Late Love: Winning Back the Runaway Wife

Seeing Emma casually kick off her shoes and head upstairs like nothing happened, Ethan felt a sudden rush of irritation burning in his chest.

"Why are you back so late tonight?"

His voice was low, that usual calm and magnetic tone, but he wasn't fooling anyone-not even himself. There was something cold layered beneath the words.

"Overtime at work."

Emma glanced his way and gave a short reply. She unconsciously shivered, sweeping her eyes across the living room before landing on the empty dining table. Something about his stiff expression made her scalp tingle.

"Overtime?"

Ethan let out a faint laugh, not the amused kind. His lips curved with sarcasm, and his dark eyes held a look that said he didn't believe a word of it.

Did she really think he was that easy to fool?

He tugged at his collar, frustrated, popping a few buttons on his crisp white shirt.

"If there's nothing else, I'm heading up."

Emma didn't understand what was up with him tonight-he was suddenly unusually talkative. Leaving that sentence behind, she turned to go upstairs.

Watching her back, Ethan only got more annoyed. Looked to him like she couldn't even be bothered to give an explanation.

He abruptly stood up, took a few strides forward, and grabbed her slender wrist.

"What are you doing?"

Emma instantly tried to shake off his grip, startled by the sudden hold. But the next second, Ethan forcefully pinned her against the wall, arms on either side of her blocking any escape. His deep-set eyes stared into hers, unmoving.

"Ethan, what are you doing? Let me go!"

She struggled a bit, but he just leaned in closer, and before she could react, his lips were already on hers, hot and relentless.

Feeling the soft pressure on her lips, Emma's eyes widened in disbelief. Was he seriously doing this?

Before her mind could catch up, Ethan had already parted her lips, his tongue sliding in, brushing against her teeth. At the same time, his fingers slipped under her clothes, pressing against the curve of her waist.

By now, Emma had no strength left to resist. She just froze, letting him take control.

Outside, the moonlight faded into the deep black of night. Inside the villa, the two of them were still tangled together, too close and unwilling to part.

...

The next morning.

9 AM.

Upstairs bedroom in the villa.

As the first rays of sunlight filtered in through the window, the two on the bed slowly began to stir.

"Mm-"

Shielding her eyes instinctively from the brightness, Emma woke up groggily, staring at the familiar chandelier looming overhead.

She shifted her arm, and an ache crawled up from her muscles. Rubbing her temples, she pushed herself up from the bed.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of the man lying beside her, Ethan.

The moment she saw him, memories from last night came crashing back. Emma's fingers tightened around the blanket. She had no idea how she was supposed to face this man right now.

Before she could figure out what to say or how to act, the man on the bed opened his eyes. He was already watching her quietly.

"No breakfast today?"

Ethan sat up like a satisfied predator stretching after a hunt. The silk sheet slid down his chest, revealing a toned, powerful body. His voice was low and a little raspy-like aged whiskey, deep and smooth.

Emma looked at him - that laid-back posture, that casual tone - and felt a sharp pang of anger mixed with disbelief.

What was she to him, really? Some kind of pet? At his beck and call?

"You weren't drunk last night, were you? And this time, I wasn't pretending to be Lily to seduce you." Her voice was laced with sarcasm as she stepped off the bed barefoot, not even caring she still had on just a flimsy slip dress.

"Oh, and I'm done making breakfast for you. From now on, do it yourself. I'm tired."

She finally met his gaze head-on. A smirk curled on her lips, a bright, almost mocking smile that hit him like a slap, stinging and impossible to ignore.

Ethan's brows drew together. He didn't say a word. He just threw off the covers and walked out.

As she stared at his back disappearing out the door, the absurdity of it all stung even more.

Of course. She was just some toy to him.

...

Back in his room, Ethan got changed and came out dressed, sharp and composed again.

"Jacob, have the chef prepare breakfast. Make sure there's a variety."

Just as Jacob was passing him the Financial Times, he heard Ethan give the order.

"Yes, sir."

...

An hour later.

After soaking in the tub for forty minutes, scrubbing away every trace of him from her skin, Emma wrapped herself in a towel and stepped out of the bathroom.

She'd just finished drying her hair and getting dressed when someone knocked at the bedroom door.

"Ma'am, breakfast is ready."

Hearing the housekeeper calling from the other side, Emma grabbed her bag and casually opened the door.

She was halfway down the stairs when she saw Ethan sitting calmly at the table.

Instantly, she turned, ready to leave.

"Come back."

His voice, stern and low, cut through the air as soon as he saw her turn.

"Ma'am, Mr. Hunt specifically asked the kitchen to make a big spread today. Won't you at least try some?" Jacob added quickly, sensing the tension.

Emma knew better than to make a scene in front of the staff. She sighed and walked over, sitting down across from Ethan.

She avoided his eyes, lowering her gaze to the meal. Indeed, the table was packed with food.

But appetite? That she didn't have.

She picked at a bite of egg yolk and sipped half a glass of milk. Then she dabbed her mouth with a napkin and said gently, "I'm done."

"That's it? That tiny bit and you're full?"

Ethan's patience snapped as he looked at her barely touched plate. He turned to the maid nearby and said coldly, "Pile more food onto her plate."