Chapter 1: You Can Leave. You Can Just Leave.
Claire's POV
The phone rings at 11:47 PM, and I already know what kind of call it is.
I just got back from the office twenty minutes ago. My instant ramen is sitting half-made on the counter, steam rising from the bowl, chopsticks balanced on the edge. The screen lights up with his name. Not "Boss," not "CEO," just "Ethan." Twenty years, and I've never changed it.
My finger hovers over the screen for three seconds. Then I answer.
"Get to my place. Now. Got a situation."
No "please." No "if you're not busy." Just that tone. The one that assumes I'll drop everything. Because I always do.
I stare at the ramen, watching the steam disappear. How many calls like this have there been? A hundred? Two hundred?
Sixteen years old, in the broken-down dorm at Evergreen Children's Home. Ethan's voice crackling through the phone: "Claire, I got expelled. Get me out of here." I skipped class, ran three miles, found him smoking outside the school gates.
Twenty years old, our cramped Seattle apartment, 2 AM. "Investor backed out. I need that financial model redone." Seventy-two hours straight. Twelve cups of coffee. Fingers going numb on the keyboard.
Twenty-five, the year his company launched. "The board's gonna kill me. Fix this." I turned down a VP offer somewhere else to stay as his assistant.
Now I'm twenty-nine. The call is the same. And I'm still going.
I grab my keys and coat. The door clicks shut behind me. The ramen sits there, already soggy.
My old sedan cuts through empty streets. Seattle's midnight rain starts falling, wipers squeaking against the windshield. Mercer Island. That lakefront mansion. I helped him negotiate the down payment last year when he closed his funding round. Spent weeks going back and forth with developers, knocked three hundred grand off the price. But I've never spent the night there. Never been invited.
The city lights fade into the sparse glow of mansion districts. My fingers are tight on the steering wheel.
The house is lit up when I arrive, every window bright. The front door is open. That's never good. I take a deep breath and step out of the car. My stomach is already tightening. That familiar pre-disaster feeling I know too well.
The living room is trashed. Shattered wine glass scattered across the hardwood floor. A champagne bottle knocked over, liquid seeping into the rug. Red wine stains spreading everywhere. The air smells of alcohol and heavy perfume.
A woman is standing in the middle of it all. She's wearing designer lingerie, draped in Ethan's white dress shirt. I recognize it. The one I took to the dry cleaners last month. On her feet, sky-high heels. In her hand, a designer bag. The one Ethan had me order last week. "For someone important," he'd said.
"Finally!" Her voice is sharp. "Ethan said you're his assistant. Clean this up."
She's pointing at the wine stains. I look from the broken glass to her. She's young. Maybe twenty-five, twenty-six. Beautiful in that obvious way.
"The carpet's handmade, so be careful. And go upstairs, get my coat. The camel one. Quick, and don't wrinkle it."
I crouch down, start picking up glass. A shard cuts into my finger. It stings, but I don't flinch. I've done this too many times.
Ethan is leaning against the bar counter, cigarette between his fingers, watching. His expression is cold amusement, like he's watching a show that has nothing to do with him. Smoke curls in front of his face.
My hands are shaking. Not from fear. It's a strange numbness. Like I've been doing the same thing for twenty years and suddenly realized how fucked up this is.
The woman moves closer to Ethan, her voice deliberately loud. "I heard you two grew up together? So you've seen him with lots of women, right?"
She kisses him, her arm around his neck, then turns to me with a smile. Pure malice. "Tell me. What number am I?"
I pick up the last piece of glass and stand.
"Oh, and pour us drinks! You're the assistant. You should be serving us, right?"
I'm turning when Ethan's voice cuts through.
"Enough, Amber."
The air freezes.
"You're crossing a line."
Amber looks stunned. "What?"
Ethan pulls out his wallet, extracts a thick stack of cash, and throws it on the coffee table. Bills scatter, some fluttering to the floor.
"That's for tonight. Your ride's waiting outside. Leave."
"Are you insane? Over some assistant?"
"Leave." His voice has no warmth.
She stares at him, eyes blazing. Finally, she grabs the money and her bag. The door slams hard enough to echo through the mansion.
Now it's just us. I keep cleaning, movements mechanical, like nothing happened. Twenty years. I've learned how to stay calm in his chaos.
But something inside me has broken. Not tonight. It's been breaking for twenty years, piece by piece, until this moment.
I wash my hands, smooth down my wrinkled clothes. Ethan is still at the bar, lighting another cigarette.
"Ethan," I say, my voice eerily calm. "I'm quitting."
The cigarette freezes halfway to his mouth. Ash drops onto the counter.
"Quit? Are you serious?"
"How many years has it been?"
Silence. He flicks ash, staring at me through the smoke.
"Twenty years," he finally says. "From that shitty orphanage in Evergreen to now."
I nod. "Yeah."
I take a breath. "I was eight when I met you. You used to steal my pudding cups. Twelve when you got in your first fight. I hid your bloody clothes so Mrs. Rodriguez wouldn't find out. Sixteen when you dropped out to start your company. I followed you, gave up high school. Twenty-two when you closed your first funding round. I pulled seventy-two hours straight on that financial model."
I pause. "Twenty years, Ethan. And I've been cleaning up your messes the entire time."
He stands, closing the distance between us. His eyes lock onto mine.
"So what?"
He steps closer. "You quit, then what? Where are you gonna go? Without me, what can you even do?"
His words are cruel, deliberate. "Your resume says 'Ethan Wright's assistant.' That's it. You didn't even finish college."
My hands curl into fists at my sides, but my face stays calm. Twenty years of practice.
"I don't know," I say, and it's honest. Raw. "But I want to try. I want to see who I can be without you."
He turns away, walks back to the bar, pours himself whiskey. His voice is cold.
"Fine. Get out, then. Come by the office tomorrow to finish the paperwork."
I stare at his back. Those broad shoulders in that expensive shirt. For the first time in twenty years, he looks like a stranger.
I turn and walk toward the door. My footsteps echo on the hardwood. My hand closes around the handle. Cold metal.
"Claire."
His voice is soft. I stop but don't turn around. My hand is still on the handle. My heartbeat is suddenly very loud.
"Are you really leaving?"
Twenty years. This is the first time he's asked. Not commanded. Not threatened. Just asked.
It's too late. Twenty years too late. How long did I wait for him to ask this? But now, it doesn't matter anymore.
"Yes," I say, eyes closed, taking a deep breath.
Then, using his words: "You're right. I can leave. I can just leave."
I push open the door. Cool night air rushes in. The door closes behind me. That sound echoing through the empty mansion, final and irreversible.
Ethan stands in the middle of the living room, staring at the closed door. The cigarette burns down to his fingers. Ash drops onto the expensive carpet. Ironic, considering Amber cared so much about that rug minutes ago. He stares at that door for a long time.
Finally, low and quiet: "Fuck."
