Page 32 of Ethan: The Untouchable CEO

This isn’t just a bad idea.

It’s a disaster.

My stomach hurts, twisting into a knot that only pulls harder the longer I stand there, my hands slowly coming to rest against the cold edge of the sink as I lean forward, my breath uneven, too fast.

What the hell was I thinking?

I’m the one who wrote the rules on those invitations, the one who set a limit to indecency, who made it clear there should be a line.

And here I am.

Standing in front of the mirror, not just crossing it—but completely destroying it.

The dress—if it can be called that—is nothing more than a delicate web of metallic chains that drapes across my body like liquid silver, each strand catching the light with every small movement, shimmering, sliding, drawing attention to everything it barely conceals.

It doesn’t cover.

It suggests.

It exposes.

The back is almost entirely bare, the thin chains tied loosely, as if they might give way at any second, while the front leaves just enough to the imagination to make it worse, not better.

Two tiny metal hearts sit perfectly over my nipples, the only thing keeping this from tipping into full nudity—but even those feel less like coverage and more like provocation.

And underneath…

A pair of metallic string panties, so thin they might as well not exist, the narrow strip of fabric offering the absolute minimum, leaving my ribs, my thighs, my entire body on display.

Every small shift I make sends the chains sliding against my skin, a soft, whispering sound that feels almost intentional, like the dress itself is mocking me for even considering stepping outside like this.

I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, heat rushing up my neck, spreading across my chest, my pulse hammering so loudly it drowns out everything else.

I can’t do this.

I can’t walk out there and parade myself in front of every single person I know.

Including him.

The thought hits harder than anything else. If he decides to come… if he sees me like this…

My breath catches sharply, my fingers tightening around the edge of the sink until my knuckles pale, the memory of that night flashing through my mind with brutal clarity.

His hands.

His mouth.

The way my body responded without hesitation.

Would he think about it?

Would he look at me and remember exactly how I felt on top of him?

The idea makes my stomach flip violently, a sick, intoxicating mix of shame and desire swirling in my chest.

I shake my head quickly, as if that alone could push the thought away.

I have to change.