Chapter 3: She Likes White Roses

Sophia's POV

The private jet cuts through the night sky. Outside the windows, nothing but darkness and distant city lights below. I'm sitting in the leather seat, hands gripping my knees so tight my knuckles are white.

Ethan sits across from me, eyes on his tablet. But every few minutes, his gaze flicks toward me.

The cabin is silent except for the engine's low hum. The air feels thick.

Three weeks of running. Over. Just like that. He found me. Now he's taking me back to Boston. And then what? Real wifely duties? I don't even know what that means.

A tear slides down my cheek. I turn to the window fast, hoping he didn't see.

"Don't cry."

I freeze. A white handkerchief appears in front of me.

I stare at it for a second before taking it. The fabric is soft, smells faintly of his cologne.

"You're going to force me to..." My voice cracks. I can't finish the sentence.

Ethan looks out the window. "I won't force you, Sophia."

I lift my head. "But you said...wifely duties..."

He turns back, meeting my eyes. "The contract still has eighteen months. I just want you to stay. To give us a chance to start over."

I clutch the handkerchief tighter. His jaw is tense. Like saying those words cost him something.

The plane hits turbulence. My hand shoots out to grab the armrest.

Ethan returns his attention to the tablet. I look down at the handkerchief in my lap, face burning. But the tension has shifted. Less hostile. Almost gentle.

The black sedan pulls up in front of the Beacon Hill townhouse. Boston is colder than Seattle. I pull my coat tighter.

All the lights are on. The door swings open. Mrs. Peterson stands in the doorway, eyes bright.

"Mrs. Blackwood! You're back! Thank God!" Her voice trembles. Her eyes are red-rimmed.

I stand on the doorstep, not sure what to say.

Ethan pulls my suitcase from the trunk. The same one I ran away with three weeks ago. Mrs. Peterson takes it, glancing between us.

"I'll show you to your room." Ethan's voice is clipped.

He carries the suitcase upstairs. I follow.

Not the old guest room. He stops in front of a door next to the master bedroom. Opens it.

A suite. Much bigger than my old room. Private bathroom. Walk-in closet. Small balcony.

Ethan sets the suitcase down by the bed. "If you need anything, let Mrs. Peterson know."

He turns to leave.

"Why this room?" The words escape before I can stop them.

He pauses. Doesn't look back. "It's closer."

Then he's gone. The door clicks shut.

Ten minutes later, Mrs. Peterson comes in with chamomile tea. She starts helping me unpack.

"Mrs. Blackwood, you don't know how worried Mr. Blackwood was these three weeks."

I try to sound casual. "Oh?"

"He barely slept. Three hours a night, if that. His assistant told me he dozed off in meetings. Multiple times."

She places a sweater in the drawer, then turns to look at me.

"In fifteen years working for this family, I've never seen him like that."

My hand freezes mid-air, gripping a shirt.

---

Eight-thirty in the morning. Day 26. I come downstairs expecting the house to be empty. Ethan usually leaves by seven.

But he's sitting at the dining table. A stack of brochures next to him.

"I booked a couples yoga class for Wednesday." He slides a pamphlet toward me. "Supposed to help with stress."

I nearly choke on my coffee. "What?"

He looks at me like I'm the weird one. "You mentioned wanting to learn yoga. Three years ago. You said it looked peaceful."

Three years ago? I don't even remember saying that.

"You remembered that?" My voice shakes.

He takes a sip of his coffee. "I remember most things you say."

He stands, picking up his briefcase. "I'll be back by seven. Don't wait for me if I'm late."

Day 27. Seven-thirty at night. I hear noise from the kitchen. When I push open the door, I stop dead.

Ethan is wearing an apron. Dark gray, obviously new. His tablet is propped up next to him, playing a cooking tutorial.

The onions on the cutting board are a disaster. Uneven chunks everywhere.

"You're cooking?" I can't help but laugh.

"Italian risotto. The video says you have to stir constantly." He doesn't look up.

His sleeves are rolled to his elbows. There's a bead of sweat on his forehead.

"Need help?"

He looks up. There's something almost helpless in his eyes. "I think I used salt instead of sugar."

I walk over and taste the risotto.

"That's definitely salt. A lot of salt." I'm laughing now.

He puts down the wooden spoon. "Order takeout?"

"Definitely."

We look at each other and laugh. It's the first time in three years I've seen him like this. Human.

Day 29. Ethan drives me to Connecticut. Says we both need fresh air.

We leave the city behind. Trees blur past the windows in shades of gold and orange.

The farm is run by a kind old woman who hands us each a basket.

"It's beautiful." I stare at the apple trees.

I'm wearing a flannel shirt and jeans, hair pulled back in a ponytail. I feel lighter than I have in weeks.

I reach for a big red apple high up on a branch. Can't quite get it.

"This one?" Ethan's voice is right behind me. He reaches up easily, plucks it from the branch.

I can feel the warmth of his body.

"When I was little, I used to dream about having an orchard." My voice is soft.

He stops. "Why?"

I bite my lip. My eyes start to burn. "Because then I wouldn't have to worry about going hungry. Tom and Linda didn't buy fruit. Said it was too expensive. I remember stealing an apple from a neighbor's tree once. Got beaten for it."

Silence. I regret saying it.

Ethan goes still. His jaw clenches.

He doesn't say anything. Just picks out the biggest, reddest apples from his basket and puts them in mine.

"You can have all the apples you want now."

Tears threaten to spill. I turn away, pretending to focus on apple picking.

Why is he being so kind? It makes everything harder.

By sunset, both our baskets are full. Ethan loads them into the trunk.

"We'll make apple pie this weekend."

"You know how to make pie?"

He looks serious. "No. But there are tutorials."

I laugh. Really laugh.

Day 30. Eight o'clock at night. Candles on the dining table. Ethan actually succeeded this time. The steak is perfect. Red wine.

The atmosphere is too romantic. Makes me nervous.

I need to know. I have to ask about Bailey.

I put down my knife and fork. "That day in your office, when I overheard you on the phone..."

Ethan stops cutting his steak. Looks up.

"You were booking a restaurant. Ordering white roses. That was for Bailey, wasn't it?"

He stares at me for a moment. Then he laughs.

Not cruel. Just bewildered.

"That was for you."

"What?"

He sets down his utensils. "Sophia. The first time you came to the Beacon Hill house, you stopped in the garden. You saw the white roses and stared at them for almost five minutes. Then you said, 'They're beautiful.'"

My eyes start to sting. "That was three years ago. I don't even remember..."

"I do."

"But Bailey..." My voice breaks. "She posted on Instagram. 'Coming home to fix what I left behind.' She tagged you..."

Ethan frowns. Pulls out his phone like this is news to him. He scrolls for a while.

"Bailey Ashford is someone my grandfather wanted me to marry three years ago. I've met her twice. Twice. I don't even have her number saved."

He tosses the phone on the table.

"She can come back or stay in Paris. I don't care."

The tears fall. Three weeks of hurt, misunderstanding, fear, it all comes rushing out.

"I thought you gave me that money to make me disappear. Because she was back and you wanted to be with her..."

He stands. Walks over to me. Kneels down so we're eye level.

He takes my hand. "I gave you that money because I panicked. I thought I was going to be a father and I didn't know how to handle it. Then you ran, and I..."

He stops.

"Those three weeks you were gone, I couldn't sleep. Couldn't focus. Jason said I fell asleep in meetings. The board thought I was losing my mind."

His grip tightens.

"I realized something during those weeks. For three years, I got used to you being there. Coming home and seeing you watering the roses in the garden. Finding you curled up on the couch with art books on Sunday mornings. The way you hum when you make coffee."

He looks up. "That fake ultrasound made me realize I want a real family. With you. Not because of a contract. Not because my grandfather demands it. Because I want you in my life."

"I don't want to lose you again, Sophia."

I can't speak. Just cry. Ethan stands and pulls me into his arms.

It's real warmth. Real comfort.

That night I'm lying in bed in my new room. Through the balcony I can see the white roses in the garden, swaying in the moonlight.

My phone buzzes.

Ethan: Next weekend. I want to take you somewhere. Pack warm clothes.

Me: Where?

Ethan: It's a surprise.

I hug my pillow, smiling without meaning to.

My heart is racing.

Outside the window, the white roses sway gently in the night breeze, like they're whispering a secret.