanced at his plate below. He didn't have a prepared rebuttal for once.

He whispered, "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"You were not required to. The quiet did.

It was there. My reality. Sharp but soft. Sincere without pleading.

He drummed his fingers on the table. then came to a stop. Then he really did look up at me.

"Grace, I don't want this to feel like a jail."

"Then give up protecting the keys."

We had a tight, electric tension at the end of dinner that was full of things unsaid, but it wasn't quite hostile.

Like a gentleman, he escorted me to the car. I got into it first and took a seat. After another second of hesitation, he joined me.

And as the glittering, blurry city passed outside the windows, I couldn't help but think:

Was this the start of something tender?

Or simply the prelude to a storm?