11. Ethan

eleven

“It”s time to visit the testing facility, sir.”

New week, new tasks.

I nodded. “Prepare yourself. We leave in ten minutes.”

She gave a curt bow before leaving for her office.

Two things were taking me— us— to the testing facility. One was the biomedics or biomechatronic project. The other was Project Hornet. The material had arrived three days earlier, so I needed to ensure they were high-quality Titanium Alloys.

Titanium Alloys weren”t just ordinary materials. They were top-notch. The best quality of steel the Air Force base could get.

Shutting down my laptop, I stood up and adjusted my suit before stepping out.

I met her just outside the door. With another nod, I motioned for her to walk in front. I quickly regretted it.

She was wearing pants. Cream colored with a material that emphasized—

I stifled a groan. It would be the first time seeing her in such. It was definitely different.

We entered the elevator. And I didn”t miss the distance she put between us. Thankfully, she didn”t press herself into the wall.

Either way, this was best.

I sighed, my hands into the pocket of my pants, and threw her another glance. Her head was now turned to the ground, hands folded professionally in the front, with a tablet between them. I returned my eyes to the doors.

They opened. This time, I walked first, listening to her heels clack behind me. This was also the first time she wore such nice shoes. It was usually flats.

I wondered why certain things seemed to change today.

“Good morning, sir.” The receptionist quickly shuffled to her feet.

A curt nod was my response. And the same was my response when the robot addressed me. “Good morning, Mr. Thorne. Have a wonderful morning.”

That was programmed to address just me specifically. To others, it was a general acknowledgment.

We reached the black SUV. I waited for her to climb in before doing the same. Lewis would drive us today.

I watched as she scooted to the other side. She maintained the same distance just like she did in the elevator. Gritting my teeth, I leaned my head against the seat.

All I needed was a good rest. Not assessing my damn employee every minute I got. Since the journey was about two hours, I shut my eyes.

Instead of zoning out, I started to think. About everything…

“Getting married to you was a mistake,” she spat. “I should never have gotten pregnant for you. You’re not worth it.”

“Stop it, Olivia,” I warned.

“Or what? Dip your head further into work and avoid interaction?” She taunted in my face. I was used to it.

“I barely see you for a whole week. Damn it, Ethan. I”m your wife, for fuck’s sake. You’re barely there.”

“And whose fault is that?” I growled.

“Now, you”re pinning this on me?” You know what? I can”t be with you tonight. Fuck you.”

Releasing a heavy breath, I adjusted my head on the headrest.

A man goes where there”s peace of mind. Barely a few months after Sophie’s birth, I started to find peace in my work rather than my home.

Olivia was four months pregnant with Sophie when I married her. I loved her at first. But then it all went to shit.

That wasn”t our last argument, and it definitely wasn’t the first. It was one of the many. It was the process where I started to become the villain.

Slowly, a small noise began to infiltrate my thoughts. It was small but sharp. I opened my eyes to find Evie tapping aggressively on her phone screen.

I stared at her out of the corner of my eyes. How could one type on a phone so fast? And who was she texting?

Her expression continued to change. This moment, it was a surprise; the next, it was a tentative look. No doubt it was social media.

I couldn”t recall the last time I did that. Honestly, I found it a waste of time. It distracted you from important things and focused your mind on things that weren’t.

But I wanted to see what she was doing. I caved into my curiosity and subtly stretched my neck. My Boo.

I wondered who the hell she was texting.

Her smile widened slightly as the three dots that depicted typing displayed. She must be very fond of this person. The message finally entered, but I couldn”t see it.

The phone wasn”t appropriately placed to—

A small gasp brought my attention to her face. Her head was turned in my direction. And her eyes were wide.

Shit.

“Hoe phase. What”s that?” Unrelated, but it was the best I could come up with.

Her eyes seemed to widen even more. “Uh?”

“Hoe phase.” I relaxed my shoulders. Then, straightened my neck.

“That”s uhmmm…” She cleared her throat, a slight blush forming on her cheeks.

“It”s a period of young adulthood where the person casually engages in dating and err.. sexual encounters.”

I furrowed my brows as silence filled the space.

“Doesn”t make sense,” I commented.

“Ninety percent of young adults use it.”

“Doesn”t make it sensible.”

She folded her hands before her and straightened her spine. “It is what it is.”

No.

“It”s quite saddening to see.” I tugged my eyes to the road. “The younger generation are losing their way.”

“Are they?”

“Yes.” I glanced at her.

She smiled. It was obviously forced. “We”re not… losing our way, sir.”

“…Plus, it goes both ways.”

No, it didn”t.

I pressed my lips into a thin line. “Name two things the older generation does that outstand the insensibility of the younger ones.”

She paused before her lips curved into a frown. “Well, sir, that may range from anything to invading phone privacy, being judgmental and being dismissive.”

The double meaning wasn”t lost on me. “I said two.”

“Had to do my homework well.”

“Insubordination, talkative, and addicted to social media.” I clenched my jaws.

She folded her arms beneath her chest. “There”s no such thing as a social media addict…”

“…There isn”t a universally recognized clinical diagnosis for social media addiction in major diagnostic manuals. I would also say it”s not a real addiction because it doesn”t meet the established criteria for the substance or behavioral addiction.”

Her tone had a sharp click.

“So what is the term for a distracted employee on a work trip?”

“I don”t know, sir. What”s the term for a sleeping boss on a work trip?”

Fair point.

There was a beat of silence before she spoke again. “I— I apologize for that, sir.”

For what? Using social media or arguing?

Her head was now bowed. Phone tucked away, and the air suddenly thick.

Leaning my head against the headrest, I shut my eyes again. Unlike other times, I wasn”t irritated or angry. In fact, I found it quite amusing.

After some minutes, we pulled into Mitchell Field in Nassau County. I took in the familiar tree-lined street with a well-manicured lawn. We exited the highway and, after a few minutes, pulled up to Thorne Industries.

Metal exterior and large bay doors filled my vision. I exited the car and entered the facility. It was a vast expanse of space with industrial robots and people assuming different tasks.

There was a constant hum as robots moved around. And people assembled parts.

“Mr. Thorne, welcome, sir.” The familiar short brunette in an engineer’s overall and goggles approached me. The manufacturing manager. “This way for the new shipment.”

He led us past the workstations until we reached the storage room. The room overflowed with spare parts. It looked like everything was in order. I was sure the other departments were, too.

It usually was like this— neat and following a structured pattern.

“Miss Norman,” I turned my eyes to the tall stack of wooden crates secured with metal straps. “I want you to cross-check what we have here against the list.”

“Yes, sir.”