“I don’t want to marry Camille.”
Alina goes still.
For one second no one says anything.
Then she says, very carefully, “You’ve had too much to drink.”
“No,” he says. “I’ve had just enough to say it out loud.” His voice is steadier now, which somehow makes it worse.
I stand there holding my clipboard, feeling like I’ve stepped into the middle of a family fracture that’s been there a long time and has simply chosen this morning to crack open where I can see it.
Alina’s face changes, but only a little. She’s too controlled to let real panic show quickly. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
“No,” she says. “You’re frightened, embarrassed, and drunk.”
Ethan’s mouth twists. “That doesn’t make me wrong.”
The silence after that is ugly.
I should leave. I know I should. But neither of them looks at me, and moving now would only draw attention to the fact that I’m here at all.
Alina folds her arms. “If you had doubts, this conversation should have happened months ago.”
He gives a humorless laugh. “It did happen months ago. Just not out loud.”
Her eyes narrow. “Careful.”
“With what?” he asks. “The truth?”
“With your timing.”
Something bitter flashes across his face. “You pushed me toward her.”
I almost look away. That’s how intimate the accusation feels, even standing a few feet from it.
Alina doesn’t flinch. “I encouraged you to think practically.”
“You pushed me,” he repeats. “You liked the family, the money, the connections, the way it all looked.”
He’s saying too much now, and he knows it. I can hear it in his voice. But he’s past the point where that matters.
Alina steps closer to him, her own control tightening with every word. “I advised you to choose a woman who understood the life she was marrying into.”
“I never wanted her. And the only reason you ever liked Camille was because of her family. Her connections. What marrying her could do for him.” His voice hardens. “For Dad.”
“Enough,” Alina says.
But he’s drunk enough, angry enough, and hurt enough not to listen.
“And the worst part?” he says. “It didn’t even work. He still doesn’t want you. He still doesn’t love you.”
The words land like a slap.
The corridor goes silent.
I look at Alina and see it happen. Not the loss of control, exactly. Something quieter and much worse. The kind of hurt that’s old enough to be buried well and still fresh enough to bleed when someone hits the right place.