Chapter 14 - Ethan Finally Asked Me the Question He Should Have Asked Before Touching My Deed
Ethan and I spoke alone before he reported to custody.
Not at:
my penthouse.
Neutral conference room.
By then my daughter, Rose, was eleven months old.
Ethan had seen her:
twice.
Both with my permission.
He never held her.
Not because I forbade it.
Because he did not ask.
That told me shame still controlled:
him.
He looked thinner.
No navy suit.
No performance.
He began:
“I’m sorry.”
I waited.
“For the penthouse.”
Too broad.
“For what?”
He understood.
“For coming into your home to pressure you.”
“For slamming the folder.”
“For using Mom.”
“For treating your pregnancy like leverage.”
“For trying to make your property cover what I had done.”
Better.
Then:
“I’m sorry I made you the person who always had to clean up after me.”
My throat tightened.
I answered:
“I helped create that role.”
He looked at me.
“I know.”
I almost laughed.
“Careful.”
“I’m serious.”
Then Ethan said:
“The first time in Tarrytown, when you fixed it…”
“I thought you were teaching me that family protects family.”
There.
Exactly.
“I was trying to teach you:
never do it again.”
“I know now.”
“You didn’t then?”
“No.”
He looked down.
“I thought rules were for when nobody smart enough was around to solve the consequences.”
I hated how much that sounded like:
Dad.
Dad was not criminal.
But he admired:
resourcefulness
almost religiously.
Ethan continued.
“I kept thinking I could put everything back before anyone was actually hurt.”
“You hurt people before the money was gone.”
He nodded.
“Lenders.”
“Employees.”
“Madison.”
“Me.”
“Mom.”
“You.”
“Yes.”
He looked at me.
Then finally asked:
“Why did you buy the penthouse?”
I frowned.
“What?”
“I spent years telling myself you bought it to prove you could get something I wanted.”
“That is not why.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
I thought.
At the time:
investment.
Home.
Views.
Independence.
There was something deeper.
“Because it was the first family asset I ever wanted to own without being responsible for everybody else.”
Ethan looked at me.
That landed.
The penthouse was not:
Holloway headquarters.
Not:
Dad’s house.
Not:
company.
Mine.
No brother to fix.
No mother to reassure.
No board.
And still my family tried to convert it back into:
shared machinery.
Ethan whispered:
“I’m sorry.”
I believed:
the regret.
Trust?
Not yet.
I said:
“When you’re out, do the work because you need a life, not because you want me to forgive you.”
He nodded.
“Will you?”
“Forgive you?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know.”
He took that without protest.
Then:
“Can I ask one more thing?”
“What?”
“When I’m out… if you ever think it’s okay… can I meet Rose properly?”
I looked at him.
Not:
I’m her uncle.
Not:
family.
Can I?
Request.
Maybe the first healthy thing between us in years.
“I’ll decide when the time comes.”
He nodded.
“Fair.”
That was our last conversation before he reported.
No hug.
We were not there yet.
Still:
truth.
No folder between us.
May you like
That was enough.
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