Chapter 8: Is Someone Taking a Bath?

"Good evening, Mr. Hartwell."

"Good evening, Mr. Hartwell."

The greetings rippled through the entrance hall as the Bentley's headlights swept across the driveway. The household staff lined the foyer in quiet, practiced rows and every single one of them forgot their composure the moment Ethan Hartwell stepped through the front door.

With a woman in his arms.

He carried her the way he did everything else without explanation, without hesitation, as though the universe was expected to simply accommodate whatever he decided to do. He crossed the marble foyer, took the staircase, and disappeared to the upper floor without a word.

The silence he left behind lasted approximately four seconds.

Then

"Did I just see what I think I saw?"

"You saw it. I saw it. We all saw it."

"Mr. Hartwell carried a woman. Personally. Through the front door."

"Who is she? I couldn't see her face it was turned away."

"I don't know, but whoever she is—"

The murmuring spread through the downstairs staff like electricity through a wire, low and urgent and absolutely alive with speculation.

None of it reached the upper floor.

In Ethan's private bedroom, the woman on the bed slowly opened her eyes.

For a moment, Vivian simply stared at the ceiling cream and immaculate, with a chandelier that probably cost more than her first apartment and waited for her brain to catch up with the rest of her.

It did. Gradually.

KT Star Entertainment. The lobby. Rebecca stepping into her path with that practiced smile.

Sebastian's hand on her arm.

The shove she hadn't seen coming.

The headlights.

She sat up carefully, testing her body's willingness to cooperate. Her ribs protested. Her head swam briefly and then settled.

A car accident. She'd been in a car accident.

So where was she now?

She took in the room around her the kind of bedroom that didn't belong to anyone who worried about money. Dark wood, clean lines, expensive quiet. Everything precisely in its place. No clutter. No warmth.

From behind the closed bathroom door came the distinct sound of running water.

Someone was in the shower.

Vivian threw back the covers immediately and looked down at herself.

Clothes intact. Every button, every seam, exactly where it should be.

She exhaled a long, slow breath of genuine relief.

Okay. Not Rebecca's people. That particular nightmare scenario, at least, had been avoided. Because if Rebecca had been the one to find her unconscious on that road, being robbed of her dignity in a car accident would have been the least of her problems.

But if it wasn't Rebecca then who had brought her here?

And she reached up, almost absently, and touched her lips.

Ow.

They were swollen. Slightly. The way they got when

She dropped her hand.

That's a problem for later.

She straightened her clothes, slid off the bed, and positioned herself near the door close enough to bolt if necessary, far enough to have a second to think. She would wait. Assess. React accordingly.

The shower cut off.

A beat of silence.

Then the bathroom door swung open, and steam curled softly into the bedroom, and the man who stepped into the light stopped Vivian's brain completely.

He wore a silver-gray bathrobe, loosely tied, moving with the easy authority of a man entirely comfortable taking up space. Broad shoulders. The kind of build that made suits look like they'd been invented specifically for him. Water traced slow lines down the strong column of his neck, curved over his jaw, disappeared into the collar of the robe.

And his face

Sharp. Aristocratic. The kind of handsome that felt almost aggressive like it hadn't been designed to be approachable.

The light caught him fully.

Vivian felt the recognition hit her like a second car.

"Ethan Hartwell?"

The words came out before she could stop them.

What followed in her head was considerably less composed.

Of all the cars in all of Manhattan

Her mind flew in six directions at once. Did his car hit her? Was that a coincidence? Did he know something had someone told him was Rosie

In the span of three seconds, her thoughts completed a full rollercoaster loop and arrived, breathless, back at the start.

She forced her expression into something neutral.

Ethan had paused at the sound of his name, and now he studied her with faint, unhurried interest one eyebrow lifted a fraction. "You know who I am?"

Safe answer. Safest answer. Now.

Vivian shaped her mouth into a politely surprised smile. "The CEO of Hartwell Empire Group." A small, casual shrug. "I don't watch much news, but I've seen you on television. You're not exactly difficult to recognize."

That's it. Stranger. She's a stranger who watches the news.

Something shifted almost imperceptibly in his expression — a thought passing through and being set aside. He reached up and tossed a fresh towel toward her in one easy motion.

"Go shower," he said simply.

Vivian caught the towel and did not move.

Every rational instinct she had was currently running a very loud risk assessment.

Ethan was already moving past her toward the sitting area across the room, creating a deliberate distance between them before settling into the armchair with the calm of a man who had never once needed to justify himself.

"I won't touch you," he said, not looking up. His voice was flat. Matter-of-fact. "When you're done, the staff will treat your elbow. You've got a scrape."

The statement landed without weight or agenda just information, plainly delivered.

The knot in Vivian's shoulders loosened by a fraction.

She turned toward the door, where a staff member was already waiting at a respectful distance to guide her to the bathroom.