Out in the hallway, Martha, the maid of the house was dusting the banister when she heard the commotion from the bedroom She immediately knew what was happening.
She froze for a moment, then practically fled downstairs, nearly colliding with the gardener Pete who was coming back for his pruning shears.
Pere steadied her: “Whoa there, what’s got you all rattled?”
Martha shook her head, flustered: “God, I’m too old for this crap! Walking in on… Mr. Thompson and that little tramp are going at it like rabbits in there!”
She couldn’t bring herself to be more explicit, but Pete got the picture.
The two longtime employees shared an uncomfortable look. They’d both worked for the Thompsons for years and had nothing but respect for Claire.
“Jesus,” Pete muttered under his breath. “Poor Mrs. Thompson. If she only knew…”
But Ethan, finally free to screw around with Tiffany without any fear of getting caught, couldn’t have cared less about what the help thought.
They spent an entire week going at it in the bedroom, christening every corner of the master suite. They even had their meals delivered by Martha.
Every time Martha got the call to bring up food, she’d drop off the tray and bolt–she couldn’t stand being up there long enough to hear whatever nasty business they were getting up to.
One night, Tiffany had just stepped out of the shower when Ethan started gently toweling her hair dry. Thinking this was the perfect romantic moment to push things further, she asked softly: “When are you going to divorce her and marry me?”
Ethan’s hands stilled for a moment. “It’s not the right time yet. Just be patient.”
With her back to him, Tiffany couldn’t see the irritation flashing across his face. She tried her usual pouty routine: “But I can’t wait much longer! I want to be with you for real, out in the open.”
“We already are together.”
“That’s not what I mean!”
“Then what do you mean?”
“Right now, when people hear ‘Mrs. Thompson,‘ they think of Claire. I want to be Mrs. Thompson, standing by your side…” Tiffany was mid–sentence when she realized Ethan had stopped moving. By the time she turned around, he was already walking away.
She’d pushed too hard, too fast.
“Mr. Ethan, where are you going?” Tiffany called out anxiously.
Opportunities like this–having Ethan all to herself in their bedroom–were rare and precious. If his mood had suddenly shifted and he was getting tired of her, her future looked pretty bleak.
22:03 C
Two Chances, One Bullet: How His “Next Life” Promise Failed
86.0%
Chapter 9
Tiffany quickly got up, her damp hair flowing loose as she followed him. But Ethan didn’t look back, heading straight through the French doors onto the balcony.
The night was pitch black except for a cold sliver of moon.
Going from the heated intimacy with Tiffany to this stark, lonely setting made Ethan frown with discomfort. He reached for the cigarettes and lighter on the side table, lighting up and taking a deep drag.
The nicotine helped settle his nerves.
Tiffany deliberately made noise by the glass doors, and even though Ethan clearly heard her, he didn’t turn around. Her face Avisted with resentment.
After a brief silence, she forced on a smile and softened her approach, walking over to wrap her arms around him from behind.
“Are you mad at me?” She pressed her cheek against his back, deliberately making her voice small and vulnerable. “I’m sorry if I’m being a pain. It’s just that I love you so much, and no one’s ever been this good to me before…”
Her submissive act worked its magic on Ethan. The irritation from being pressured melted away under her sweet words. His voice gentled: “I’m not mad. I just need a minute alone. Why don’t you head back inside?”
Somehow, the moment Tiffany had started demanding marriage, she’d become cheap and ordinary in his eyes.
Seeing an opening, Tiffany wasn’t about to give up. She tightened her arms around his waist, her fingers tracing along the belt of his bathrobe, using her tried–and–true seduction techniques.
Ethan’s cigarette hand froze, his breathing becoming labored.
