Chapter 4 - THE WOMAN WHOSE PERFUME I REMEMBERED
I met Ethan five days later.
Not at his office.
Not at the penthouse.
A small restaurant in Brooklyn where the tables were too close together for anyone to have a private conversation without making an effort.
My choice.
He arrived alone.
I noticed that immediately.
He noticed me noticing.
"I took a cab."
He said.
"Congratulations on discovering public transportation."
His mouth moved slightly.
Not quite a smile.
We sat.
I ordered tea.
Ethan ordered coffee he never touched.
For several minutes, we discussed the police report, Grant's suspension, and Silas's involvement in the intimidation.
An outside investigator had established that Grant maintained my security profile after the divorce, despite instructions to terminate it. He had also forwarded information to Silas through an internal channel that was never supposed to handle personal security records.
Grant claimed he had simply followed established procedures.
Silas denied sending the threatening package.
But a courier account associated with one of his clubs had paid for its delivery.
That gave investigators somewhere to start.
Ethan told me all of this without once saying he had everything under control.
Progress.
Then he asked about the pregnancy.
"How are you feeling?"
"Tired."
"Nauseated."
"And very interested in foods that apparently don't belong together."
"What foods?"
"Peanut butter and green apples."
He looked genuinely horrified.
"That's criminal."
"You're an expert."
He almost laughed.
For a moment, I could see our old life.
Sunday mornings.
Coffee.
Him making breakfast while I complained about the amount of butter he used.
Then the memory faded.
There was something I had avoided asking since the divorce.
I was tired of avoiding it.
"Who was she?"
Ethan went still.
"What?"
"The woman whose perfume was on your jacket the night you forgot my birthday."
His expression changed.
I continued.
"I know you didn't spend that entire night in a business meeting."
He looked down.
For the first time, I did not help him find an explanation.
I waited.
Finally:
"Vanessa Price."
I knew the name.
A casino executive who handled some of Ethan's operations in Las Vegas.
"How long?"
"Four months."
My stomach tightened.
"Was it physical?"
"Yes."
There it was.
Not a misunderstanding.
Not perfume transferred during a harmless conversation.
An affair.
"Did you love her?"
"No."
"Did she know about me?"
"Yes."
I stared at him.
"Did you tell her we were separating?"
"No."
"Then what did you tell her?"
He looked ashamed.
"That things at home were difficult."
I laughed bitterly.
"How original."
"Emma—"
"No. Go on."
He swallowed.
"She made me feel like I could stop thinking for a few hours."
My throat tightened.
"So you stopped thinking about your wife."
"Yes."
The answer was barely audible.
I looked toward the window.
A delivery cyclist passed.
Two women laughed beneath a striped umbrella.
Somewhere nearby, someone dropped a tray.
The world continued as though my last remaining uncertainty hadn't just become a fact.
"Did you see her after I asked for the divorce?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because I realized what I had done."
I turned back.
"You realized it only after I threw a birthday cake on the floor?"
His face tightened.
"No."
He closed his eyes.
"I knew it was wrong before it started."
"Then why didn't you stop?"
He took a breath.
"Because I was selfish."
No excuse.
No business emergency.
No claim that I had driven him to another woman.
Just the truth.
For several seconds, I could not speak.
Then I asked:
"Why did you say 'Fine' when I asked for the divorce?"
Ethan looked at me.
"Because I thought if I begged you to stay, I'd have to become someone who could actually keep his promises."
That answer surprised me.
He continued.
"I knew you were unhappy."
"I knew I'd become a man who was always telling you to wait."
"I kept thinking I'd fix it after the next deal."
"After the next problem."
"After everything settled."
His voice broke slightly.
"Then you asked for a divorce, and I was angry that you wouldn't give me more time."
I stared.
"Three years."
"I know."
"That's how much time I gave you."
"I know."
"And you spent part of it with Vanessa."
He lowered his head.
"Yes."
I pushed my tea away.
The nausea wasn't entirely from pregnancy anymore.
"Thank you for telling me."
Ethan looked up.
"Does that mean—"
"No."
I shook my head.
"It means I can stop wondering whether I was wrong."
His face changed.
"Emma, I am sorry."
"I believe you."
I stood.
"But I don't forgive you."
He nodded slowly.
"Okay."
At the door, he asked:
"Are you going to keep me away from the baby because of what I did?"
I turned.
"No."
Relief moved across his face.
I continued.
"I'm not going to use our child to punish you for betraying me."
"But I am going to consider whether the world you've built is safe for a child."
"The affair is between us."
"That question is about parenting."
Ethan's expression became serious.
"I understand."
I hoped he did.
Because the next morning, Silas Vane sent a message that made our private problems seem suddenly very small.
The message reached Ethan through his attorney.
Silas wanted a meeting.
He offered to withdraw from certain Blackwood businesses if Ethan agreed to leave the underground gambling network untouched for another two years.
In return, Silas would keep quiet about my pregnancy.
If Ethan refused, Silas would make sure every rival group in the country knew exactly where the next Blackwood heir was expected to live.
Ethan forwarded the message to Rebecca and the investigators.
That decision surprised Silas.
He had expected a negotiation.
Instead, he had created written evidence of an attempt to use a pregnant woman as leverage.
But Silas wasn't stupid.
He knew Ethan's own records could expose years of criminal activity.
He believed Ethan would protect himself before risking a prosecution.
For ten years, that would probably have been true.
Now Ethan had to decide whether he wanted to preserve the empire that had already cost him his marriage or begin dismantling it, knowing he might lose his freedom in the process.
When he called me, he did not promise everything would be fine.
He said:
"I have to tell you something that may make you hate me more."
I closed my eyes.
May you like
"Then tell me."
And for the first time since I'd known him, Ethan Blackwood began giving me the truth before he had worked out how to make himself look good in it.
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