His Ring Her Rules

I was surprised by how pleasant dinner felt.

The idea of a peaceful supper between the two of us felt more like torment than leisure after all the cold silences, the paper-thin civility, and the strange tension of acting like we were "fine" for the world.

The sky outside was streaked with purple and fading yellow, but there we were, sitting at a secluded table in a corner of his immaculate dining room with a view of the city. No butlers. No photographers. No one on the board was breathing down his throat.

Ethan Blackwood alone. Me. Additionally, the chicken marsala didn't taste like it was from a gourmet jail.

I broke the silence that had lasted precisely twenty-three chews by saying, "So." "What's the event? This is not your typical approach.

He leaned back a little and put down his drink. "Perhaps I'm trying something new."

I blinked. "Is that code for slowly poisoning me?"

His lips were pulled into a half-smile. "You're too obstinate to perish from minor poisons."

I whispered, "Tried and tested."

He laughed. The air between us suddenly became softer.

We ate in silent bursts, interspersed with brief conversations about whether or not newborns actually required "wipe warmers" and the baby furniture we still hadn't put together. (Spoiler alert: Ethan believes so. We're raising a child, not royalty, I believe.)

But then he said something that completely changed the mood, in between sips of something sparkling and nibbles of risotto.

"You know, my mother wasn't always that icy."

My fork was halfway to my mouth when I froze.

He avoided looking at me. simply gazed out the window, unable to move.

He went on in a quiet voice, "She used to read me these ridiculous pirate adventure books." "Every evening. The same book. The same voices. I used to beg her to perform the voice of a parrot.

I said softly, "I'm going to assume that you were the kind of child who requested five more chapters after bedtime."

He gave a small smile. "Seven."

I put down my fork.

"What took place?" I asked quietly.

Then he turned to face me. "My dad passed away. Overnight, she changed. Close down. turned into ice. And I— His eyes flicked aside as he breathed. "I believe she's still afraid I'll vanish like he did."

Between us, something heavy settled.

I felt comprehension, not sympathy. That agonizing, deep type that develops when someone finally discloses something genuine by removing a layer.

"I apologize," I said.

"Avoid becoming. Simply put, they notice the company, the name, and the money. They are unaware of the pressure it carries. How much must you lose?

Slowly, I nodded. "It sounds lonely."

He gave me a glance. glanced closely. "It is."

This time, there wasn't much silence. It was holy.

Two persons who share more than just physical space. expressing the truth.

I refrained from grabbing his hand. He made no request for consolation. However, there was an unsaid string that pulled tightly between us.

And I didn't feel like a visitor to his world for the first time since this catastrophe started.

I sensed being seen.

Even for a brief instant.