CHAPYER FOUR (MY WAY OR MY WAY)

Ethan sat behind his massive mahogany desk, fingers gripping the pen so tightly his knuckles turned white. The pressure was suffocating—contracts piled high, meetings back-to-back. His vision blurred momentarily, the familiar ache creeping in behind his eyes. His hands trembled as he reached for the bottle of pills in his drawer, dry-swallowing two before leaning back, exhaling slowly.

A knock at the door.

"Come in," he called, forcing his voice to sound unaffected.

The moment Victor Harrington stepped inside, Ethan's lips curled into a smirk.

"Victor," he drawled, watching his rival stroll in with an air of arrogance.

Victor chuckled, eyes scanning Ethan with mock concern. "Oh my, Sinclair. You look pale. Should I be worried?" He scoffed, leaning against the desk. "Then again, I should probably be more concerned about your business—it's looking worse than you." Ethan replied

Ethan remained silent, unbothered, letting Victor have his fun. He knew the man too well—when he showed up unannounced, it was never for casual small talk.

"I came with a proposal," Victor finally said, sliding a neatly printed agreement across the desk. "A deal that benefits us both."

Ethan picked up the paper, skimming the details. A cut of 10%. Laughable.

Shaking his head, he leaned back, smirking. "Victor, Victor… maybe later. I've got better things ahead."

Victor narrowed his eyes. "Such as?"

Ethan tilted his head. "Like planning my wedding."

Victor's amusement faltered for just a second before he covered it with a laugh. "Wedding? And who's the poor woman signing her life away?"

Ethan's smirk deepened. "My little Lancaster."

Victor's expression froze, and then—understanding dawned. The pieces of the puzzle fit together perfectly now. An arranged marriage. A calculated move.

Victor chuckled, shaking his head. "Well played, Sinclair." He clapped a hand against his shoulder. "She's a pretty one. Hope you don't get burned."

Ethan just smiled, watching as Victor walked to the door. But just as Victor reached for the handle, Jonathan Lancaster entered.

The two men exchanged a silent glance—a knowing nod from Victor, one that screamed I see what's happening here. Jonathan returned the look before brushing past him, stepping inside without another word.

The door slammed shut.

Jonathan took a seat across from Ethan, his face blank but his shoulders stiff.

"Espresso?" Ethan offered, lifting a cup toward him.

Jonathan didn't even glance at it. "No, thanks."

Ethan smirked. "Come on, Jonathan. If espresso isn't your thing, I don't mind offering you a taste. Not like I have water to spare."

Jonathan let out a dry chuckle. "It's a lame trick, Ethan. I've played this game before."

Without another word, Ethan slid the contract toward him.

Jonathan didn't hesitate. He picked up the pen, signed it in one swift motion, and stood up.

Just as he turned to leave, Ethan spoke. "Did you read it?"

Jonathan paused at the door.

He turned his head slightly. "This isn't a warning, Sinclair. It's advice." His voice dropped, eyes sharp with meaning. "If this game of yours ever makes Aria a victim—if she suffers because of you—I won't hesitate to kill the last Sinclair left of Margaret."

Ethan's grip on the desk tightened, his jaw clenching.

He watched as Jonathan walked out without another word.

Darkness clouded Ethan's thoughts. You want to threaten me, old man? He exhaled sharply, his pulse raging.

"I wouldn't mind burning the entire Lancaster lineage to the ground."

Ethan leaned back in his chair, staring at the signed contract in his hands. He brought it to his lips, pressing a slow, mocking kiss to the paper—victory tasted sweet.

His phone buzzed. Camille.

He sighed before answering, already anticipating the sultry tone she always used to lure him in.

"Hey, baby," she purred. "I was thinking… I'll cook you your favorite when you come home."

Ethan rubbed his temple. "Is that so?"

"Mmmhmm," she teased. "I know what my man likes… porridge."

A pause. Ethan smirked. "Rice pudding is my favorite, Camille."

Silence.

Then a nervous chuckle. "Oh! I meant pudding, not porridge. Shit, my tongue's playing games with me."

Ethan's smirk deepened. He decided to toy with her. "No, Camille. My favorite is mashed potatoes."

Another pause.

"Fuuuuuuck," she groaned under her breath. He could practically hear her mind scrambling. "This little brain of mine, I know your favorite, baby."

Ethan chuckled darkly, letting the silence stretch before delivering the final blow. "It's rice pudding, Camille. Get the fuck off my phone. I won't be home tonight."

She went dead quiet.

Ethan ended the call, tossing his phone onto the desk. He had bigger things to focus on.

Ethan exhaled sharply, running a hand through his damp hair as he stepped into the bathroom. His reflection stared back at him—stoic, unreadable, yet beneath it all, a flicker of something… anticipation? He scoffed at the thought.

Grabbing his phone, he scrolled through his messages until he saw one from his mother.

Margaret: Meet me at Poppy Bridal Boutique. And bring her.

His jaw clenched. Her.

With an irritated sigh, he turned on the faucet, letting the cold water run over his fingers before muttering, "Hey Siri, call Little Lancaster."

The phone rang. Once. Twice. Seven times.

She finally picked up, sounding slightly breathless. "What do you want, Ethan?"

Straight to the point. Cute.

He leaned against the counter, his voice detached. "My mother wants to meet you. Bridal shop. Be there."

Aria blinked on the other end. "What?"

"You heard me."

She huffed, clearly annoyed. "I'm at my cooking class, Ethan."

He didn't care. "Leave it and meet us there."

Her irritation was almost tangible. "Oh, come on, Ethan. I'm busy."

His patience was wearing thin. "Address."

She hesitated but eventually relented, rattling off the location.

Ethan leaned against his sleek black G-Wagon, his arms crossed, his sharp green eyes scanning the building impatiently. The warm afternoon breeze tousled his long blond hair, but his irritation only grew.

He had called. She hadn't answered.

Now, here he was, wasting his time.

The security guards had tried to stop him at the gate, spewing something about strict rules and protocol. He had rolled his eyes, pulled out a crisp stack of bills, and handed them $500 with a smirk. Rules bent for money. Always.

As he stood there, waiting, a flash of golden hair caught his eye.

Aria.

She was rushing down the stairs, her small frame moving quickly, her expression a mix of irritation and urgency. He watched her without expression, though his jaw ticked slightly when she finally reached him.

She stopped just in front of him, her sapphire-blue eyes blazing. "Why?" she snapped, breathless. "I told you I was busy, Ethan."

He cocked his head, gaze unreadable. "Where's your phone?"

Aria frowned. "What?"

His voice was calm, but the edge in it was unmistakable. "Phones are for answering calls. If you want to play video games, carry a controller instead."

She sucked in a sharp breath, stunned at the sheer arrogance of his words.

Ethan stepped closer, lowering his voice. "When I call, I don't care where the fuck you are. You pick up."

Her hands balled into fists at her sides. "You can't just—"

"Get in the car, Little."

She didn't move.

His gaze darkened. "Now."

A tense moment stretched between them before she exhaled sharply, giving him an annoyed nod and climbing into the passenger seat. She slammed the door shut, arms crossed, fuming.

As he slid into the driver's seat, she muttered under her breath, "Why must everything be your way, Ethan?"

Without looking at her, he started the engine, his voice smooth yet unyielding.

"Because it should be."

Aria turned away, staring at the passing trees as they drove, her voice barely above a whisper.

"I'm tired."

Ethan drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. He didn't bother glancing at Aria, but the silence in the car spoke volumes. She was pissed.

Good.

Without a word, he turned on his music, the deep bass of Mood by Pop Smoke filling the car. The heavy beat vibrated through the space, yet she didn't react.

He smirked. "You don't like this music?"

She stared straight ahead, refusing to answer.

Ethan let out a low chuckle. "Oh, I forgot—you probably like lullabies."

Her frown deepened, her small fingers gripping the edge of her dress.

He bit back a smirk. Feisty.

When they arrived at Poppy Bridal Boutique, Aria barely had time to collect her thoughts before Margaret Sinclair swept her into a warm embrace.

Ethan rolled his eyes and sank into a nearby chair, sipping his water as his mother fawned over Aria.

Margaret's keen eyes took in the young woman's features, her lips curving into a rare smile. "You're even more beautiful in person." She tilted her head. "I suppose Ethan isn't entirely blind after all."

Aria blushed slightly, casting a glance toward Ethan—who was now lounging in his chair, looking far too pleased with himself.

Margaret looped her arm through Aria's, guiding her toward the racks of gowns. "Come, let me show you around."

Ethan stayed put, watching them with mild amusement as he sipped his water.

Margaret pulled out a delicate gown, running her fingers along the intricate lace. "Do you like this one?"

Aria admired it, her fingers brushing over the fabric.

Margaret smiled knowingly. "It would look good on you—especially if you want to fall. It'll hold you when Ethan won't."

Aria let out a surprised laugh, and they both turned to glance at Ethan, who merely raised an unimpressed brow.

"Very funny," he muttered.

Margaret smirked. "I thought so."

Ethan shook his head, watching the two women giggle at his expense. He wasn't sure what annoyed him more—the teasing or the fact that, for once, his mother actually seemed... happy.

Aria's eyes lit up when she discovered the gown—a masterpiece half-hidden on a rack, its delicate fabric and elegantly draped back perfectly accentuating her figure. With a mix of excitement and defiance, she stepped into it and twirled in front of the mirror. The gown hugged her curves and hinted at a promise of opulence, and in that moment, she felt unstoppable.

Ethan, who had been watching her with his usual guarded intensity, caught sight of her and couldn't help but be captivated by the sight. His hardened gaze softened for just a second before he spoke curtly, "Change it."

Aria's eyes widened in surprise and indignation. "Oh fuck, man, this shit looks so good on me. Why are you against it?" she snapped, her tone laced with both humor and frustration.

Ethan offered no reply; his silence was as implacable as ever. Before the tension could spiral, Margaret stepped in with calm authority, a gentle smile tugging at her lips. "Do as he says, dear. You know my son won't change his mind," she advised, her tone a blend of maternal warmth and strategic insistence.

Reluctantly, Aria retreated to the dressing room. Minutes later, Ethan emerged from his private collection of curated outfits. With meticulous care, he selected a piece that he deemed perfect. When Aria returned, the transformation was breathtaking—a ball wedding gown, off the shoulder and encrusted with diamonds, the epitome of extravagant luxury. It was, without question, the most expensive gown in the boutique.

Aria couldn't tear her eyes away from the mirror as she admired the dazzling reflection before her. At the same time, Ethan's gaze was fixed on her, his eyes roaming over every detail with unmistakable admiration. Finally, breaking the silence, he said softly, "You look beautiful."

In that quiet moment, as the boutique hummed with muted elegance, their eyes met—a silent acknowledgment that sometimes, power and beauty conspired to defy expectations.