“No,” I replied, struggling to hold her gaze.
“Are you going to tell him?” he continued.
“I intend to leave early,” I admitted, my voice firm despite the weight of my words.
Ethan looked at me for a moment and then nodded.
“Stay here,” he said, not as an order, but as if it were a decision already made.
“You can’t decide everything,” I replied, though I didn’t sound as confident as I wanted.
“No,” he calmly agreed, “but I can decide who is safe under my roof.”
The days turned into weeks, and what should have been captivity slowly transformed into something else.
My sister, Rachel, came to visit and brought fragments of my old life with her into this strange new existence, and Ethan never got in my way.
“Do you trust him?” Rachel asked me one afternoon.
“More than I trusted Julian,” I admitted, surprising myself with my own honesty.
That answer changed something inside me.
Ethan wasn’t kind in the traditional sense, but he was caring in a way that mattered, and he treated my pregnancy as something that needed to be protected without trying to control me.
One night, when nausea and fear woke me up, I mistakenly called her number instead of the kitchen’s.
“What happened?” he asked immediately.
“Nothing,” I said quickly, embarrassed, “I just dialed the wrong number.”
“Stay there,” he replied.
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