All Chapters of Second Choice: Wife by contract: Chapter 121 - Chapter 130

The door clicks shut behind us and for a second I just stand there with my back against it, hand still on the handle like I might undo this if I move too quickly. I don’t. He sets his keys down somewhere to the side. I hear it, but I’m not really looking. My focus is on the quiet. The kind that feels like it’s waiting for one of us to make the first move. I drop my bag on the chair without taking my eyes off him. It lands with a dull thud that sounds louder than it should. Neither of us comments on it. “I wasn’t sure you’d say it,” he says. “The hotel?” He nods. I push myself off the door and walk further in, slow, not stalling exactly, just… letting the moment catch up to me. “I wasn’t sure either,” I admit. It didn’t feel like a big decision when I said it. It just came out. Like I’d already crossed that line somewhere earlier and didn’t notice until I was standing on the other side. He watches me like he’s waiting for the hesitation to show up. It doesn’t. I stop a few

Adriana chooses a place that doesn’t try too hard. No crowd pressing in, no noise competing for attention. Just a quiet lounge tucked into a building that probably costs more than my entire café to maintain. Soft lighting, polished surfaces, everything deliberate. It fits her. Nothing about Adriana feels accidental. Ethan walks beside me like he already knows how this is going to go. Not tense, not relaxed either. Just focused in that way he gets when something matters. We find her seated near the window. She doesn’t look surprised to see me. “Good,” she says as we approach. “You brought her.” Not you came with her. You brought her. I notice that. I don’t react to it. I take the seat across from her anyway. “You said it was urgent,” Ethan says. “It is.” She doesn’t waste time. No small talk, no easing into it. Just straight to the point. A server comes over. She dismisses him with a small wave before he even finishes speaking. “I’ll keep this short,” she says. I don’

I know what kind of dinner this is before we even arrive. No one says it out loud, but it sits there anyway. In the silence between Ethan and me. In the way I keep adjusting the sleeve of my dress like it suddenly matters how it falls. It’s not just dinner. It’s assessment. People deciding if what we’re doing makes sense. If I make sense. Ethan doesn’t rush the drive. One hand on the wheel, the other resting close enough to mine that I notice it every few seconds without him actually reaching over. “You’re quiet,” he says. “I’m thinking.” “That usually means trouble.” I glance at him. “It doesn’t have to.” “What are you thinking about?” I hesitate. Not because I don’t want to answer. Just… trying to get the words right. “I don’t want this to feel like we’re standing in front of a panel defending our choices.” He nods once, like he understands exactly what I mean. “We’re not doing that.” Something about the way he says it makes it easier to believe. His mother opens the d

Ethan:London moves differently.Faster, maybe. Or just louder in a way that doesn’t ask how you’re doing before it pulls you into something else.By the time I step into the office, I’m already halfway through a conversation in my head about numbers, timelines, people who expect answers I haven’t given yet. Claire is talking before I’ve even fully sat down, something about a delay that isn’t a delay yet but will be if we ignore it. The fluorescent lights overhead feel harsher than I remember, casting sharp edges across the glass conference table and the scattered reports waiting for my attention. The city hums faintly through the thick windows — traffic, sirens, the constant pulse of a place that never truly slows down.I listen. I respond. I do what I’m supposed to do.It’s not difficult. It never is.But there’s a part of me that keeps drifting.Not away from the work. Just… elsewhere.To Miami. To the quiet kitchen with the coffee machine that always protests. To Solene’s voice, l

It starts in the middle of something ordinary. I’m halfway through an order, milk steaming, Mara talking about something I’m not fully listening to, when she suddenly goes quiet. Not completely. Just enough for me to notice. “Why is your face on my phone?” she asks. I don’t look up yet. “That sounds like a you problem.” “No,” she says, stepping closer, “this is very much a you problem.” I glance up. She’s holding her phone out like evidence. I take it. My name is in the headline. I don’t react immediately. I just read. From contract to empire: The woman behind Miami’s fastest-growing café and the man everyone’s watching beside her. I scroll. Photos. More than I expected. The new location. The gala. Me. Ethan. Us. There’s one where I’m looking at him, not the camera. I don’t remember when it was taken. It doesn’t look staged. That’s probably why they chose it. The Miami light catches the side of my face, softening the edges, making the moment feel more intimate than I re