Chapter 4 - The Man Behind the Subaru
By the following weekend, the media storm surrounding Bellamy Bridal House had begun to subside, replaced by new scandals in the endless cycle of celebrity and corporate gossip. But inside my life, the transformation was just beginning.
Ethan had insisted on taking me away from the city for a few days.
“Just forty-eight hours,” he had pleaded on Friday night as we packed a small bag. “No phones, no lawyers, no corporate restructuring, and definitely no bridal boutiques.”
We drove out to Lake Geneva in a vintage 1978 Porsche 911 Targa that Ethan had secretly restored himself in a suburban garage. The leather seats smelled of aged oil and old paper. The engine hummed with a throaty, mechanical roar that drowned out the noise of the world.
As we drove along the winding lakeside roads under a canopy of autumn leaves, the tension that had gripped my shoulders for weeks slowly began to melt away.
We arrived at a sprawling stone estate nestled privately among towering pines right at the water’s edge. It wasn't ostentatious or vulgar; it was a masterpiece of rustic elegance—warm timber beams, stone fireplaces, and floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the glassy, dark water of the lake.
“Is this... the estate Arthur mentioned?” I asked as Ethan cut the engine.
“My mother’s favorite place in the world,” Ethan said softly, coming around to open my door. “She used to bring me here every autumn before... before everything changed.”
We spent Saturday walking along the shore, wrapped in thick wool sweaters, kicking up fallen leaves, and talking about things we had never had time for before. Ethan told me stories about his childhood—climbing trees, sneaking out of boarding school, and getting his first grease-stained hands working on old car engines against his grandfather's strict wishes.
“You never really wanted the corporate life, did you?” I asked, leaning against his shoulder as we sat on a wooden dock watching the sun dip below the horizon.
“Not the boardroom part,” Ethan admitted, tossing a small flat stone across the water, watching it skip three times before sinking. “I like building things, Em. I like designing infrastructure, solving complex logistical puzzles, making things run smoother and safer. That’s why I went into civil consulting before I walked away. But my family name makes it impossible to just be an employee. People treat you differently the moment they know who you are.”
“Did you ever regret leaving it all behind?”
Ethan turned, looking down at me with absolute certainty in his dark eyes.
“Every single day I spent in that glass tower was a waste of time,” he said quietly. “Leaving it was the best decision I ever made, because it led me straight to your front door.”
That evening, we cooked together in the estate’s massive, professional-grade kitchen. Ethan wore an apron over his cashmere sweater, burning a pan of garlic bread while I laughed so hard my ribs ached. There were no bodyguards stationed in the kitchen. No corporate executives calling on encrypted lines. Just two people, simple ingredients, and a warmth that chased away the bitter chill of the autumn night.
Later, sitting by a roaring stone fireplace in the library with mugs of hot cider, Ethan reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, worn leather journal.
“What’s that?” I asked, tilting my head.
“My mother’s design book,” he said, opening the cover carefully. Pages of hand-drawn sketches—dresses, architectural layouts, garden designs—filled the yellowed paper. “She loved fashion, but she hated the industry. She used to design her own clothes when she was young. She never got to wear her dream wedding dress; my father proposed in a rush before he deployed overseas.”
He turned a page, and my breath caught.
There, sketched in delicate, sweeping lines of charcoal and silver ink, was a wedding dress.
Ivory silk. Hand-sewn silver embroidery along the bodice that caught the light like morning frost. A simple, elegant, weightless silhouette that looked like moonlight captured in fabric.
It was the exact dress.
The exact dress I had touched in the archive room of Bellamy Bridal House before Victoria Bellamy screamed at me and threw me out into the street.
“My mother drew this thirty-five years ago,” Ethan whispered, tracing the pencil lines with his finger. “When Arthur mentioned the family atelier in Manhattan—the one run by women who design without rules—I called them. They have my mother’s original archives in a vault in Soho.”
He looked up at me, his eyes shining with unshed emotion.
“They can make this for you, Emma. Not as a sample you’re not allowed to touch. Not as a luxury status symbol to prove your worth to snobs like Victoria or Sabrina. But as a piece of art created specifically for the woman who loves me for who I am.”
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Tears blurred my vision, hot and bright. I didn't say a word. I simply leaned forward, wrapped my arms around his neck, and kissed him with all the love, gratitude, and fierce devotion that my heart could hold.
The nightmare on Oak Street felt a million miles away.
