Chapter 2: Echoes of a First Love

So charming… and so dangerous. The kind of danger that makes your pulse skip a beat, not the kind you run from, but the kind you want to chase.

Not long after, he invited me to dinner, saying he wanted to thank me for helping him that night.

I was cautious at first. In my world, you run into plenty of men who act devoted but turn out to be married. I’d learned to spot the signs—the faint tan line where a ring used to be, the habit of turning their phone face down on the table.

I turned Ethan down flat. He just smiled, didn’t push. Later, he had someone send me a bottle of perfume—not expensive, just something nice, the kind you’d pick up at Sephora, maybe Marc Jacobs Daisy. I accepted it, shrugged it off, and thought that was the end of it.

But soon after, I owed him a favor again. The industry’s a small circle. I often do commercial performances with friends from my dance studio. It’s not like I haven’t met creeps before. Usually, people with status care about their reputation—if you turn them down, they don’t make a scene. But there are always exceptions.

When Ethan arrived, a real estate developer had my wrist in a painful grip, pulling me close and slurring, “I liked you the moment I saw you on stage. That waist—you really know how to move. How much do you make dancing like that? Be with me, I’ll give you ten grand a month, buy you a condo…”

My heart pounded in my chest, and I scanned the room, desperate for someone—anyone—to intervene. But everyone just watched, like it was an episode of "The Bachelor" gone wrong. Then Ethan strode over, his voice cool but sharp as he took the guy’s wrist and said, “Mr. Wallace, can’t you see she’s not interested?”

It was such a classic, movie-worthy rescue, the kind that makes your breath catch. I couldn’t help but fall for him after that.

I’m sure his divorce had nothing to do with his character. By then, I knew he’d been divorced for more than two years. As I got to know him, I realized he wasn’t a womanizer. Before me, he was always alone at business events, never bringing a date. Sometimes, in a ballroom full of music and laughter—maybe a charity gala with a live jazz band—he’d stand quietly at the edge, hands in his pockets, like he was watching the world from a distance.

I didn’t know what kind of loneliness he carried with him. Maybe that’s what drew me in—the sense of someone who’d seen too much but still hoped for something more.

His business was thriving, his family background impressive but understated. Wherever he went, people treated him like a star among stars, but he never acted like one.

After I finally agreed to be with him, he made me feel safe. He never crossed boundaries, but showed affection in all the normal ways—holding hands, kissing—always checking in, always asking for my consent. Since it was my first real relationship, he set the pace, telling me, “If you ever feel things are moving too fast or you’re uncomfortable, you have to let me know.”

He’d text me good morning every day, and always say good night before I slept, letting me know where he was at all times. It became a ritual, a little thread connecting us across time zones.

All his social media profile photos were picked by me. We had matching phone wallpapers, matching Facebook covers—everything coordinated, just like those couples you see on Instagram. I was sure I was the only woman in his life.

He gave me all the details, all the reassurance, and spent every spare minute with me. Sometimes we’d order takeout and binge-watch old sitcoms like "Friends" or "The Office," our legs tangled together on the couch. He’d remember the smallest things—my favorite flavor of ice cream, the song that always made me dance in the kitchen.

Once, he went abroad for a conference. At the same time, I was prepping for a big New Year’s Eve performance for a TV station, but I was stuck choosing background music for my choreography. Despite the time difference, at 1 a.m. his time, he was on FaceTime with me, sharing Spotify playlists—everything from "Today’s Top Hits" to "Chill Vibes." In front of the huge studio mirror, I searched for inspiration while he switched songs for me, one after another, never once sounding tired.

Every time I asked, “Ethan, are you still there?”

He always answered, right on time. Sometimes he’d even hum along to the music, his voice crackling through the speakers, making me smile.

I once read somewhere: If you want to know if a man loves you, see if he’s willing to spend money on you when he’s broke, and time on you when he’s busy. Maybe it’s cheesy, but it stuck with me—like something you’d see on a motivational mug at Target.

After a full day of meetings and jet lag, he stayed up late helping me pick songs, one after another, until I found the right one. I don’t know what could prove his devotion more than this. It felt like we were in our own little world, even with an ocean between us.

He loves me, he really does. He’s not just playing around or looking for a fling. I was completely certain. I would’ve bet anything on it.

But now, I’m not sure anymore.

Does he love me? Or does he even really like me?

The Ethan Caldwell on his ex-wife’s Instagram is someone I don’t know at all.