Chapter 7

Three seconds passed in silence. Ethan didn't blink, his dark eyes locked onto hers with a quiet stillness that felt more dangerous with every passing second. Beneath her tailored blazer, Arden’s skin prickled with cold sweat as those unblinking eyes dissected her. She suddenly wished she hadn't started with such a dramatic demand.

Slowly, Ethan stood up.

He didn't rush. Every movement—the deliberate flex of his fingers buttoning his cream jacket, the quiet sound of his shoes against the hardwood—was executed with lethal precision, his gaze never once breaking contact with hers. He rounded the massive mahogany desk, closing the distance between them step by step until the sharp scent of cedar and expensive cologne filled her lungs.

He stopped inches away. Up close, his dark gaze bore down on her, tracking the flutter of her eyelashes, the desperate clench of her jaw, and the frantic rise and fall of her chest. He didn't touch her, but his sheer proximity boxed her in, making it hard for her to breathe.

The silence stretched, humming with a heavy, electric tension, until Arden felt her knees begin to lock.

Ethan parted his lips, his voice dropping to a low, velvet rasp that scraped directly against her nerves.

“Less than a year ago, you stood in this very office and told me you didn't want to marry me.”

Arden’s eyes batted once. Slowly, she dropped her gaze, her grip tightening on her handbag. Ethan's eyes drifted to her hand, his gaze settling on the way her fingers had wrapped tightly around her handbag, her nails digging into the leather. Something flickered in his eyes, but it disappeared almost as quickly as it came. His hand curled into a fist at his side.

“Five minutes,” he said, turning sharply on his heel and walking back toward his desk.

“What?” Arden blurted out, pure shock registering on her face.

Ethan sat back down in his leather chair, staring back at Arden, who stood frozen and bewildered.

“You have five minutes to explain why you think I would want to marry a dead woman,” Ethan stated coldly.

“Umm—thank you,” Arden stuttered. She had expected him to walk her out of his office, but here he was offering her five minutes of his time. Maybe the universe is actually on my side, she thought.

“Sit,” Ethan commanded, picking up a heavy Montblanc pen.

Arden hurried over, pulling out the chair and sitting down. She pressed her trembling hands together flat against the mahogany surface.

“I found out that my stepsister and my fiancé are plotting to murder me so they can steal my company,” Arden blurted out, skipping all pleasantries. “My wedding is in two days, and they plan on executing their plan on my wedding night. I barely have any time left, and you are the only person I can think of with enough power to help me.”

“Why don't you just call off the wedding?” Ethan asked, his expression entirely neutral.

“I can't! What if they just devise another way to kill me?” Arden replied, her voice pitching up with panic.

Ethan leaned back in his leather chair, tapping the end of his heavy pen against the polished surface. The sharp, rhythmic clicking echoed in the quiet office like a ticking countdown timer.

“Let me get this straight,” Ethan said, his voice measured, devoid of the cruelty she had braced herself for, yet carrying an unshakable, crushing weight. “You come into my office unannounced and ask me to help you die just because your own poor choices finally caught up with you? You chose another man who apparently views you as a stepping stone to a balance sheet, and now you want me to clean up the mess?” 

He stopped tapping the pen. The silence settled back over the room, heavy and suffocating.

“I'm not a charity, Arden. And I'm certainly not an insurance policy for people who only realize their mistake when it's too late. If they want your company, then fight them. You don't need me, Arden. You chose him.” His voice remained calm. 

“Whatever happens after that is no longer my responsibility. The clock is ticking on your five minutes. Use whatever time you have left to walk yourself right back out that door.”

Arden stared at him, the brief flicker of hope dying out completely. The cold reality of her desperation washed over her, heavier than any fear of rejection. She had no other cards left to play. No backup plan, no hidden allies—just a ticking clock and two monsters waiting to poison her in forty-eight hours.

She swallowed the bitter lump in her throat, her pride shattering into pieces on the polished hardwood floor.

"Ethan, please,” she whispered, her voice cracking as the first tear slipped down her cheek. She quickly wiped it away, but before she could stop them, more tears came rushing down. "I know I don't deserve your help. I know what I threw away, and I'd take it all back if I could. But I have nowhere else to go. If you won't do it for me, do it because they are animals who will destroy everything my parents built. Just... don't let them win."

She waited, holding her breath, praying for a miracle that didn't come. Ethan's expression remained an unreadable mask.

"Your time is up, Arden," Ethan said quietly.

The finality in his tone was like a physical blow. Arden blinked rapidly, fighting back the rest of her tears. She pushed herself up, her knees trembling so badly she had to grip the edge of the desk for support. Without another word, she turned away, her head bowed in defeat, and walked toward the heavy oak doors, each step feeling like a march toward her own execution. She had really hoped she could talk Ethan into helping her, but now she realized how foolish and selfish the idea had been. After everything that had happened between them, what right did she have to ask him to put himself at risk for her? She couldn't bring herself to look back as she walked toward the door.

"Arden."

She froze mid-step, her hand hovering over

the cold brass handle.

"Wait."