He Thinks He Hates Me Chapter 2

From where Ethan stood, all he could see was the table, the stem of a martini glass, and a pair of long legs, clad in silk, crossed delicately beneath the hem of a white dress.

He remained frozen outside the screen, his well-manicured hand trembling slightly. It was probably the first time in his life he’d ever had to approach a woman. When his voice finally emerged, it was a low, pleasant baritone, but laced with an uncharacteristic nervousness that clashed with his cool, distant persona.

"Excuse me."

"Could I… see you for a moment?"

When I didn't respond, he quickly added, "I don't mean to be forward. It's just… you look like a friend of mine. I wanted to be sure."

"Sir, your pickup line is painfully cliché," I said, slowly swirling the olive in my glass. "So cliché it's uncomfortable." I finally lifted my eyes, though he couldn't see them. "You're a creep."

Ethan couldn't have expected this. First, the rejection. Then, being called a creep. A man of his looks, wealth, and status was used to women falling at his feet. Rejection wasn't just uncommon; it was nonexistent.

The whispers in the lounge started up again.

"Did you see that? Ethan Prescott, making a move on a woman? I thought he was completely untouchable."

"I have to know what the woman in that booth looks like. To get the Ethan Prescott to approach her like that…"

The word "creep" seemed to strike him like a physical blow. He stood there, rigid with a mixture of shame and indignation. Because, of course, no one knew that he wasn't hitting on me. He was genuinely trying to confirm if I was the girl he’d been searching for.

But to the outside world—and to me, the woman he assumed was a stranger—it looked like a clumsy, low-class pickup attempt.

After a long moment of silence, he flexed his fingers, his knuckles turning white. "I apologize. I was out of line."

Then, Ethan did something that stunned the entire room. The famously composed gentleman reached out and shoved the ornate screen aside.

The air in the lounge seemed to thin.

The screen slid halfway open. My face was just about to be revealed when his phone, tucked inside his suit jacket, began to vibrate insistently. The buzzing was relentless; it was either a family emergency or urgent company business.

He took a deep breath, pulling out his phone to check the caller ID. His brow furrowed in annoyance as he turned his back to me to answer it.

"What is it?"

I leaned forward slightly, studying the man who was supposed to be my fiancé. His back was broad, his shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist, the perfectly tailored suit accentuating a physique that was like a drawn bow, taut with latent power. He was even more handsome in person than in his photographs. At six-foot-two, with a body like that, even the back of him was enough to make you look twice.

"Grandfather, I told you," he said into the phone, his voice sharp with frustration. "I will not marry the Hayes girl."

There was a pause. The old man on the other end seemed to be making a concession.

"I'm not forcing you, Ethan. It's just… old man Hayes and I were friends, back in the day. His family is bankrupt, and they owe us a hundred million dollars. I thought if his only granddaughter could marry into our family, become a Prescott, the debt would be forgiven. She wouldn't have to suffer."

The old man sighed. "But if you refuse, you refuse. It's your life. But your grandmother chews me out every day since you moved out in a huff. Just come home, will you?"

Ethan’s irritated tone softened, replaced by a hint of relief. "Fine."

"I'll move back in a few days."