Chapter 44: The Edinburgh Apartment
The journey north had been long, but the destination was... unexpected.
Ethan's Edinburgh apartment occupied the top floor of a stately Georgian building near the city's center. The climb—three flights of narrow, winding stairs—left Serene breathless and grateful for the heavy coat she'd worn. Behind them, the driver struggled with their trunks, muttering in a dialect she couldn't follow.
Ethan paused at the door, key in hand.
"It's not large," he said, almost apologetically. "I only stay here during business trips. A few weeks a year, at most."
He opened the door.
Serene stepped inside and stopped.
The apartment opened before her like a warm embrace. A small entryway gave onto a drawing room furnished in soft greens and creams, with tall windows overlooking the snowy street below. A fire had been laid but not lit—the driver would see to that, she supposed—and bookshelves lined one entire wall, filled with volumes that looked well-read rather than decorative.
Through an arched doorway, she could see a dining table, small but elegant, set for two. Beyond that, a kitchen—tiny but charming, with copper pots hanging from hooks and a window that faced the morning sun.
And down a short hallway, a closed door that must lead to the bedroom.
The only bedroom.
Serene's heart, which had begun to settle during the journey, kicked against her ribs again.
---
Ethan moved past her, shrugging off his coat and draping it over a chair. "The bedroom is through there. Bathroom's adjacent. The kitchen is small but functional—there's a woman who comes in twice a week to clean and stock supplies, so you won't starve."
He was talking too much, she realized. Rambling, almost. The controlled, calculating man she'd known was nowhere in evidence.
"I'll take the drawing room." The words came out flat, deliberate. "The couch pulls out. It's fine."
She turned to face him, questions in her eyes.
He met her gaze steadily. "You'll take the bedroom. I'll take the couch. That's how this will work."
She signed: For months?
He read the signs—haltingly, but accurately enough. "For as long as we're here. I meant what I said at the inn, Serene. I won't hurt you. I won't touch you. You're safe from me."
Safe from him.
The man who had trapped her here.
The man who had stolen her from Clive.
The man who held her in the night and apologized in the morning.
She didn't know what to do with any of it.
---
The driver deposited their trunks and departed, leaving them alone in the sudden, profound silence of the apartment.
Serene stood in the middle of the drawing room, uncertain. The space was charming—she could see that objectively. Warm rugs, soft lighting, books that beckoned. A small writing desk near the window, perfectly positioned to catch the light. A view of Edinburgh's rooftops, dusted with snow, stretching toward a grey winter sky.
It could have been lovely.
It could have been a home.
If she were here with anyone else.
"I'll show you the bedroom." Ethan's voice was careful, neutral. "You'll want to unpack, I expect."
She followed him down the short hallway.
The bedroom was small but perfect. A bed dominated the space—not enormous, but clearly meant for two, piled with quilts and pillows that looked absurdly soft. A wardrobe stood against one wall, empty and waiting. A dressing table with a mirror. A window that matched the one in the drawing room, offering the same view of rooftops and sky.
It was intimate.
Personal.
The kind of room where a man slept and dreamed and lived.
She couldn't imagine sharing it.
She wouldn't have to.
Ethan lingered in the doorway, not entering. "Bathroom's through there." He gestured. "Towels are in the cupboard. Hot water takes a minute to come through—old building."
She nodded, not turning from the window.
"I'll be in the drawing room if you need anything." A pause. "Serene."
She turned.
Their eyes met across the small space—green meeting honey-brown, a lifetime of history compressed into a single moment.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "For all of it. I know that doesn't change anything. I know it doesn't undo what I've done. But I am sorry."
He was gone before she could respond.
---
She stood alone in the bedroom, his words echoing in her mind.
Sorry.
He was sorry.
As if sorry could fix any of it.
She moved to the window, pressing her forehead against the cold glass. Below, Edinburgh spread out like a story waiting to be read—narrow streets, ancient buildings, smoke rising from countless chimneys. A city full of life, of people, of stories she would never know.
She was trapped here.
In this beautiful apartment.
With this man who was sorry.
Her hand moved to her chest, to the empty space where Clive's sapphire should have been. Gone. Like everything else.
She reached for her notepad—always with her, always ready—and wrote:
Edinburgh. A beautiful cage. A man who says he's sorry.
I don't know what to feel anymore.
I loved Clive with everything I had.
But Ethan held me in the night, and for one moment—one terrible, confusing moment—I felt safe.
What does that mean?
What does anything mean?
She closed the notepad and began to unpack.
---
The days that followed fell into a strange rhythm.
Ethan rose early each morning, disappearing into the city for meetings and business that she never asked about. Serene woke later, alone in the bedroom that felt increasingly like her own small sanctuary. She explored the apartment, discovered the books on the shelves, learned to work the tiny kitchen well enough to prepare simple meals.
She wrote. Constantly. Pages and pages in her journal, words that would never be read by anyone but herself.
She thought about Clive—his smile, his voice, his promise. She thought about David—his kindness, his confession, the warmth in his green eyes. She thought about Ethan—the boy he'd been, the man he'd become, the strange, contradictory creature who slept on a pullout couch and said he was sorry.
And she waited.
For what, she didn't know.
For rescue that wouldn't come. For feelings that wouldn't settle. For some sign of what her future held.
---
One evening, a week into their stay, Ethan returned earlier than usual.
He found her in the drawing room, curled in an armchair by the fire, a book open in her lap. She looked up as he entered, and something in his expression shifted—softened, almost.
"It's snowing again," he said, unnecessarily. "The meeting was cancelled."
She nodded, not knowing what to say.
He hovered in the doorway, uncertain. "I could... make tea. If you'd like."
Tea.
Such a small thing.
Such a normal thing.
She nodded again.
He disappeared into the kitchen, and she heard the sounds of kettle and cups—clumsy sounds, as if he didn't do this often. When he emerged, he carried two mismatched mugs, steam rising gently.
He handed her one, then settled onto the opposite end of the couch—far enough to be proper, close enough to feel present.
"I don't know how to do this," he admitted, staring into his tea. "Be around you. Talk to you. Any of it."
She set down her book, reached for her notepad.
We don't have to talk. We could just... exist. Together. In the same space.
He read the words, something flickering in his green eyes. "Exist together. I think I could manage that."
They sat in silence, drinking tea, watching the fire, listening to the soft hiss of snow against the windows.
It wasn't love.
It wasn't even friendship.
But it was something.
And for now, that would have to be enough.
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