Chapter 6: A Misunderstanding
1240words
After much deliberation, I decided to speak directly with Ethan. I picked up my phone and dialed Noah's number.
There was a brief pause before he answered.
"Hello, Noah. I'd like to schedule some time with Mr. Westwood. There's something I need to discuss with him."
"You can come up right now," Noah replied without hesitation.
I could tell he hadn't even taken a moment to consider his response. Noah wouldn't invite me up without Ethan's approval.
I took the elevator to the top floor where Noah was waiting. Instead of heading straight to the executive office, I pulled Noah aside and questioned him:
"Was Ethan right there when you took my call?"
Noah gave me a helpless smile. "Miss Levinsky, what is your brain made of? How are you so perceptive?"
I sighed. Noah hadn't even reported to Ethan before inviting me up, which could only mean one thing—Ethan had overheard our conversation.
I didn't like this feeling, as if since that night, he'd been keeping tabs on me. It felt like fate's red thread had been forcibly tied to my finger by his hand.
Nervously, I knocked on the executive office door.
"Come in," Ethan's voice called from inside.
I opened the door to find him dressed in yet another black suit, as if his wardrobe contained nothing else.
"What is it?" he asked, setting down his pen and looking at me intently.
Taking a deep breath, I explained everything about Catherine—how I discovered she had planted design sketches on my desk, and the evidence I found in the security footage.
After listening, Ethan didn't immediately respond but simply said, "I'll handle this matter."
"I want her to apologize in person," I said, "though of course, without disrupting company operations."
Though I'm usually reasonable, sometimes I stand firm on my principles.
Ethan leaned back in his chair and spoke thoughtfully: "Whatever you decide won't affect the company. Are you sure you don't want to make this public?"
"Catherine's family transport company works with Westwood. It might have some impact," I replied, wanting to minimize complications.
"Are you concerned about me?" he suddenly asked.
"..." Despite discussing business, his question made my cheeks flush. "No, that's not it."
A moment of silence followed.
"Catherine is just a young woman," I finally said. "She must have had her reasons. Perhaps we shouldn't be too hard on her."
"As you wish," Ethan replied, his tone carrying an intimacy that suggested we were more than just employer and employee.
I wanted to slap myself—I shouldn't have come to see him.
Soon after, Noah brought Catherine in, and I took a seat on the sofa.
Seeing me, Catherine appeared uncomfortable.
"Ethan dear, you wanted to see me?" she asked sweetly.
That "Ethan dear" made my skin crawl.
"What did you call me?" Ethan, who hadn't looked up until now, suddenly darkened his gaze and raised his eyes to stare at her.
Catherine had clearly thought flaunting her "close relationship" with Ethan would earn her some favor, but instead received a cold reception.
She quickly corrected herself: "Mr. Westwood."
Ethan clenched his jaw and returned to his documents.
"It's not me who wants to see you, but Miss Levinsky who has something to discuss."
Catherine nervously shifted her gaze to me.
I smiled and waved at her. "Hello, Catherine."
I admired my own composure, managing to smile so genuinely in this situation.
"Alia, couldn't you handle this privately instead of disturbing Ethan dear's peace?" Catherine's tone had noticeably sharpened.
She was still gambling that I knew nothing, continuing to act close with Ethan.
"I'd rather not disturb Mr. Westwood," I said calmly, "but if this matter affects other colleagues in the design department, I'm afraid you'd find it even more embarrassing."
I took out my phone and showed her the security footage.
Catherine's face instantly drained of color, her legs trembled slightly, and her hands clenched tightly.
"Hmph, Ethan dear..." Ethan sighed softly, his thin lips barely moving as he muttered to himself, choosing not to intervene in our dispute.
"You..." Catherine seemed unable to believe that in just one day, I had discovered what she'd done.
"Doing something like this—don't you care about your reputation as a designer? If Ethan dear hadn't stopped me, I would have made this public already," I said evenly, though my gaze remained firm.
Seated in his office chair, Ethan furrowed his brow, his eyes resting on me, seemingly surprised by my approach.
"Catherine, apologize and leave," Ethan commanded briefly.
"Ethan dear!" Catherine whined like a petulant child, turning to him with a pout.
"Call me Mr. Westwood," Ethan's tone grew colder.
"She gets to call you Ethan dear, why can't I?" Catherine asked resentfully.
"She can't call me that either," Ethan pointed at me, raising his voice slightly.
I remained silent, pressing my lips together.
Catherine looked dejected, but under Ethan's command, she reluctantly apologized to me.
"I'm sorry, Alia. I shouldn't have done that. It won't happen again."
"Noted," I replied, feeling relieved and satisfied.
Ethan waved his hand, signaling Catherine to leave. She stormed toward the door.
"Wait," Ethan suddenly called after her.
Catherine turned, a glimmer of hope in her eyes.
"Did you see anything unusual when leaving the office that night?" Ethan asked, his tone probing.
My heart raced as I realized he was asking if she had seen our encounter in the parking garage.
Catherine gave me a cold look, then answered, "No."
Ethan nodded. "You may go. Close the door. Miss Levinsky, please stay."
Catherine left reluctantly, not forgetting to shoot me one last hostile glance before closing the door.
Once we were alone, I nervously asked, "Is there something else, Mr. Westwood?"
"Come here," he gestured for me to approach his desk.
I walked over and stood before him. Ethan leaned back in his chair, hands resting on the armrests, projecting an air of authority.
"Were you so certain I wouldn't reprimand you? Hmm?" he asked, a hint of teasing in his voice.
"I don't understand what you mean, Mr. Westwood," I pretended not to comprehend.
I knew someone as intelligent as Ethan would see through my intentions, but I still wanted to gauge his reaction. I wanted to know if his earlier question—"Would you consider becoming Mrs. Westwood?"—was sincere, or merely a sense of responsibility after our night together.
"Hmph, now it's 'Mr. Westwood,' but earlier you were so comfortable calling me 'Ethan dear'?"
Ethan observed my expression—wanting to laugh but not daring to—seeming both annoyed yet helpless with me.
"I'm sorry, it won't happen again," I said softly, my gaze unconsciously falling to his shirt collar.
I suddenly remembered the shirt I had accidentally torn that night.
Ethan followed my gaze to his shirt.
"What are you looking at?" he asked, his voice deepening.
I quickly shook my head in denial.
His interest piqued, he leaned back in his chair, regarding me with a languid expression.
"What, craving my body?"
"No, no..." My cheeks burned. "If there's nothing else, I should get back to work."
Without waiting for his response, I hurried out of the office, my heart pounding.
This man—why did he always make me so flustered?
