CHAPTER TWO (Who is He)

Ethan arrived at the office before sunrise, his focus razor-sharp as he drowned himself in work. Spreadsheets, deals, acquisitions—everything moved like a well-oiled machine under his control. The world bowed to power, and he wielded his with merciless precision.

His phone buzzed, breaking his concentration.

Lancaster: Should I rather wait forever for you?

Ethan smirked, leaning back in his chair, fingers tapping against his desk. Impatient already? He expected as much. The Lancasters were desperate, hanging by a thread, and he was the one holding the scissors.

He picked up his phone and dialed Julian.

The therapist answered on the second ring, his voice laced with amusement. "To what do I owe the honor, Sinclair? Need help dealing with that thing called emotion?"

Ethan ignored the jab. "I have a meeting with the Lancasters. What color suit do I wear?"

There was a pause. Then Julian burst into laughter. "Jesus. You're calling your therapist for fashion advice? You do know you have an assistant, right?"

Ethan sighed, glancing at the suits hanging in his office closet. "Coffee, navy, or black?"

Julian hummed as if seriously contemplating it. "Navy says you're professional, coffee says you're approachable, and black…" He chuckled darkly. "Black says you're the man who's about to fuck their world up."

Ethan smirked. "Then black it is."

"Of course it is." Julian's voice turned mischievous. "But if we're thinking strategy here, maybe you should wear something that makes their daughter's knees weak. A little undone, top buttons open, sleeves rolled up—make her imagine all the ways you could ruin her, in and out of business."

Ethan chuckled, shaking his head. "You're a damn unprofessional therapist.

Julian laughed. "And yet, you keep calling me."

Ethan ended the call, still smirking as he buttoned up the deep black suit. He checked himself in the mirror—a predator dressed in elegance, power dripping from every inch of him.By the time he stepped into his G-Wagon, the storm had passed, leaving the sky clear.Time to introduce the Lancasters to the man who was about to own them.Ethan pulled up to the Lancasters' estate, his G-Wagon rolling to a stop in front of their towering, wrought-iron gates. The mansion loomed beyond—grand, pristine, a symbol of wealth that had once crushed his own family.

His phone buzzed.

Security: Mr. Sinclair, you may proceed.

The gates parted with a slow, mechanical hum, and he drove through, the tires crunching against the polished stone driveway.

As he stepped out of the car, adjusting the cuffs of his jet-black suit, a movement caught his eye.

A soft, carefree laugh.

His gaze shifted, locking onto a sight that made him pause.

A woman—golden-haired, delicate yet striking—was kneeling on the grass, playfully running her fingers through the fur of a white Samoyed. The dog wagged its tail enthusiastically, its fluffy coat brushing against the folds of her flowing sundress. Sunlight spilled over her, casting a warm glow against her porcelain skin, highlighting sapphire-blue eyes that shimmered with unguarded joy.

Aria Lancaster.

Ethan's expression hardened.

She was everything he despised about her family—privileged, sheltered, untouched by the ruthless world that had torn his apart. And yet, in this moment, she was… breathtaking.

As if sensing his presence, Aria turned.

Their eyes met.

A sudden shift in the air. Her playful smile faded as curiosity took over, her gaze drinking him in—his broad frame, the powerful set of his shoulders, the sharp angles of his face. And those eyes…

Emerald-green. Intense. Piercing

Something about them made her stomach tighten, though she wasn't sure why.

He looked away first, as if uninterested, as if she were just another insignificant detail in his day.

That irritated her more than it should have.

Aria tilted her head, stepping forward, her voice laced with innocent intrigue. "Who are you?"

Ethan said nothing.

He simply gave a curt nod—acknowledgment, nothing more—before walking past her and into the house.

Aria stared after him, brows furrowing.

Who was he? And why did his presence feel like a storm waiting to unravel everything she knew?

Inside the grand Lancaster estate, Ethan sat in their opulent living room, the air thick with tension despite the hospitality they attempted to offer.

A glass of freshly squeezed orange juice was placed before him.

He barely glanced at it. "I don't do orange juice."

The servant hesitated. "Would you prefer something else, sir?"

"Espresso."

A brief, awkward silence.

"We, uh, don't have any at the moment."

Ethan let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head before offering a sharp, knowing smile. "Then I'll settle for water."

Eleanor, who had been watching from across the room, personally handed him a glass of water. She said nothing, but when she turned back toward her husband, Ethan caught the fleeting glance they exchanged.

So, they know exactly what this meeting is about.

Good.

Ethan leaned back, swirling the water in his glass as he finally got to business.

"My company is one of the most sought-after in the oil industry," he began, his voice smooth, calculated. "It's no secret that everyone wants a seat at my table. A partnership with Sinclair Enterprises would not only elevate the Lancaster name but restore confidence in your family's crumbling empire."

Jonathan Lancaster sat stone-faced, his jaw tight.

Ethan smirked. "But there's one condition." He placed his glass down with a soft clink. "If I'm going to tie my company's reputation to yours, I need more than just a contract. I need unity. I need something solid."

He paused, then delivered the blow.

"A marriage."

Eleanor's expression faltered. Jonathan, however, stiffened completely, his fingers curling into fists.

"If Aria bears my last name," Ethan continued, "it solidifies our alliance. It makes the Lancaster name valuable again. Investors will see us as one, and the weight of my empire will pull yours back to the top. It's a win-win, really." He took a slow sip of his water. "Of course, in the meantime, I'll own twenty percent of your profits."

Jonathan's nostrils flared. "Absolutely not."

Ethan raised an eyebrow, amused by how quickly the rejection came.

"Aria is everything to me," Jonathan continued, his voice sharp, protective. "I refuse to entangle her in any of this. She stays out of our business. Out of our mess."

Ethan tilted his head slightly, watching the man with quiet amusement.

So, you're really going to play dirty from the start.

He exhaled, feigning disappointment. "Pity," he said nonchalantly. "I had expected a more serious response. I suppose I overestimated the Lancaster family's ability to handle their own downfall."

Pushing his chair back, he stood. "I won't waste any more of my time, then."

Jonathan's glare darkened, but before he could say anything, Eleanor suddenly stepped forward.

She reached for Ethan's wrist—lightly, but enough to make him pause. "Stay."

Jonathan turned to her, his voice barely restrained. "Eleanor—"

"Just give us a week to think about it," she interrupted, her tone firm yet calm.

Ethan studied her, his gaze flickering between the silent conversation happening between husband and wife. Interesting.

After a long pause, he gave a slow, knowing smile. "Take all the time you need," he said smoothly, adjusting his cufflinks. "Even if you need a year, it's no concern of mine."

He stepped toward the door but stopped briefly. Without turning back, he added with a smirk,

"But next time I visit, I expect an espresso."

And with that, he left.

Ethan stepped outside, the cool air wrapping around him as he approached his car. He wasn't expecting anyone to be there—until he spotted her.

Aria Lancaster.

She stood a few feet away, arms folded, eyes fixed on his G-Wagon with a look of pure admiration. The way she examined it, head tilted slightly, lips parting in quiet fascination—it was as if she were appreciating a piece of fine art.

His brows furrowed. Strange.

"You like black?" he asked, his voice breaking the silence.

Aria turned to him, surprised, then let out a soft laugh. "It's not about the color," she corrected. "It's the make. The craftsmanship. The details. This model—G63, right?—has an AMG-tuned V8 engine. Incredible horsepower, sleek yet aggressive design. It's one of the best in its class."

Ethan hadn't expected that. Most women he knew admired luxury, but few actually understood it.

Impressed—though he'd never admit it—he gave her a measured look. "You know cars."

"I love cars," she admitted, her sapphire-blue eyes practically glowing.

Aria took a step closer, tracing her gaze along the smooth, polished exterior. Then, with a hint of mischief, she tilted her head. "So… can I get a ride?"

Ethan let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. "Not happening."

Her lips parted slightly, as if the rejection genuinely surprised her. "Why not?"

"Because I don't give rides." He walked past her, opening the driver's side door.

But before he could slide in, she stopped him again.

"What cologne do you wear?" she asked suddenly.

He paused.

For a moment, he thought he misheard her.

Aria stepped a little closer, a slight flush on her cheeks. "I mean… you smell really good. It's not just the usual expensive cologne—there's something about it. What is it?"

Ethan exhaled sharply. This was getting ridiculous.

"Too many questions." His tone turned curt, dismissive.

Aria blinked, taken aback by the sudden shift in his demeanor. He could see it in her eyes—that flicker of surprise, maybe even slight offense.

She took a step back, lips pressing into a thin line. Without another word, she moved aside, creating space for him to reverse and leave.

Ethan started the engine, the deep roar filling the air, but as he glanced at the rearview mirror before pulling out, he saw her still standing there.

Watching him.

Curious. Intrigued.

Who are you?

That unspoken question lingered in her eyes, 

Aria leaned against the cool marble railing of the balcony, her fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns against the stone. The city lights glittered in the distance, but her mind wasn't on the view—it was on him.

The man with the broad chest, the impossibly sharp jawline, and the piercing green eyes that seemed to strip her bare without even touching her.

She exhaled sharply, almost annoyed at herself.

Who was he?

She had met countless men in high society—some handsome, some charming, some powerful. But none had made her stomach tighten with an unspoken, forbidden curiosity the way he did.

Hearing footsteps behind her, she turned to see her mother stepping onto the balcony, her elegant silk robe barely rustling as she moved.

"Mother." Aria's lips curled into a slow smirk, masking the whirlwind inside her. "Is he your man, or the man who's about to drive me insane?"

Eleanor arched a brow, amused by her daughter's sarcasm. "Maybe he's the man after your soul."

Aria let out a soft chuckle, but there was a flicker of something deeper in her eyes. Did she already know?

"Tell me about him." Aria's voice was lighter than she felt.

But before Eleanor could answer, Jonathan's sharp voice cut through the air.

"Aria."

She stiffened at the tone, recognizing the weight behind it before she even turned around.

Her father stood at the threshold, his jaw locked, eyes darker than usual.

"Don't even think about giving that man a chance," he said coldly. "He's not who you think he is."

The chill in his voice made her skin prickle.

Aria swallowed, her playful attitude dimming as something uneasy settled in her chest. "What do you mean?"

Eleanor sighed, stepping forward as if to ease the tension. "It's complicated."

Aria's heart pounded. Complicated. That meant secrets.

That meant lies.

Eleanor reached out, gently tucking a strand of Aria's golden hair behind her ear, her touch both soothing and manipulative in the same breath. "Ethan Sinclair isn't here for business, darling. He's here for us. And not in the way you might think."

Her mother's voice was gentle, but the way she chose her words—the way she carefully built her web—Aria knew exactly what she was doing.

Aria's weakness had always been her heart. And Eleanor knew exactly how to squeeze it.

"It's not just about the company," Eleanor continued, her fingers brushing Aria's shoulder. "Your father has worked too hard, sacrificed too much, for a man like that to come in and destroy everything." She sighed dramatically, glancing toward the city skyline. "You know what stress does to him, sweetheart. You don't want to see your father like that, do you?"

A perfect strike.

Aria clenched her fists, a lump forming in her throat. The idea of her father suffering, of him breaking beneath the weight of their family's downfall—it hurt.

Which was exactly what Eleanor wanted.

Aria didn't argue. She didn't fight. She simply turned and walked away, her mother's words echoing in her head as she made her way to her room.

Once inside, she closed the door behind her, her gaze falling onto the framed photos lining her wall—the perfect family, the legacy her father built, the life she had always known.

Was it all really crumbling?

She sank onto the edge of her bed, her chest tightening.

She hated this. The manipulation. The secrecy. The idea that something much bigger was at play, and she was just another piece on the board.

Her phone buzzed beside her.

She glanced down and saw Sienna's name flashing across the screen.

For a moment, she considered ignoring it, but she knew Sienna—she'd just keep calling.

Aria exhaled and answered.

"Finally!" Sienna's voice was full of mischief. "I have so much to tell you. First of all, I met a male stripper tonight. He had the thickest—"

"Sienna," Aria cut in, her voice barely above a whisper.

Sienna paused. Silence. Then—

"What's wrong?"

Aria pressed her fingers against her temple, her mind racing.

Everything. Everything felt wrong.

And yet, one thought, one face, burned its way through the chaos in her mind.

Ethan Sinclair.

Who the hell was he?

Aria poured out everything to Sienna—the tension at dinner, the cryptic warnings, the weight pressing down on her chest like an iron fist. As she spoke, she felt the shift in Sienna's energy. The usual playful spark dulled.

For once, even Sienna was at a loss for words.

Aria swallowed, her throat tight, her emotions spiraling—fear, confusion, curiosity, something she couldn't even name. She ran a trembling hand through her hair, tears stinging her eyes. What was she supposed to do?

Sienna's voice broke the silence. "So… what's the way forward, Aria?"

Aria sucked in a shaky breath. "I—I don't know." She didn't want to know. Because every path led back to him.

Sienna let out a slow breath, then, in true Sienna fashion, shifted the mood instantly.

"Okay, first of all, you look ugly as hell crying."

Aria let out a choked laugh, swiping at her tears. "Thanks, bitch."

"You're welcome." A beat of silence. Then, in a hushed, mischievous tone, Sienna asked, "Alright, so let's figure this out. Do you know his company? His number? Where he hangs out? What if you just—"

"No." Aria cut in, shaking her head even though Sienna couldn't see. "My dad said to stay away from him."

Sienna snorted. "Your dad also thinks high heels are the devil's work, so let's not pretend he's always right."

"Sienna."

"What?" Sienna huffed. "Listen, babe, you never know. Maybe he could make you moan—not just right now but also in bed."

"Sienna!" Aria gasped, her cheeks burning as she gawked at her phone.

Sienna cackled. "I said what I said."

Aria laughed, shaking her head in disbelief. "You're insane. Ain't no way I'm doing that shit."

"Uh-huh."

"Goodnight, Sienna."

"Sweet dreams of Mr. Broad Chest."

Aria rolled her eyes and ended the call, tossing her phone onto the bed. But as she lay back against her pillows, her mind circled back—again—to him.

His cold stare. His deep voice. The tension that lingered in the air between them.

Her father's warning echoed in her mind.

But so did Sienna's teasing.

And for the hundredth time that night, she found herself whispering the same question to the empty room.

Who the hell is Ethan Sinclair?

Eleanor's steps were as soft as whispers as she entered Aria's room. The silence between them was suffocating, and yet, the older woman tiptoed, as if afraid of waking Aria, but not because she feared disrupting her daughter's rest. No, it was the way she feared the truth—the way the looming weight of everything they had buried under false facades might come to light.

Aria, however, wasn't asleep. Her eyes fluttered open at the sound of movement near the bed. She didn't need to speak. The presence of her mother was always louder than her silence. Slowly, she propped herself up, watching as Eleanor hovered near the dresser, her movements unsteady, like someone caught in the midst of a long-held lie.

"Where are you going?" Aria asked, her voice hoarse from sleep but sharp enough to cut through the tension.

Eleanor froze, her hand still resting on the lock of the cabinet, her heart racing. For a moment, she didn't answer, her eyes focused on a distant point as though contemplating an escape. Then, without warning, she sat beside Aria, her body trembling with grief.

Aria's gaze softened, a quiet concern replacing the bitterness in her tone. But before she could ask again, Eleanor's words came, soaked with a deliberate, aching sorrow.

"What will happen to your father's business, Aria?" Eleanor's voice cracked like glass, her tears flowing freely now. "How will we survive? How will you survive? Your friends, your world... they'll laugh at you. They'll talk. They'll know."

Aria's chest tightened. She understood the implications—every whispered insult, every cold glance from those in the circles they had once dominated. But there was something more in her mother's words, a manipulation wrapped in tears, designed to trap her in a web of guilt.

Aria blinked, feeling the pressure of her mother's emotional plea, the weight of a family hanging by the thinnest thread. She couldn't breathe for a moment. The fear gnawed at her—fear of losing everything. Fear of becoming just another casualty in the wake of Jonathan Lancaster's failures.

"Mom," Aria whispered, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside her. "What does he want from us? From me?" The question hung in the air, sharp as a blade.

Eleanor's lips trembled. She turned her gaze toward the floor, allowing a tremor to cross her face. "He wants your father's downfall, Aria," she said quietly, as though the words were poison she could barely swallow herself.

The realization hit Aria like a slap. The pieces clicked into place—Ethan Sinclair, a man she didn't understand, a man who held so much power in his hands, had been slowly orchestrating the destruction of the one thing her family had fought for all their lives. She felt a chill in her bones.

A moment of quiet passed between them. Eleanor's tears were a mirror of Aria's own distress, and yet, Aria felt her resolve hardening. She couldn't let this be the end. Not for her family, not for her.

"I need his address… or his number," Aria said, her voice now firm with a quiet desperation. She wasn't just asking for contact information. She was demanding control of her own destiny, even if it meant stepping into the unknown.

Eleanor recoiled. There was a moment of hesitation, a flash of anger behind her watery eyes, but she couldn't deny the truth anymore. Aria had a fire in her that was both terrifying and captivating.

"I won't give you his number, Aria. This... this is too dangerous," Eleanor protested softly.

But Aria wasn't one to back down. "Mom, please," she insisted, her voice low and unwavering. "He's the only one who can help us now."

After a long pause, Eleanor stood, her expression a mixture of fear and guilt, as though she were surrendering something precious to her daughter. She shook her head, her lips pressed tight. "I can't, Aria. I can't do that."

But Aria wouldn't let go. She watched her mother's every move, her emotions like a tide she couldn't control. And after a while, Eleanor turned, too weary to argue further, and left her daughter's room in silence. The weight of what was unfolding was too much for them both.

Alone in the dim room, Aria reached for her phone, trembling as she unlocked it. She scrolled through her contacts, hesitating. Should she? The thought haunted her, yet the more she pondered it, the more necessary it seemed. She dialed the number she had learned by heart—the number that had been on her mind for days now. The one that would either pull her family out of the abyss or send them deeper into the darkness.

Three rings.

"Ethan." Her voice, warm yet uncertain, broke through the static.

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Ethan's deep voice eventually came through, low and measured, as though he had been waiting for this moment just as long as she had.

"Who is this?" he asked.

"The little Lancaster," she replied, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

A smile curled on Ethan's lips as recognition flickered in his tone. "Ah, Aria. Did you finally decide to stop running from me?"

Aria's pulse quickened. She wasn't sure where the conversation would go, but she knew one thing: the games were just beginning.

"I want to meet tomorrow," she said, her tone firm now. "We need to talk."

There was a quiet pause before Ethan responded, his voice now edged with something she couldn't quite place—curiosity, perhaps?

"Tomorrow sounds good," he replied smoothly. "But just a heads-up... orange juice is never better than espresso."

Aria was momentarily thrown off by the comment, but she ignored it, choosing not to entertain his teasing. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Sleep tight, Aria." His voice was soft, almost... tender? It was hard to tell, but it set something ablaze deep inside her.

As soon as she hung up, she felt her nerves come alive, her body humming with anticipation and dread. This was it. The meeting would decide everything.

Meanwhile, across town, Ethan dropped the phone and turned to Camille, who was lounging lazily across his bed, half-dressed, her gaze still lingering on him.

"Leave," he said, his voice colder now.

Camille raised an eyebrow, clearly irritated. "You can't keep cutting me off like this."

Ethan didn't answer. He grabbed a bottle of whiskey from his bedside table, poured himself a glass, and took a long sip. The smooth burn calmed his nerves, but he couldn't shake the strange feeling that had settled over him after his call with Aria.

With his drink in hand, he moved to his wardrobe, selecting a black suit. He paused as he stared at his reflection in the mirror. There was something about this whole situation that was different. Something about Aria.

Why do I feel... happy?

He shook the thought away and focused instead on the plan. His revenge was falling into place. And soon, everything would be his.