We’re standing on the top floor of the new Infinity Hotel in Bali, Ethan’s latest acquisition, with the sun bleeding out over the horizon like it knows something I don’t.Ethan’s hand is at the small of my back where it usually is when out in public, possessive.
A year ago, I was still pretending my life was my own, it’s strange what success does to you. My metal sculpting business exploded in ways I never planned for with commissions stacked months deep, collectors fighting over pieces I welded with great affection. Ethan likes to say hemademe more focused, that before him, I was wasted potential. Now I’m disciplined and taking center stage in the art world and he’s right. Although the path there was done in typical Ethan style. He funded my first international show without asking. Bought half the guest list so the right people would see me. Told me which interviews to accept, which galleries were “beneath” me. When I argued, he smiled like I was adorable for trying.
Adjustment is a very polite word for what happened between us. You don’t adjust to a man like Ethan, you either adapt or you break. I learned fast how to read my loveable robot, how long I could linger in conversation, how to stand just close enough to signal availability without inviting flirtation. When we are in public, his fingers tighten when I forget. In private, he reminds me using his hands on my ass.
This trip has been amazing. The sun and beaches are just what I needed and it also serves as the perfect honeymoon we never took. I remember only four months ago how I was taken on an outing to the courthouse.
He didn’t tell me where we were going that morning. Just said to dress nicely, said he had something “important” planned. I thought it was another building for hishotels, or something for my business. Instead, it was a courthouse, papers, rings, Marcus and a clerk who wouldn’t meet my eyes. I don’t even want to know what they said to that poor woman.
“Ethan, this is another level for you. Marriage? Really?” I say, exacerbated. Marcus just stands behind him in the courthouse entrance, laughing, dressed in his biker gear. Not even a suit.
“This is the final step. For you to have my last name,” Ethan said calmly, like he was correcting a typo. “I don’t like loose ends and I hate your surname.”
“Whats wrong with Jones?”
“It’s not Taylor.”
“Oh my god you are so romantic,” I say with a theatrical swoon. This can’t be happening. My divorce only came through last week. The penny drops. He’s been waiting.
“How long have you had this planned?”
“Since you first stayed over. Now can we get on with this? I’m ready to consummate the marriage,” he says, face stoic and annoyed.
So, like the good boy I’ve turned into, I didn’t say no. I don’t think I really have ever said no. With each day it’s becoming easier to just go with the flow, because I trust he has the best intentions for me. He hasn’t gone wrong so far, even if it’s been unconventional with how he goes about things. I’m certainly never bored.
Now, in Bali, married and renamed, I watch him scan the hotel floor below us. His gaze tracksa waiter who lingers too long near us. Ethan leans in, mouth brushing my ear.
“You don’t need to talk to him, he’s trouble,” he murmurs, his arms holding me tight around the waist.
The jealousy is sharp and erotic in the way danger always is. It coils low in my stomach, heat and fear tangled together until I can’t tell which one I crave more. Like when he straightens my collar, or when he presses a thumb to my throat just long enough to feel my pulse, I feel owned. And god help me — I feel chosen.
This year gave me everything I thought I wanted, recognition and wealth. Living a dream as a career, something that makes me feel close to my dad, knowing he would be so proud.
It also gave me Ethan’s name and a life I would never leave. Just like he would never let me go, I would do anything to keep him, too. Nobody will ever take away what we have, because Ethan would destroy them, and I would stand beside him and watch.
