The Problem With Real Feelings Is They Don’t Follow Contracts

For two months, Harper had convinced herself she was fine. That she could handle the whispers, the staged dates, the coordinated outfits, the magazines calling them “New York’s favorite comeback couple.” She could handle Ethan’s presence—the too-quiet footsteps, the too-careful questions, the way he seemed to soften only around her without ever saying it out loud. She could handle all of it, as long as she reminded herself that none of it was real. But the problem was: Ethan wasn’t acting fake anymore. Not even close. It started with small things. He memorized how she took her coffee—two pumps vanilla, one sugar, extra hot—and without comment started bringing one to every morning meeting. He didn’t hover. He didn’t push. He simply placed the cup near her, said “This is the temperature you like,” and moved on. The second thing was the umbrella. They were caught by a sudden downpour outside a gallery opening. Ethan stepped in front of her, shielding her with his entire body like some kind of human shield against the storm. She hadn’t even realized he’d done it until she looked up and saw he was drenched and she wasn’t. “Why would you do that?” she asked, irritated because it was easier than being moved. “You hate getting your hair wet.” “Plenty of people hate getting their hair wet.” He shrugged, water dripping down his jaw. “Doesn’t change the fact that you do.” She’d stared at him then, not knowing what to do with the warmth blooming in her chest. The third thing was bigger. The third thing was the one that broke her equilibrium entirely. He defended her—in public, brutally, and without hesitation. It happened at a small industry dinner, the kind packed with people who smiled with their teeth and judged with their eyes. Sienna Ward was there, pretending to be polite while looking Harper up and down like she was a case study in “How Did She Get Here?” Halfway through dinner, someone made a joke at Harper’s expense—subtle, a little too sharp, the kind that carries poison wrapped in humor. Before Harper could even respond, Ethan spoke: “If you don’t know what you’re talking about, maybe don’t talk at all.” The table went silent. Harper blinked. Slowly. Because Ethan Hale wasn’t impulsive. He wasn’t confrontational. He was precise. If he fired a shot, it was calculated—and intentional. Later that night, when she confronted him outside the restaurant, he looked at her with a calmness that felt like it stripped her bare. “You didn’t have to do that,” she said. “Yes,” he replied. “I did.” “Why?” He paused. “Because you deserved better seven years ago. The very least I can do is give it to you now.” Her heart twisted—painfully, unforgivably. This was why everything with Ethan was dangerous. He didn’t overwhelm her. He didn’t trap her. He just… cared. Softly. Quietly. Consistently. Without asking anything in return. It was terrifying. Because it made her want things she had no right wanting. Which was why, two months in, as they left a rooftop PR event drenched in gold string lights and Manhattan skyline glare, Harper knew she needed to stop this before it swallowed her whole. Ethan opened her car door for her. She didn’t get in. He looked confused for a second, then concerned. “Harper?” “We need to talk.” Three of his least favorite words. He closed the car door slowly. “Okay. What’s going on?” She inhaled. Steeled herself. “After the contract ends,” she said, voice steady even though her pulse wasn’t, “we’re deleting each other. Permanently.” The silence dropped like a guillotine. Ethan didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. “What?” His voice was so calm it would’ve fooled anyone else. But Harper knew him. Beneath calm was fault-line panic. “We delete each other,” she repeated, “from our phones, our socials, our careers, everything. A clean cut. No more running into each other’s lives. No more pretending.” He stared at her as though she’d ripped something out of him. “That wasn’t part of the deal,” he said quietly. “It is now.” “No.” His voice sharpened for the first time in months. “You don’t get to decide that alone.” “I do if it’s about protecting myself.” His jaw clenched. “From me?” She didn’t answer. That was answer enough. Ethan exhaled, something like anger and hurt crashing together behind his eyes. “Harper,” he said slowly, voice cracking at the edges, “you don’t need to protect yourself from me. Not anymore.” “But I do,” she whispered. He stepped closer—not touching her, not daring—but close enough that she could feel the heat of him. “What exactly do you think I’ll do to you?” he asked. She blinked. “Ethan, don’t—” “No,” he said, voice breaking its controlled facade. “Tell me.” She swallowed. “Break me again.” He shut his eyes, like the words physically hit him. When he opened them, they were raw. “I thought we were making progress,” he whispered. “We were,” she said. “That’s the problem.” A small breath left him—shaky, disbelieving. “You think I’m dangerous to you,” he said, “but I’m not the one still walking around with my fists up.” “You’re getting too close,” Harper said, voice barely holding. “And I can’t afford to fall for something that ends when the contract does.” Ethan’s throat worked. “You already have,” he said softly. Her breath cracked. And that— That was the moment Ethan realized exactly how deep he’d fallen. How badly he wanted something she wasn’t ready to give. His worst fear wasn’t that she didn’t feel anything. It was that she felt too much. When he finally spoke, it was so quiet the night nearly swallowed it. “I thought…” He swallowed. “I thought I still had a chance.” Her heart twisted so violently she almost reached for him. Almost. “We end when the contract ends,” she whispered instead. Ethan gave a single, wounded nod. “Right,” he murmured. “Contract.” He turned then—not coldly, not angrily—but with a sadness so heavy she felt it in her bones. For the first time since they reunited, Ethan walked away from her. And the worst part? She almost chased him. CHAPTER 6 — The Only Thing He Couldn’t Fake Was Losing Her The night of the annual brand gala arrived like a storm. Flashbulbs. Velvet ropes. Journalists shouting names. Spotlights slicing through the Manhattan evening. Harper had been to enough of these events to know how to armor up. High ponytail, sleek black gown, every inch polished and untouchable. But the moment she saw Ethan waiting for her at the top of the marble staircase, her armor cracked—not visibly, but internally, where it mattered. He looked devastating. Classic black tux. Crisp white shirt. The kind of clean, quiet elegance money can’t buy and effort can’t fake. But he also looked… different. Older. Tired. Like someone carrying a weight no one else could see. Lucas leaned in toward Ethan before Harper reached them. “You don’t have to do the red carpet if you’re not up for it.” Ethan’s eyes flicked to Harper—quick, soft, unguarded. “I’m up for it,” he said. Not for the cameras. For her. And Harper felt it. That was the problem. The PR team escorted them toward the entrance, whispering instructions. “Hands together.” “Stay close.” “Smile softer—like you’re in love, not at war.” Harper nearly snorted. Ethan didn’t smile at all. When they stepped into the blast of camera flashes, he reached for her hand. It wasn’t staged. It wasn’t directed. It wasn’t part of the plan. He just… held her. And Harper couldn’t pull away—not because of the cameras, but because his hand felt warm and steady in a way she hadn’t realized she needed. “Center please!” “Harper! Ethan! Look here!” “One more—closer!” Ethan leaned toward her. Just enough that his breath touched her ear. Harper froze. Then he whispered it. The words that shattered every line she’d tried to draw, every defense she’d built, every lie she’d told herself about what they were. “I stopped pretending a long time ago.” Her stomach dropped. Her heartbeat skidded. The world narrowed down to him alone. Before she could process it, before she could breathe, he said the second part. Softer. Unshakably certain. “You’re the only part that’s real, Harper.” Her lips parted in shock. Flashbulbs exploded around them. Journalists screamed their names. People probably thought he’d whispered something romantic or scandalous. They had no idea. Harper stared at him—at this man she’d convinced herself she didn’t need, didn’t want, didn’t trust. And now? Now she was sinking. Fast. “You can’t say things like that,” she whispered sharply. “I can’t?” His voice was steady. “Or you don’t want to hear them?” “This isn’t fair.” “Neither was losing you,” he murmured. Her breath trembled. “Ethan—” He shook his head slightly. “It’s the truth. Whether you want it or not.” Her chest felt too tight, her pulse too loud, her walls too brittle. Because the truth was— She had felt it too. In every touch. Every glance. Every careful, quiet gesture he thought she didn’t notice. This wasn’t fake. Not for him. And that terrified her. Flashbulbs kept exploding, capturing every microsecond of the moment she was falling apart. Ethan took her hand again—gently—and guided her up the steps like she was something fragile. Not fragile, she corrected herself. Precious. Harper tore her gaze away and forced her breath to steady. “Stop looking at me like that,” she whispered. “Like what?” “Like I’m someone you—” She stopped herself. He didn’t. “Someone I love?” Her entire world dropped out from under her. “Ethan,” she said weakly, “don’t do this here.” “Here is the only place you can’t run from me,” he whispered. Her knees almost buckled. For the first time in seven years, Harper Collins—the woman who could walk into a boardroom of billionaires and not flinch—had no idea what to do. Ethan Hale had never looked more sure of anything in his life. And she had never been more unsure of everything.