Chapter 39 — Ethan: The Past Never Stays Buried
(Ethan's POV)
Three months. That's how long it had been.
Long enough for the memory to fade into the blurred archive of late-night mistakes and hotel-room flings. Long enough for the name "Mara" to become just another forgettable whisper beneath city lights.
I didn't even remember her face clearly anymore. Just a sensation — soft skin, hesitant touches, a girl who trembled like she was doing something wrong but wanted it anyway.
I'd moved on.
That's what I did.
I buried the night like I buried every other complication that had no place in my life.
Now, I was in a new city. Arya's city.
I didn't move for her — at least, that's what I told myself. But truthfully, there was always a pull. Arya had been the one woman who made me pause. Who made me question if I could be more than the careless, wandering billionaire everyone assumed I was.
She chose Damon, though.
And that choice had ended any illusion I still held.
But even if I couldn't have her, being near her gave me peace. Watching her chase her passion, raise Liam, and bloom as a woman — it grounded me.
Still, I needed to stay busy.
So, when my board mentioned one of our acquisitions in the city — a rising marketing agency called Novus Strategies — I took it as an excuse to sink my hands back into business.
I didn't do boredom well.
And Novus was promising — a young team, bold campaigns, and enough buzz in the media to make any investor curious. But their last CEO stepped down under pressure, and they needed someone with experience.
They needed me.
Today was my first day as acting CEO.
"Welcome to Novus, Mr. Wolfe," the HR manager greeted as she walked me through the sleek, glass-paneled office floor. "We've been prepping the team for your arrival. Your assistant is already waiting in your office with the morning schedule."
Assistant.
I barely registered the word.
They'd assigned me one without asking. Not that I minded. I preferred having someone to buffer meetings and handle the admin noise.
"Anything I should know about the assistant?" I asked absently, stepping into the private elevator.
"Her name's Amara," the woman replied. "Young but sharp. She just started a few months ago but has shown promise."
The elevator dinged before I could respond, and I stepped into the top floor, a sleek modern layout of polished concrete, minimalist decor, and floor-to-ceiling windows that made the skyline feel like part of the office.
My office door was slightly ajar.
And then I saw her.
Back turned to me, she stood near the floor-length window, phone in hand, scribbling into a notepad. Her posture was focused, neat — a quiet presence.
"Morning," I said.
She turned.
And time stopped.
The notepad slipped from her fingers.
And for a full five seconds, neither of us said a word.
She was older now — not in years, but in presence. Her hair was pulled into a low bun, her outfit smart and crisp, her expression unreadable.
But I knew those eyes.
Those lips.
That silence.
It hit me like a punch to the chest.
"Mara…" I murmured, the name falling out before I could stop it.
Her jaw tightened. "It's Amara."
Of course it is.
The puzzle pieces crashed into place.
Amara.
Arya's little sister.
Damon's sister.
My one-night stand.
She cleared her throat and looked down, bending to pick up the notepad with mechanical calm. "Mr. Lantel. I have your schedule ready."
"Wait," I said, stepping in fully now, closing the door behind me. "You… you work here?"
She didn't look at me. "Yes. I've been here for three months."
Three months.
Right after that night.
"Did you… know it was me? That I'd be running this place?" I asked slowly.
She shook her head. "I found out this morning when the HR memo came through."
My chest rose and fell, still trying to catch up with reality.
"I didn't recognize you," I admitted. "Not until now."
She nodded once. "Same."
We stood there for a beat too long — the air thick with the ghost of everything we hadn't said.
But Amara — she was different now.
Poised. Unbothered.
She pulled herself together faster than I did.
"Would you like to begin the day with your internal brief or the investor call?" she asked, back in her professional tone, voice flat.
I stared at her, unsure of what to say.
"Both can wait ten minutes," I said instead.
She hesitated. "If this is about what happened…"
"It was three months ago," I cut in quickly. "A mistake. I didn't even know your name."
Her lips twitched — a flicker of emotion behind her otherwise calm mask. "And I didn't know yours."
Fair.
Silence again.
She straightened her notepad and said simply, "We don't have to make this a thing. I need this job. You need an assistant. We can be professional."
I studied her.
The girl from that night — nervous, unsure — was still there, somewhere deep. But this woman was iron beneath lace. She wasn't running.
She was standing.
I nodded slowly. "Fine. Professional it is."
"Then I'll have the investor notes ready in five minutes," she said, turning on her heel and heading to the adjacent assistant's workspace.
I watched her go.
And I couldn't help the thought that crept in quietly, stubbornly.
This was no mistake.
This was fate.