(Ethan's POV)
The aftermath was a mess. A self-inflicted disaster. I'd retreated, built my walls back up, and now, Claire was a constant, searing reminder of my cowardice. I was trying to protect myself, but all I was doing was pushing her away, and hurting both of us.
I buried myself in work, a desperate attempt to drown out the guilt and fear that gnawed at me. Every meeting, every phone call, every email was a weapon in my arsenal of avoidance.
I delegated tasks, rescheduled meetings, anything to minimize contact with Claire. I was a ghost in my own office, a phantom presence that moved through the shadows, avoiding her like a plague.
But it was no use. Her presence lingered, a constant, haunting reminder of the night we'd shared. Her eyes, filled with hurt and confusion, were burned into my memory.
I could feel her watching me, her gaze heavy with unspoken questions. I could hear her voice, tight with frustration, echoing in the empty hallways.
"Ethan, we need to talk," she'd say, her voice pleading, her eyes searching mine.
"I'm busy, Claire," I'd reply, my voice clipped, my gaze fixed on my computer screen.
"Busy is an excuse," she'd retort, her voice sharp. "You're avoiding me."
"I'm not avoiding you," I'd lie, my voice firm. "I have a company to run."
"Then run it," she'd say, her voice laced with sarcasm. "But don't pretend I'm not here."
Her words were like a slap in the face, a stark reminder of my cruelty. I was treating her like a ghost, an inconvenience, a reminder of a mistake I couldn't undo.
The guilt was a heavy weight, a suffocating pressure that threatened to crush me. I was losing her, I knew it. And I had no one to blame but myself.
Liam, ever the observant friend, noticed my behavior. "You're a mess, Ethan," he said, his voice laced with concern. "What's going on?"
"Nothing," I muttered, my gaze fixed on my computer screen. "I'm fine."
"You're avoiding Claire," he said, his voice flat. "And you're treating her like crap."
"It's none of your business," I retorted, my voice tight.
"It is my business," he said, his voice firm. "She's my friend. And you're hurting her."
"I'm trying to protect her," I said, my voice rough.
"Protect her from what?" he asked, his voice incredulous. "From you?"
I didn't answer. I couldn't.
"You're a fool, Ethan," he said, his voice laced with disappointment. "A coward."
He walked away, leaving me alone with my thoughts, with the guilt and fear that gnawed at me. He was right. I was a fool. And I was losing the woman I loved.
(Claire's POV)
His avoidance was a slap in the face, a blatant disregard for the feelings we'd shared. He was treating me like a ghost, an inconvenience, a reminder of a mistake he couldn't undo.
The hurt and confusion that had plagued me after the morning he left had morphed into a raw, burning anger. I was tired of his games, tired of his walls, tired of his fear.
I refused to be ignored. I refused to be pushed away. I was going to confront him, to force him to face the consequences of his actions.
"Ethan, we need to talk," I'd say, my voice pleading, my eyes searching his.
"I'm busy, Claire," he'd reply, his voice clipped, his gaze fixed on his computer screen.
"Busy is an excuse," I'd retort, my voice sharp. "You're avoiding me."
"I'm not avoiding you," he'd lie, his voice firm. "I have a company to run."
"Then run it," I'd say, my voice laced with sarcasm. "But don't pretend I'm not here."
I could see the guilt in his eyes, the flicker of regret that he couldn't hide. But he was too afraid, too stubborn, to admit his mistake.
His avoidance was a wall, a barrier he'd erected to protect himself. But I wasn't going to let him hide behind it. I was going to break it down, brick by brick, until he was forced to face the truth.
I started leaving notes on his desk, small, innocuous messages that reminded him of my presence. I'd leave a sketch of a design detail, a fabric sample, a reminder of the project we were supposed to be working on together.
"I need your input on this," I'd write, my handwriting bold and defiant. "Don't ignore me."
I'd schedule meetings, forcing him to sit across from me, to acknowledge my existence. I'd ask him questions, forcing him to engage, to break the silence.
"What do you think of this color palette?" I'd ask, my voice calm, my eyes challenging.
"It's fine," he'd mutter, his gaze fixed on the fabric samples.
"Fine?" I'd repeat, my voice laced with sarcasm. "Is that the best you can do?"
He'd look up at me, his eyes filled with a mixture of frustration and guilt. But he wouldn't answer. He couldn't.
I was pushing him, challenging him, forcing him to confront his fear. And I wasn't going to stop until he faced the truth. Until he admitted that he was wrong.