Luna's fingers trembled when she snapped the phone shut. It was a quick reflex, but in the empty street, the sound was too loud, like a coin dropping into a rusted drain. Her heart jolted. She shoved the phone into her bag and rolled her shoulders, trying to steady her trembling. "He's nobody," she said too quickly; the words scraped her throat. Ethan didn't seem affected by bad news. He stood under the lamplight, hands in his pockets, watching her with his usual steady stare—treating disaster like a paragraph in a book, not something happening to them. "Nobody sends messages like that," he said softly, more observant than accusatory. Luna forced a brittle laugh. "It's not a threat. It's just… Marcus being Marcus." Ethan tasted the name. "Marcus Tan. Your ex?" She nodded after a pause. "Why did you two break up?" he asked, tilting his head, gathering facts. She looked past him—a neon strip lit the curb in jaundiced pink; a taxi passed slowly, headlights punctuating the night. The night tugged at her collar. She still smelled faint perfume from Harris's mansion and heard Vanessa's sharp laugh—like glass on tile. Raw memory. "He wanted my father's company shares," she said finally. "That's all he ever wanted." Silence stretched. Ethan's mouth curved into a steady half-smile, enough to set down a glass. For a moment, the world seemed right. "Then we won't meet him," he said plainly. "I have to," she answered. "You don't." "Ethan—" "Luna." He stepped closer and lowered his voice. "You don't owe him anything—time, attention, a meeting." She wanted to believe him so much it hurt. Ignoring Marcus seemed sensible: pretending he didn't exist, hoping he'd go away. But Marcus Tan never left quietly. "He'll cause trouble if I don't go," she whispered. "He always does." Ethan watched her long enough to see the faint lines at her mouth's corners, then tucked a loose hair behind her ear. The touch was small and familiar; it made her chest tighten. "Then I'll go with you," he said. Her eyes widened. "No. Ethan, you don't understand. Marcus is—" "I understand perfectly." "He'll humiliate you. He'll try to—" "Let him," Ethan said, calm but sharp—crisp, deliberate—then softened like testing a knife. "Come on," he added, taking her hand. "Let's go home." Their apartment was painfully small: one bedroom, a narrow kitchen smelling of last night's rice, and a tiny living room barely fitting the sofa and a slim table. Paint flaked where the ceiling met the wall; the old air conditioner rattled. Luna had joked about it when Ethan first showed it, and he'd shrugged, saying, "It's perfect." Inside, evening pressed heavily. She dropped her bag and sank into the sofa, face in her hands. "I'm sorry," she breathed. "Sorry you saw that." Ethan sat beside her but kept a respectful distance—habit. "Your family's cruel," he said quietly. "They think I'm stupid," Luna snapped, bitter. "Marry a man with no job or future." She laughed briefly. "Maybe they're right." "They're not." "How do you know?" she asked, suspecting. "Because you're kind," he said. "Kindness is rarer than people admit." She watched him. Ethan Cole wasn't flashy—no suits, no charm—just steady eyes, careful movements, and a calm presence. They met three months ago at a community center. When she vented about her family pushing her to marry for status, he made a reckless offer: "Marry me," half-joking. She laughed, then realized he meant it. "Why help me?" she asked. "Because you need help," he said. "And I need a wife." "For what?" "To stop questions." Absurd, impulsive—yet the most sensible choice. She said yes. Now, in their tiny apartment, she worried she'd dragged him into something darker. "If you want to leave—" she started. "I don't." "But—" "Luna." He turned toward her. "I married you because I wanted to. Not out of pity. Not because you trapped me. I chose you." Her breath caught. Before she could reply, his phone buzzed. He looked down, the mood shifting—like rain about to fall. "Excuse me," he said, standing. "I need to take this." He slipped into the bedroom and closed the door. Luna sat still. I wanted to marry you. What did that even mean? From behind the door, she heard his voice—low, measured, in English. "Yes… I saw the report… Move the meeting to Friday… Buy them out if they refuse… I don't care what it costs." She frowned. That didn't sound like a man without a job. Minutes later, the door opened. Ethan slid his phone into his pocket. "Everything okay?" she asked carefully. "Fine," he said with a smile. "Just a friend." She wanted to press him more, but something in his eyes stopped her. Instead, she said, "I'll make dinner. I'll help." They worked in the cramped kitchen, shoulders brushing. Luna chopped vegetables; Ethan rinsed rice quietly, experienced in this. Ordinary motions steadied her—the small dance of sharing space. "Tomorrow," Ethan suddenly said. She blinked. "When we meet Marcus, let me do the talking," he continued. "I can handle him," she protested. "I know," he said softly. "But let me, anyway." After a pause, she nodded. They ate quietly. Later, Luna showered and changed. When she came out, Ethan was hunched over his phone. "You can have the bed," she offered. "I'll take the couch." He looked.
CLIFFHANGER: As Luna watched Ethan hunched over his phone, a chill crept into her chest. By tomorrow, she would have to choose—trust the man she married, or uncover a truth capable of tearing her marriage apart. Once she made that choice, there would be no turning back
.