Chapter 145

Ethan adjusted his glasses with practiced ease, delivering his fabricated explanation to Vivian. "You might find this hard to believe, Mrs. Lockhart, but my boss has a peculiar habit when he's drunk."

His tone was smooth, rehearsed. "He clings to the nearest person like a life preserver. And trust me, you're not the first."

A conspiratorial smile played on his lips. "I've handled this situation enough times to know what works. Just bear with him a little longer."

The lie rolled off his tongue effortlessly. The sober Nathaniel Blackwood would never debase himself like this—too proud, too controlled. But Ethan knew desperate times called for desperate measures.

Vivian Lockhart wasn't just any woman. Director of the Tech Innovation Board, sharp as a blade. If Nathaniel wanted her back, he needed to play dirty.

Against all odds, Vivian bought it.

"Fine," she relented, irritation lacing her voice. "But hurry up."

She glanced at Nathaniel, his arms locked around her like steel bands, his breathing deep and even against her neck. The familiarity of it sent an unwelcome pang through her chest.

This wasn't the first time.

That night years ago flashed in her mind—his grip just as unyielding, his warmth just as intoxicating. The memory burned.

If she'd known then what she knew now, she'd have thrown the whiskey bottle out the window before letting him take a single sip.

The trio exited the karaoke bar in a ridiculous procession—Nathaniel glued to Vivian, Ethan propping him up like a human crutch.

The cab ride was torture. Nathaniel's hold didn't loosen, no matter how much Vivian squirmed. "Drive faster," she snapped at the driver.

Blackwood Estate loomed ahead. Four years she'd called this place home. Now it was just a gilded cage she never wanted to step foot in again.

Inside, the scene was equally nauseating.

Cassandra Delacroix, heavily pregnant, was mid-performance in the grand parlor, her tear-streaked face turned toward Eleanor Whitmore. "Aunt Eleanor, I try—I really do—but Nathaniel's never home!" Her voice quivered. "How can we bond when he avoids me?"

Eleanor's frown deepened. "You're right. My son has always been... stubborn." She sighed. "But with the baby coming, we may need to postpone the engagement."

Cassandra's gasp was theatrical. "Postpone? My child can't be born a bastard!"

Eleanor's lips thinned. She wasn't fooled by Cassandra's act—the girl had shown her true colors when she thought Nathaniel was paralyzed. But the baby was Blackwood blood. That couldn't be ignored.

The front door swung open.

Silence.

Every eye locked onto the spectacle in the foyer—Nathaniel wrapped around Vivian like ivy, Ethan grinning like an idiot.

"Mrs. Whitmore!" Ethan chirped. "What excellent timing!"

Vivian wanted to strangle him. No one on earth was better at creating catastrophically awkward moments than Ethan Young.

Eleanor's face purpled. "What is the meaning of this?!"

"Ask your son," Vivian shot back.

She glared at the frozen onlookers. "Well? Are you just going to stand there?"