Chapter 10 Lines We Can't Cross

(Ethan's POV)

The first thing I noticed when I walked into ColeTech headquarters the next morning was silence - the kind that means people are talking, just not out loud.

Sade was already waiting outside my office, tablet in hand, her sharp eyes betraying concern. "Good morning, sir," she said carefully.

"Morning," I replied, setting down my briefcase. "What's on the schedule?"

She hesitated, something she never did. "Before that... I think you should see this."

She handed me her tablet. On the screen was a headline from a local blog:

"Who's the mystery woman seen with billionaire Ethan Cole outside Yaba General Hospital?"

There were photos - grainy, zoomed-in - of me and Amara walking through the hospital gates. My hand on her shoulder. Her face half-turned away.

I exhaled slowly. "How bad is it?"

"Not major yet," Sade said, tapping the screen to scroll. "It's only circulating on smaller blogs, but if one of the tabloids picks it up..."

"It'll become a circus," I finished.

She nodded grimly.

I leaned back in my chair. The office windows stretched floor-to-ceiling, revealing Lagos in motion - cars crawling through traffic, sunlight bouncing off glass towers, people chasing purpose. From up here, it looked peaceful. From up here, problems were small. But this one wasn't.

Sade cleared her throat. "Sir, may I ask who she is?"

I met her gaze. Sade had been with me five years. She'd seen me through corporate wars, board politics, and sleepless nights. She wasn't just an assistant - she was the voice of reason I often ignored.

"She's... someone I owe," I said quietly.

Sade arched an eyebrow. "Owe, or care about?"

I smiled faintly. "Since when did you become my conscience?"

"Since I realized you were about to make headlines," she replied dryly.

I rubbed my temple. "Handle it. Make sure no one digs further. I'll speak to the board myself."

"Yes, sir."

As she left, I stared again at the photos. It was strange - how something so innocent could look like scandal when taken out of context.

But maybe that was what scared me most - not what people thought, but what I was starting to feel.

The board meeting that afternoon was brutal.

"Ethan," said Mr. Okonkwo, the oldest member and loudest critic, "you've worked too hard to build this company's image. You can't afford rumors about some random woman-"

"She's not random," I cut in sharply.

The room went silent.

Another board member, Mrs. Balogun, leaned forward. "Then who is she?"

I hesitated. What could I say? That she was a student I met by chance, who needed help, who now carried my child? That I didn't even understand what I was doing, except that walking away felt impossible?

"She's someone who matters," I said finally.

Okonkwo scoffed. "This isn't a charity, Ethan. The press already calls you the 'humble billionaire,' but humility doesn't pay shareholders."

I stood, gathering my notes. "No, integrity does."

His eyes narrowed. "And is this integrity? Sneaking around hospitals with some girl from Yaba?"

"Enough," I said, my voice firm but low. "You may run numbers, Mr. Okonkwo, but I run this company. And if helping someone who's struggling makes me look weak, then maybe strength has been overrated."

He stared at me, then looked away, muttering under his breath.

When the meeting ended, I stayed behind, leaning on the table as the room emptied. My reflection stared back at me from the polished wood - the suit, the calm exterior, the man who had everything.

Except peace.

---

Later that evening, I sat in my car outside Amara's building. The sky had darkened, the street lamps flickering on. Children ran by with sachets of water, laughter echoing through the air. Life here was loud, messy, real - a world away from the silence of glass offices.

She didn't know I'd come. I hadn't planned to - not after the morning's drama - but something had pulled me here anyway.

After a few minutes, I saw her step out. She was wearing a simple dress, her hair tied back, a small bag over her shoulder. She didn't see me right away. She looked tired, but there was a calm strength in her posture that humbled me.

I got out of the car. "Amara."

She turned, surprise flashing across her face. "Ethan? What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to check on your mother," I said. "And you."

She frowned slightly. "You shouldn't be here. People are already talking."

"I know," I admitted. "I saw the blogs."

Her expression fell. "Oh no... this is my fault."

"It's not," I said quickly. "You didn't do anything wrong. You never do."

She crossed her arms, looking down. "Still, you have a reputation. You don't need this kind of attention."

I stepped closer, lowering my voice. "Maybe I don't care about reputation anymore."

She met my eyes then - guarded, searching. "You should," she said softly. "Because I can't afford to forget who you are. And neither can you."

Her words hit harder than she knew.

"I'm not asking you to forget," I said quietly. "I'm asking you to let me be part of your reality, even if it's messy."

She shook her head, almost sadly. "You can't fix my life, Ethan."

"Maybe not," I said. "But I can stand beside you while you fix it."

Something flickered in her eyes - pain, maybe hope - before she looked away. "My mother's resting," she said finally. "You can see her tomorrow."

I nodded. "All right."

But I didn't leave. Not yet.

"Amara," I said, my voice softer now. "If anyone bothers you because of the photos, let me handle it. And if you ever feel unsafe, you call me - day or night."

She sighed. "You really don't know how to stop caring, do you?"

I smiled faintly. "Not when it comes to you."

On my drive home, the city lights blurred against the windshield.

I thought about her - the way she tried to protect me from the very mess I'd created, the way she still held her dignity like armor even when the world gave her nothing.

I'd met dozens of women in my life - confident, polished, beautiful - but none who made me feel smaller in the best way possible.

By the time I reached my apartment, I'd already made a decision.

The next morning, I called Sade.

"I want to set up a scholarship fund," I said. "Anonymous. For women in financial need - especially students. Start with YabaTech."

She paused. "That's... noble. But may I ask why anonymous?"

"Because this isn't about publicity," I said. "It's about making sure someone like Amara never has to make desperate choices again."

Sade was quiet for a moment. Then, softly, "You really care about her."

I didn't answer. I didn't need to.

That night, as I sat alone in my study, I realized what scared me most.

It wasn't the board's disapproval or the press. It was how much of my peace depended on her smile now - how easily she'd become the line between who I was and who I wanted to be.

There are lines you're told never to cross - between power and vulnerability, wealth and emotion, reason and risk.

But maybe, I thought, some lines are meant to be crossed when the heart stops asking for permission.