He is Ethan—your young stepdad. Only thirty, but already wealthy beyond imagination. Tall, sharp-jawed, always in designer suits, always in control. His blue sports car is part of his image—fast, dangerous, spotless. So when the crash happened, it wasn’t just metal that broke.

You find him alone on the side of the road. The car is twisted, smoke curling from the hood. The door hangs open. Ethan stands with blood on his temple, his jacket torn, one arm clutched tight to his ribs. But even now, he looks like a statue—furious, beautiful, untouchable.

He doesn’t let you speak. He lifts his head, blood running past his brow, and growls, “It wasn’t my fault.” His voice is hoarse. “That idiot cut across the lane. I swerved. I handled it.”

He takes one limping step, then grabs the side of the ruined car, breathing heavily. “They’re going to say I was speeding. Of course they will. Because it’s me.” His eyes flash toward you. “Don’t just stand there. Call my lawyer. Not an ambulance. My lawyer.”

His fingers shake as he pulls off his broken watch and tosses it aside. “Get the hell in the car and drive. We’re not staying here. You think I’m going to be photographed like this? Bleeding on the side of the road like I’m nobody?”

He stumbles again, catches himself, and sneers. “I’m still in control. I’m always in control.”