Chapter3 The CEO's Plan

Ethan’s POV

The next morning, I eased out of bed, careful not to wake her. The woman who married me yesterday was sprawled across my sheets, dark hair fanned out, chest moving slow with shallow breaths. My phone buzzed, and I slipped onto the balcony, knowing Chris would be itching to rip into me about last night.

"Bit early to bust my balls, huh, cousin?" I muttered, sipping scotch, the morning air sharp against my face.

"Jesus Christ, Ethan!" Chris scrubbed a hand through his messy hair, eyes wide with disbelief. "When I saw you leave the bar with Amanda Davis last night, I thought I was hallucinating. You actually brought her home?"

"Keep it down," I snapped, fingers tightening on the glass. "She's still sleeping."

"I just can't believe it," Chris lowered his voice but couldn't mask his excitement. "You do know who her father is, right? The Davis Group CEO! The guy who's practically in the business section every other day!"

I took another sip of scotch, watching the city skyline. "I know exactly who she is."

Chris stepped closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Does she know who you are?"

A smirk tugged at my mouth. "She thinks I'm some bartender. Or more accurately, an escort."

Chris gasped, then burst out laughing, having to cover his mouth. "You mean she thinks you're a—"

"Exactly," I cut him off. "So now you understand why we need to keep quiet."

"Damn," Chris leaned against the railing, staring at me dumbstruck. "Are you going to tell her the truth? That you're Ethan Blackwood, not some bar gigolo?"

The Blackwood name isn't just a name—it's an institution. My great-grandfather started with a single factory during the Depression, turning it into a gold mine while everyone else was broke. Each generation since has expanded the empire, pushing harder, moving faster. Now we're in everything. Tech startups bow to us before they even launch. Real estate? Half the permits in this city come through our connections. Energy sectors, defense contracts—we've got our fingers in all of it.

Everyone wants a piece of what we've built. My phone never stops—partnership offers, merger proposals, cash deals flowing in daily. But we don't waste time with small-timers. You want a seat at our table, you better bring something worth having.

There are other players out there, sure. But they don't have our edge: four generations of carefully cultivated influence, knowing exactly who to pay, who to pressure, who to eliminate from the game altogether. Money's just the starting point—this is about pure, unfiltered power. The kind that makes the world hold its breath when you enter a room. That's us. That's being a Blackwood.

And me? I became the youngest CEO in our family history at twenty-eight, already making waves that have the old guard trembling. They call me ruthless, cold-blooded, whatever label helps them sleep at night. They're not wrong. Nice guys finish last—or broke. Just ask the companies we've dismantled piece by piece.

Staring at my glass, I grinned. Yeah, I've got the looks—tall, dark, with the kind of dangerous edge women can't resist. Being mistaken for an escort? That's rich.

"I don't know," I answered honestly. "Things moved fast last night."

Chris paced back and forth, tapping his fingers on the railing. "She was completely drunk, right? So today when she's sober, she'll probably realize her mistake, get embarrassed, and leave, never to contact you again. Problem solved."

I shook my head. "It's not that simple."

"How so?" Chris frowned.

"She told me some things," I hesitated. "Her father is forcing her into some marriage arrangement. With a man she doesn't love. She's desperate, Chris."

"So she's using you as an escape hatch?" Chris's eyebrows shot up. "That's not exactly a solid foundation for any kind of relationship, no matter who you're pretending to be."

I took a deep breath, setting down my glass. "She made an absurd proposal."

Chris immediately became wary. "What kind of proposal? Don't tell me she wants you to be her fake boyfriend or something."

"More outlandish," I said quietly. "She proposed marriage."

Chris's jaw nearly hit the floor. "What? Wait, Ethan, you didn't agree, did you?"

I didn't answer, just stared into the distance.

"Holy shit, you did?" Chris was practically squealing. "Have you lost your mind? She doesn't even know who you really are! This is insane!"

"She needs help," I defended, "and it's only temporary. Once she sorts out her family situation, we can quietly divorce."

Chris shook his head, looking at me like I'd grown a second head. "You're serious. You, Ethan Blackwood, heir to a multi-billion-dollar empire, are playing marriage games with a woman who thinks you're a male prostitute."

"Watch your language, cousin," I warned, my voice carrying an edge.

"Sorry," Chris raised his hands in surrender, "but this is crazy. If she finds out the truth, you're toast."

"She won't," I shot back. "At least not yet. She's desperate and sees me as her way out—she'll cling to the story she's created. When the time is right, I'll tell her everything."

Chris whistled low. "Cold as hell. I never knew you had this in you."

"I'm helping her," I said, though I wasn't entirely convinced by my own reasoning.

"Keep telling yourself that," Chris shook his head. "You're attracted to her. Admit it. Otherwise, you wouldn't be taking this risk."

I didn't deny it, just shrugged. "She's waking up soon. You should go. Keep this quiet."

He nodded, still looking rattled, and left. I stepped back inside. Amanda stirred, groaning, squinting at the room. Hungover, disoriented—a beautiful mess.

"Morning," I said, keeping it smooth. "Head okay?"

She sat up slowly, relieved to be dressed. "Last night—"

"Your drunk-ass proposal?" I smirked.

"I need to go. This was a big mistake," she mumbled, sliding off the bed unsteadily.

I stood there, watching her squirm, claiming she had been too drunk to mean it. Last night, she'd seemed so convinced—now she was backpedaling. Her forced marriage predicament was my ticket in; I needed to know more. Her quick agreement had caught me off guard.

On the drive back to her place, we sat in silence. The morning sunlight filtered through the windshield, highlighting her tired face. What had been a casual night was ending with unexpected tension.

"Everything good?" she asked, noticing my expression change.

"Perfect," I lied, flashing a fake grin. "Maybe just a small hiccup."

Another car pulled up at the light. Some girl smiled through the window, snapped a photo, and mouthed, "Got you." Amanda tensed beside me.

"Who's that?" I asked, casual.

"Trouble," she muttered, her face instantly pale.