Chapter 5 The man behind the mask

Avery Sutton POV:

Ethan stood there like he'd just finished a light stretch. "Not the worst," he said, not a hair out of place. "For someone who nearly tripped over their own feet at mile one."

I sucked in air, glaring up through my bangs. Sweat stung my eyes, blurring his stupidly perfect posture. "Tactical... breathing."

His eyebrow arched. "Sure."

I straightened, joints creaking like old floorboards. "What's next? A Himalayan trek? Stock market domination? Do you meditate to sustain your corporate overlord aura?"

A flicker-there and gone-at the corner of his mouth. "Shower. Breakfast. Emails."

"Emails." I sagged against the doorframe. "Finally, a mortal activity."

---

Ethan's breakfast was eggs so flawlessly scrambled they made me resent him more. No buttered toast, just avocado arranged like it mattered, and a smoothie green enough to feel smug.

I stabbed a bite. "So this is your daily 'I'm above humanity' ritual?"

He sipped his black coffee, gaze steady. His thumb tapped the ceramic once, faint as a heartbeat. "Structure."

"Right." I gestured at the avocado. "And this is...?"

"Nutrition."

"So it's health tax."

His mug paused mid-sip. His eyes didn't laugh, but his thumb tapped again. Progress.

I let it go. For now.

On the counter, half-hidden by a fruit bowl, a framed photo peeked out-Ethan as a teen, grinning beside a woman with his same stubborn jaw. *Mom?* Before I could look closer, he flipped it facedown.

---

After breakfast, Ethan changed into a suit that fit like it had been measured just that morning. We drove to Chase Tech in silence, the city waking up in streaks of gold and exhaust.

His office was all sharp angles-floor-to-ceiling windows, a desk that could double as a runway, the city stretched below like a circuit board. I swallowed a comment about compensating for something.

He sat, laptop already open. "You're quiet."

I hovered near the doorway, my notebook damp from my run-drenched back. "Just... taking notes. This is a normal day?"

"Meetings. Emails. Problems that could've been emails." He didn't look up.

"No jetpacks? No... I don't know, supervillain whiteboards?"

A faint snort. "Just flowcharts."

I scribbled in the margins: *CEO superpower: making spreadsheets sound like war crimes.*

---

He moved through meetings like a chess game-budgets debated, interns grilled, coffee brands dissected. Everyone leaned in when he spoke, like he might hand out salvation between bullet points.

Then, halfway through a spreadsheet rant, I saw it-the fracture.

His shoulders hitched up, just a fraction. Jaw ticking once, fast as a flicked lighter. Barely there, but I'd been tracking that jawline since breakfast.

*Something* had knocked him sideways.

I craned my neck. An email notification flashed-**Miranda Hartley**-before he swiped it off-screen like a stray hair.

*Oh.* His ex. My boss. The woman who'd thrown me into this mess.

He adjusted his cufflinks, face smoothing into CEO blankness. But I'd seen the flicker.

Why was Miranda in his inbox *now*?

---

At lunch, I found the snapped pencil in his trash. Two jagged halves, graphite dusting the seams.

*Not so flawless after all.*

I tucked that little bomb into my back pocket, right next to "avocado trauma" and "impending existential crisis."

By 3 p.m., my eyes burned from screen glare. Ethan hadn't moved, his tie still knotted like a threat.

I slumped in my chair, doodling flowcharts as evil lair blueprints. "Do you ever... stop?"

He didn't look up. "Stop what?"

"This." I waved at the room. "The emails. The eggs. The... *relentlessness*."

His pen froze. "It's who I am."

"Bullshit." The word slipped out, sharp and raw. "Nobody's *just* this."

For a heartbeat, his mask slipped. Eyes tired, mouth softer. Then he stood, straightening his cuffs. "We're done for today."

The door clicked shut. I stayed, staring at the facedown photo on his desk.

Jordan's apartment smelled like burnt popcorn and coffee left too long in the pot. I sank into her secondhand couch, springs creaking under me, and held out my phone. The screen's glare reflected the half-eaten granola bar fossilizing on her desk.

"Read it again. Tell me I'm not imagining things."

She brushed crumbs off her keyboard-*Ctrl* key missing since the Bush administration-and squinted. *"'Avery, my office. Noon. We need to discuss your... progress.'* That ellipsis is practically screaming."

"It's not a joke." I pulled the phone back, thumb hovering. The case was cracked from that time I'd dropped it in the parking lot after Ethan's 6 a.m. smoothie ambush.

Jordan turned her chair toward me, her faded *Radiohead* tee wrinkled at the sleeves. "Did you send her anything?"

"A draft last week. She replied, *'Try again.'*"

"Then she's pushing you. Same as always." She tossed a stress ball across the room. It hit a stack of *National Geographics* from 2007, avalanching to the floor.

I caught the ball, squeezing until my palm ached. "What if she's seen the files I've been hiding?"

"The ones labeled *'Tax Stuff'*?" She snorted. "Miranda still calls IT when her mouse unplugs. She's not hacking your drafts."

My phone buzzed.

**Miranda**: *Now.*

I glanced at Jordan.

She nodded, lips pressed tight. "Go."

---

**By 3:15 PM**, I'd choked down a gas station taquito and dodged two paparazzi bikes.

**Chit-Chat Weekly's office** hummed with fluorescent despair. Greg from HR microwaved his daily tuna casserole, the stench mixing with Xerox toner and the wilted fern on Miranda's desk.

I knocked.

"In."

Miranda's office was a museum of her career-framed headlines yellowing at the edges, a mahogany desk scarred by decades of stiletto heels, and a chipped mug that read *"WORLD'S OKAYEST BOSS"*.

She didn't look up. "Sit."

I perched on the chair's edge, shoulders rigid. The seat cushion sighed, releasing a puff of dust that smelled like discount lavender.

"Three weeks with Ethan Chase." She tapped her pen-*click, click, click*-against a stack of my drafts. "A thousand words on banana bread."

"It's... more than it seems."

Her stare lifted, cold. "Explain."