Chapter 3

Penelope Monroe

I stood in front of the mirror, staring at the pile of dresses I had tried on and discarded. Nothing felt right. Everything looked too forced, too much or too little, and I had no idea why I was suddenly overthinking something as simple as what to wear.

I knew why.

I hadn't dated anyone in three years. No dates, no flings, not even a drunken mistake that I could chalk up to bad decisions. Nothing. And now, here I was, stuck in a self-imposed dry spell, all while working alongside one of the most frustratingly attractive men I had ever met.

It was unfair.

My life was already complicated enough without dealing with Ethan Rutherford. The man was impossible—ruthless, detached, logical to the point of insanity. And yet, he was so effortlessly handsome that it made my head spin. He exuded power, the kind of confidence that was both aggravating and dangerously appealing.

I finally settled on a simple green dress, something understated but elegant. I didn't need to stand out tonight—I was just there to do my job.

Tonight was about Ethan meeting his prospective bride, Serena Livingstone. She was stunning, the kind of woman men fell over themselves for, and I already knew he was going to like her. The thought annoyed me, though I refused to analyse why.

When I pulled up to the Livingstone estate, I hesitated for a moment, staring at the line-up of expensive cars in the driveway. Some of them had brand names I couldn't even pronounce.

Taking a breath, I stepped out, smoothing my dress down, and immediately spotted Ethan standing outside.

He looked effortlessly perfect in a tailored black suit, the fabric hugging his broad shoulders and lean frame. The top button of his shirt was undone, exposing just a hint of toned muscle, and his sharp jawline was dusted with faint stubble.

It was infuriating how good he looked.

"Mr. Rutherford, should we go inside?" I asked, keeping my voice professional.

He barely glanced at me, adjusting his cufflinks. "Yeah."

His lack of enthusiasm made me frown. "Why are you doing this if you don't want to?" I muttered before I could stop myself.

"Because I have to," he answered, voice low and measured.

I narrowed my eyes. "No, you don't. What's the point of marrying someone just for the sake of it?"

He turned to me then, his piercing blue eyes locking onto mine. "I'm not forcing anyone into anything. I'm looking for someone with the same expectations as me. How is that bad?"

I crossed my arms. "It just seems so... transactional. Marriage should be about emotion, not a checklist."

A slow smirk stretched across his face. "Ah, I see. You think your way of looking at relationships is superior to mine?"

I bristled. "That's not what I said. I just think marriage should have some emotional depth."

Ethan chuckled, stepping closer. I had to tilt my head up to meet his gaze, and suddenly, the space between us felt too small. "Really? You make all your decisions based on emotions?"

I hesitated. "Yes."

"And where has that gotten you so far?"

I opened my mouth, but before I could answer, Ethan rang the bell, his expression unreadable as we waited.

The grand doors of the Livingstone estate opened almost immediately, revealing a butler who stepped aside to let us in. The entrance hall was a showcase of wealth: marble floors, towering crystal chandeliers, and walls adorned with artwork that likely cost more than my yearly salary.

"Mr. Rutherford, Ms. Monroe, welcome," Mr. Livingstone greeted us warmly, his voice laced with the kind of excitement reserved for business deals and social climbing. His wife stood beside him, smiling graciously but with an air of quiet calculation.

"Pleasure to meet you," I said, offering a polite smile as I stepped inside.

Ethan nodded in acknowledgment, his usual stoic demeanour firmly in place. The butler led us through a hallway into a lavish sitting room, where Serena Livingstone waited.

She was stunning.

Delicate features, striking eyes, and an effortless grace that made it seem as if she had been sculpted for the role of a perfect socialite. Her long, honey-blonde hair cascaded in soft waves over her shoulders, and the emerald-green dress she wore complemented her flawless complexion. She was poised, elegant, and composed, the very image of perfection.

I sat beside Ethan as we settled onto one of the luxurious cream-colored couches, the Livingtones seated across from us. Serena smiled warmly, her gaze flickering toward Ethan with barely concealed admiration.

I smiled back at her, but the gesture felt hollow.

Ethan, however, was in full business mode.

He leaned forward slightly, hands clasped together, his expression sharp and unreadable. "Ms. Livingstone, I appreciate you taking the time to meet me," he said, his voice cool and composed.

"The pleasure is mine," she replied, her tone soft yet assured.

And then the interrogation began.

Ethan wasted no time. He asked direct, calculated questions, each one carefully curated to assess compatibility. Serena answered each one with poise, but the atmosphere felt less like a date and more like an interview.

He asked about her interests, her values, her expectations for marriage. He probed into her thoughts on family, work, and social obligations. There was no flirtation, no warmth, just data collection.

The Livingstones, for their part, were eager to please, practically tripping over themselves to highlight Serena's best qualities.

"Serena has always been incredibly involved in charity work," her mother gushed. "She's been chairing fundraising events since she was eighteen."

"She's also an accomplished pianist," her father added, nodding toward the grand piano in the corner of the room.

"That's very admirable," Ethan said, nodding thoughtfully, but his tone was impersonal.

I observed him, waiting for some indication that he was at least interested, but his expression remained unreadable.

He hadn't looked at me once since we walked in.

Not once.

I shouldn't have cared.

This had nothing to do with me, after all. I was just here to facilitate the meeting. But something about the way he was completely engrossed in this, detached yet focused, made an uncomfortable feeling settle in my chest.

I shifted in my seat, suddenly restless.

Serena laughed at something Ethan said, something about structured routines and aligned expectations, and I felt my stomach twist.

Why was this bothering me?

I had no reason to feel this way.

And yet, I hated the way he was acting like I wasn't even in the room.

After what felt like an eternity, Ethan finally walked up to me. "Alright, I have all the information I need. We can leave now."

I blinked. "Wait... do you even like her?" I asked, grabbing his arm without thinking.

There was a pause. His eyes flickered down to my hand before I quickly pulled it away.

"That's not important," he said smoothly.

I opened my mouth to argue, but before I could, he cut in.

"I think your dress strap is torn," he murmured, his gaze dipping lower.

I frowned. "What are you—"

And then my dress strap snapped.

A quiet gasp escaped my lips as cool air kissed my exposed skin, my breath catching in my throat. Half my bra was on display, and I clutched the fabric desperately to my chest, my fingers gripping the silk like a lifeline.

My face flamed with embarrassment.

Ethan's eyes darkened.

He didn't look away.

For a heartbeat, he just stood there, his gaze locked onto me, something unreadable flashing behind those sharp, piercing eyes. Then, in one fluid motion, he shrugged off his blazer, stepping forward as he wrapped it around my shoulders.

His scent: clean, masculine, intoxicating, filled my senses, and my knees nearly buckled beneath me.

His fingers grazed my bare skin as he adjusted the jacket, knuckles brushing over my collarbone, lingering for just a second too long.

A sharp breath escaped me.

His touch trailed lower, slow and deliberate, smoothing the fabric over my body, his hands pressing against my waist as he adjusted the fit. He was too close, his warmth, his presence, him, it was overwhelming.

I swallowed hard, my pulse thrumming wildly as his fingers ghosted over the curve of my hip before he finally stepped back.

Our eyes met.

Something shifted in the air between us: thick, charged, dangerous.

Neither of us spoke.

Neither of us moved.

And yet, every nerve in my body was on fire.