Chapter 3: The Unexpected Proposal
2005words
Olivia and I instinctively move to make room.
I swallow hard as Ethan stands beside me, with Olivia in front of me.
I don’t dare look at him, unsure if it’s the confined space or his overwhelming presence, but I feel like I can’t breathe.
A blush spreads from my ears to my cheeks.
We’re standing close, yet it feels awkward to create more distance.
I can faintly smell his light cedar and mint scent, the same as last night, so pleasant…
I bite my lip, trying to calm myself and not think about what happened last night.
Finally, the elevator stops at the 28th floor where the design department is located, and we quickly exit.
"That was terrifying!" Olivia clutches her chest and whispers: "That was Mr. Westwood! He rarely comes to the design department."
I breathe a sigh of relief, realizing she hasn't recognized me as the woman in his car last night.
"By the way, why did you suddenly disappear last night?" Olivia asks, her eyes carrying an emotion I can't quite read. "Jackson was looking everywhere for you."
My heart sinks. Is she testing me? Or does she truly not know what I saw?
"I wasn't feeling well, so I went home early," I answer briefly.
"Oh, you should have told us," she says with feigned concern. "Jackson was worried about you."
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. "Really? Then why didn't he call me?"
Olivia seems caught off guard by my question but quickly regains her composure. "You know, he had too much to drink, and his phone was with me."
Ha, what a perfect excuse. I laugh coldly to myself.
"Well, the meeting's about to start," I change the subject, not wanting to continue this fake conversation.
The conference room is already filled with people. I find a seat in the corner, hoping to keep a low profile during this meeting.
Marcus Hamilton, the creative director of the design department, stands at the front and begins to speak. He's a tall, handsome African American man with a flair for cutting-edge fashion, whose charm and talent have made him quite popular in the company—though to me, his obvious attention and frequent attempts to impress are more uncomfortable than flattering.
"First, I want to thank everyone for their hard work during New York Fashion Week," Marcus begins his speech. "Our collection has received unprecedented acclaim, and sales projections are very optimistic."
He talks on and on, but my thoughts have already drifted away. Last night's memories and this morning's awkwardness alternate in my mind, making it impossible to concentrate.
"Special thanks to our emerging designer Alia Levinsky," Marcus's voice brings me back to reality, "her designs added fresh elements to this collection and earned her well-deserved recognition."
All eyes turn to me, and I force a smile.
"Thank you, Marcus," I say softly.
As the meeting is about to end and I'm preparing to return to my studio, Noah suddenly appears at the door.
"Miss Levinsky, Mr. Westwood would like you to come to the executive office."
"……"
The room falls silent, with everyone's eyes turning toward me.
The executive office is on the 30th floor, the top floor, a place few have ever visited. Meetings are usually held on the 29th floor; the 30th is a mysterious place.
Known as—The Gates of Hell.
The last time a design director came out of the executive office, his face was ashen white. Rumor has it that Ethan had rejected an entire season's design proposals on the spot. Another time, a marketing manager spent three hours there, only to emerge with a resignation letter in hand.
"Noah, do you know what this is about?" Marcus asks, his tone carrying a hint of concern.
All eyes turn to Noah, hoping to get some clues from him.
"I'm sorry, I'm just delivering the message," Noah's expression remains calm, revealing nothing.
"I understand," I take a deep breath and stand up.
The blush on my face has persisted all morning, refusing to fade, my mind filled with images of his wolf-like demeanor from last night.
"Miss Levinsky, you don't look well. Your face has been flushed all morning. Would you like to rest first?" Marcus asks with concern.
"No need, I'll be back soon," I force a smile. "If I don't return, consider the sketches in my office my legacy to you all."
I gather my meeting notes and follow Noah out of the conference room.
We enter the elevator, which requires special authorization to reach the 30th floor. Noah scans his face, and the elevator slowly ascends.
"There's no one here. Can you tell me why Mr. Westwood wants to see me?" I can't help but ask.
"He didn't specify," Noah answers, "but he seems to be in a good mood today."
Hmph—
Of course he's in a good mood. Last night he experienced who knows how many moments of 'happiness.'
Three knocks sound on the door.
"Come in," Ethan's calm voice calls from inside.
I push open the door with an anxious heart.
He's working at his computer, but unlike this morning, he's removed his suit jacket and is wearing only a black shirt with his tie loosened and the top two buttons undone, revealing glimpses of the marks I left on his neck last night.
He's leaning back in his office chair, giving off a relaxed yet dangerous aura, completely different from his usual impeccable image at the company.
I slowly walk in, and Noah gently closes the door behind me.
The soft "click" sounds like thunder in my ears.
"Mr. Westwood, you wanted to see me?" I try to maintain my composure.
"Yes," he glances at me, then returns his gaze to the computer screen.
Silence—
Just one minute, but it feels like an eternity.
He suddenly stands up and walks toward me.
I have to admit, he's definitely the type of man who makes women's hearts race. Perfect features, deep eyes, a straight nose, and thin, sensual lips. His physique is also flawless; I can't help but remember how my hands traced over his firm abs in the bathroom last night...
God, what am I thinking? I quickly push away these inappropriate memories.
"Mr. Westwood, is there something you need?" I maintain an outward calm, but my heart is in chaos.
"Sit," he gestures toward the sofa, then sits down across from me.
I walk over and choose the spot furthest from him.
"Sit closer," he pats the space beside him, his tone brooking no refusal.
After a moment's hesitation, I move next to him.
Ethan stares at me, his gaze intense.
I nervously fidget with my hands.
"Are you still in pain?" he suddenly asks.
"..." I freeze, then shake my head.
Is this man trying to reminisce about last night?
"What do you think?" he continues.
I glance at him, seeing his perfect collarbone and the faint marks on his neck...
"I'm sorry, Mr. Westwood. I was very drunk last night and had no idea I would do something so outrageous..."
"No need to apologize," he interrupts, sitting up straight and leaning back on the sofa, his eyes still fixed on me. "Last night was my initiative. You were drunk and kissed me, but everything after that was my decision."
"Please stop—" My face burns with embarrassment. This is humiliating enough without having to discuss it again.
"We're both adults. What happened has happened. Let's just move past it," I say, my face as red as a ripe apple.
"You're treating me like a one-night stand?" His tone suddenly turns cold, his gaze sharp.
"You misunderstand," my ears burn red.
What does he want? Is he looking for an inappropriate relationship? He seemed so gentlemanly this morning!
"Would you consider becoming Mrs. Westwood?"
"What?" I think I must have misheard.
Our eyes meet, and I try to read something in his, but his expression is unfathomable.
"We didn't use protection last night. If there are consequences, we'll deal with them. If not, I still want to take responsibility."
He speaks calmly, as casually as if discussing the weather.
I remain silent. At this moment, I'm more rational than ever.
Ethan comes from a prestigious family with strict upbringing, probably a traditional man—otherwise, he wouldn't have remained single until 34. Now that this has happened, he might be struggling with his moral conscience.
But I dare not aspire to his level. I know my background—a girl from a single-parent home who's been gossiped about since childhood. Being with someone like Ethan would only burden him.
Besides, I just discovered Jackson's betrayal. I can't immediately accept another relationship.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Westwood, but I didn't mean anything by it. I took emergency contraception this morning, so you needn't worry. I don't want to become Mrs. Westwood. Since you feel you wronged me last night, as the party involved, I won't pursue it. Let's consider it over and never mention it again."
Ethan's eyes darken, becoming unfathomable behind his frameless glasses.
I say all this in one breath, then turn to leave.
"Wait," he stands, his voice carrying an emotion I've never heard from him before.
I stop and turn to face him.
"What else, Mr. Westwood?"
"Add me on WhatsApp," he says calmly, extending his phone with a QR code.
"..."
"Next month's Paris Fashion Week—the company plans to send you and Marcus. If you don't want to go, forget I mentioned it."
"Also," he adds, "you don't need to answer my question immediately. I'll give you time to think about it."
Businessman!
In just a few sentences, he's pushed me in the direction he wants.
Paris Fashion Week isn't an opportunity every designer gets. I can't miss this chance.
I take out my phone and scan his QR code.
As for his proposal, I'll pass.
"I'll think about it," I say, though I've already decided to refuse.
"Good," he nods. "You can return to work now."
Back at the design department, I find everyone eyeing me with curious glances. Clearly, they're all wondering why the CEO summoned me personally, and what happened behind the "Gates of Hell."
"Alia!" Olivia is the first to rush over, her eyes gleaming with gossip. "What happened? Why did Mr. Westwood want to see you?"
I can feel the entire office perking up their ears, waiting for my answer.
"Nothing special," I try to remain calm. "Just about some of my designs."
"That's it?" Olivia clearly doesn't believe me. "You were up there for so long, just talking about designs?"
"Yeah," I shrug. "He was interested in some of my creative concepts."
Marcus walks over, his face showing concern: "Are you okay? You look a bit tense."
"I'm fine," I force a smile. "Just a little tired."
I know they don't believe my explanation, but I have no intention of telling them the truth. After all, those who return from the "Gates of Hell" rarely want to discuss the experience.
Back at my desk, I try to focus on work, but I can still feel my colleagues' curious glances. I know today's events will quickly become the hot topic of office gossip.
Just then, my phone vibrated. It was a text from Jackson:
“Darling, are you free tonight? Let’s go see a movie. I miss you.”
Looking at this message, I felt nauseated. Just last night, he was entangled with my “best friend,” and now he was acting as if nothing had happened.
I laughed coldly and replied: “Sure, what time?”
I took a screenshot and posted it on social media, deliberately setting it to be visible only to Olivia, with the caption: Five years, unchanged.
As expected, Olivia couldn’t sit still and immediately messaged me: “Darling, my friends and I are also going to the movies tonight. What movie are you watching? What time?”
Hmph—she’s so dedicated, it would be a shame not to give her an award.
