Ethan
The thud of the door slamming shut resonated in Ethan's apartment. A dull, relentless ache wrapped around his head, intensifying as he stirred. Last night's drinking hadn't gone unnoticed—it magnified every sensation: the cruel light sneaking through the curtains, the tightness in his muscles, the emptiness pressing against him. But the sound of the door—deliberate, unmistakable—jolted him from his haze.
"Ouch," Ethan muttered, his hand instinctively reaching for his forehead as the sharp throb in his temples made itself known. He winced, pressing his palm against his head, as though it might dull the pounding. "What the hell was I thinking?"
He sat up groggily, braving the morning light that pooled relentlessly into the room. "Damn, that's bright," he grumbled, shielding his eyes as he blinked against the glare. A wave of confusion washed over him as he struggled to piece together the night before.
Then, the fragments of memory clicked into place.
Her.
The woman.
His pulse quickened, the ache in his head briefly forgotten as urgency flared inside him. He swung his legs over the side of the couch, but the motion sent another sharp jab through his skull.
"Ouch. Bloody hell, Ethan, what were you thinking?" he said under his breath, rubbing his temple. The dryness in his mouth made him pause, and the longing for water—or anything that might soothe his hangover—pulled at him.
Shoving the thought aside, he forced himself to stand, his movements heavy, sluggish. "Come on," he urged himself, gripping the armrest for balance as his legs threatened to give out. "Move."
He stumbled toward the door, pain pulsing in his head with every step. By the time he reached the hallway, his breath hitched with anticipation—and dread.
Empty.
Ethan leaned heavily against the doorframe, his throat tight, his eyes scanning the corridor. Silence greeted him. No sound of retreating footsteps, no lingering trace of her presence. Just the low rumble of the building and the quiet buzz of his own thoughts.
He ran a hand through his hair, frustration flaring as he stared down the hallway one last time.
Exhaling slowly, Ethan stepped back inside and shut the door behind him. The soft click of the lock echoed faintly, a reminder of the sudden quiet that enveloped him.
Collapsing back onto the couch, Ethan rubbed his hands over his face, the ache in his temples refusing to relent. His mouth felt like sandpaper now, and he let out an exasperated groan.
"Water," he muttered to himself, pushing himself halfway upright again. His legs dragged toward the kitchen, where he grabbed a glass and filled it with water from the tap. He drank quickly, the coolness soothing the dryness in his throat, though the ache in his head lingered like a punishment.
As he returned to the couch, fragments of last night replayed in his mind—the bar, the drinks, the overwhelming emptiness in his chest that had pushed him there, and her.
The woman.
Her voice had been steady, grounding. She didn't rush him or push too far. She'd just… stayed. Stayed as he unravelled, as he let pieces of himself he never shared slip into the open.
Ghost Girl.
The nickname lingered in his mind, the words still echoing softly from the night before. He'd called her that, hadn't he? It felt foolish now, yet strangely fitting.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands as her presence clung to him.
Why had she reminded him of the woman from his dreams?
The phantom that hovered at the edge of his nightmares. The one whose touch grounded him when the chaos felt too strong. The one whose voice soothed him when the weight of his mind became unbearable.
She wasn't real. She couldn't be real.
And yet…
Ethan lifted his head, his eyes falling on the door once more. The woman last night—black hair, soft-spoken, deliberate—had stirred something deep within him.
But no. It wasn't possible.
His jaw tightened, frustration gnawing at him. He had been a mess last night, drinking to escape the gnawing sadness he couldn't name.
Sadness.
It had clung to him for weeks now, like a shadow he couldn't outrun.
And then there had been his father.
Ethan gritted his teeth, holding on to the memory. His father's voice had been commanding, definitive — inflexible. "It's time, Ethan. Time to find a wife. Time to solidify your place."
Duty. Obligation. Expectations tattooed on his soul before he understood what they meant.
Find a wife. Strengthen the Dominion. Bond with the forces of a greater cause.
It was never about him. Never about choice.
He had smiled and nodded, played the part, and given his father precisely what he sought. But in isolation, the pressure became too much, and he cracked.
So he had gone to the bar — to deaden himself, to drown out the emptiness with the sounds of clinking glasses and the bitter burn of liquor.
And that's when she had shown up.
Ethan blinked, staring at the door, his heart pounding quietly against his ribs. She wasn't just a stranger. Her presence lingered, intertwined with something deeper, something familiar he couldn't name.
Later, he would check the security cameras, review the footage, try to make sense of who she was. But deep down, he already knew the truth. What he wanted wasn't answers. What he wanted was for her to come back.
Rowan
Rowan knocked firmly on Ethan's door, exhaling as he waited.
His mind replayed the call from Brendan Mars—short, clipped, and unmistakably urgent. "Get to Ethan. Now. His phone's off. Bring him in."
No explanation, no wasted words.
Brendan didn't need to spell things out. Ethan was the heir to the Dominion, even if his official role right now was just CEO of the company—a single, public-facing part of the much larger machine. Eventually, he would take Brendan's place as leader, inheriting a seat that carried weight far beyond what most people understood.
Which made his absence concerning.
Ethan wasn't reckless. He was calculated, controlled, always aware of his actions. He didn't just go missing without a reason.
Rowan shifted his stance, crossing his arms as impatience built. Had something happened? Was Ethan avoiding Brendan? He frowned slightly at that thought. No, he decided, not likely.
He knocked again, harder this time. "Come on, man," he muttered.
Finally, the door creaked open.
Rowan barely had a chance to speak before the smell hit him.
The sharp scent of alcohol lingered in the air, clinging to Ethan like something that had settled deep into his skin. Rowan blinked, caught off guard, his brows furrowing.
Ethan? Drunk?
It didn't make sense.
Ethan wasn't the type to drink heavily. He was always composed, always measured. The man standing before him now looked off—sluggish, worn, his eyes carrying the weight of something Rowan couldn't immediately place.
Rowan let out a low whistle, shaking his head. "Jeez, buddy, you reek of alcohol."
Ethan groaned, rubbing his temple. "Not now, Rowan."
Rowan stepped inside without invitation, scanning the apartment. No chaos. No overturned furniture. Just Ethan, looking more disoriented than Rowan had ever seen him.
"When exactly did you decide to drink your body weight in liquor?" Rowan asked, closing the door behind him.
Ethan sighed, running a hand through his hair. "It's not—just drop it, alright?"
Rowan frowned. "Drop it? You don't drink like this. Ever. What the hell is going on?"
Ethan didn't answer.
Rowan studied him, letting the silence stretch. Something had pushed him into this. Ethan didn't just black out and ignore his phone without reason.
"…Right," Rowan muttered, knowing he wouldn't get answers now. He leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "Since your phone was off—and judging by your current state, I can see why—I got an early morning call from Brendan himself."
Ethan stiffened slightly, though his expression remained unreadable.
"They're waiting for you at the Dominion office," Rowan continued. "Brendan. Jonathan. Whatever this is, they didn't appreciate you going dark."
Ethan exhaled, jaw tightening, his gaze shifting toward the door.
Rowan hesitated before speaking again, softer this time. "I had to come get you because you didn't answer."
Ethan didn't respond.
Rowan sighed, pushing himself off the counter. "Look, we have to go."
Then, with an exaggerated wave of his hand, he added, "And for the love of everything, take a shower first. You smell like regret."
Ethan let out a tired chuckle, shaking his head.
"Hurry up," Rowan added, checking the time. "I don't think Brendan and Jonathan are in the mood for waiting today."
Ethan grunted in acknowledgment and disappeared into the bathroom.
Rowan stayed where he was, arms crossed, mind still turning.
Ethan never did things like this. So what the hell had changed?