Chapter 2 - The Ghost in the Glass
Ethan Whitmore’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. It was a fragile, broken thing, like a mirror cracked down the middle.
He stopped two feet from the stroller.
Up close, the rumors about him felt terrifyingly real. He radiated a quiet, dangerous authority. His charcoal suit was immaculately tailored, his shoulders broad enough to block out the hallway light.
I instinctively stepped between him and Ellie.
My heart hammered against my ribs. "Mr. Whitmore. I’m so sorry. My sitter was in the ER, and I didn't have anyone else. I’ll pack up right now. Please don't fire me."
He didn’t look at me.
His pale eyes remained locked on my daughter.
Ellie, completely unaware that she was cooing at the most ruthless man in Knoxville, babbled happily and shoved her stuffed rabbit toward him.
"She shouldn't be here," Ethan said. His voice was a low, gravelly baritone. It wasn't angry. It was hollow.
"I know," I whispered, my hands trembling as I grabbed the handle of the stroller. "We're leaving."
"Wait."
The word wasn't a request. It was a command that froze my blood.
He slowly knelt down on the expensive hardwood floor, heedless of his suit. He was at eye level with Ellie now.
Ellie tilted her head. She reached out one chubby hand and grabbed his pristine white shirt collar.
I gasped, terrified he would snap. Men like Ethan Whitmore didn't tolerate disrespect, let alone sticky baby fingers on custom silk.
Instead, Ethan closed his eyes. A shudder wracked his broad shoulders.
When he opened his eyes, they were shiny.
"She has..." He cleared his throat, the ruthless mafia boss struggling for breath. "She has the exact same rabbit."
I blinked. "What?"
"The rabbit," he murmured. "Yellow ears. Missing the left button eye."
I stared at Ellie’s toy. I had bought it at a thrift store for fifty cents. It was faded, and yes, it was missing its left eye.
"I bought it secondhand," I said defensively.
Ethan reached into his breast pocket. My breath caught, expecting a weapon, a phone to call security.
Instead, he pulled out a small, tarnished silver key.
He looked at me for the first time. The intensity in his gaze pinned me to the spot.
"Four years ago tonight, my wife and daughter were killed in a car accident," Ethan said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "My daughter, Lily, was holding that exact rabbit when the paramedics found her. But it wasn't at the crash site when I arrived."
A chill ran down my spine.
"I don't understand," I stammered.
Ethan stood up, towering over me again. "Neither do I, Hannah."
He knew my name.
"But you're not going back to your apartment tonight," he said.
"Excuse me?" Panic flared in my chest. "I have to—"
"Your apartment on 4th Street," Ethan interrupted, his tone shifting back to the cold, calculating CEO. "The one with the broken deadbolt. You aren't going back there."
"Why?" I demanded, pulling the stroller closer.
May you like
Ethan looked past me, toward the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office.
"Because ten minutes ago, the man who caused my family's accident was released from prison," Ethan said softly. "And he just sent me a photograph of your front door."
