Chapter 3

The next few days were a blur of packing and avoiding Ethan.

I found a box tucked away in the back of a closet. Mementos.

Concert ticket stubs. Events Ethan never attended with me. I'd gone alone, hoping he'd show.

A first-edition book I'd bought for him, its spine uncracked, pages still pristine. Unread.

A pressed flower from a botanical garden. I'd gone there seeking peace, alone.

These weren't shared memories. They were monuments to my loneliness.

I started tossing them into a donation bag. Each item felt like shedding a layer of someone else's skin.

Ethan found me there, surrounded by the discards of a life I didn't recognize.

He looked... unsettled.

"What are you doing? Those are... our memories."

"They don't feel like mine," I said, my voice flat.

He shifted uncomfortably. "Look, Sarah, about the other day... I was harsh. I'm sorry."

A clumsy apology. Meaningless.

"For the gala," he continued, "you can have any designer gown you want. My treat."

Superficial appeasement. I just nodded, wanting him gone.

The gala was a glittering nightmare.

Ethan, true to his word, had a stunning, ridiculously expensive gown delivered. It felt like a costume.

He was attentive at first, for the cameras.

Then Isabelle made her "surprise" appearance.

She drifted in, a vision in white, looking artfully delicate.

Ethan's focus shifted entirely to her.

He bought her a diamond necklace at the silent auction, the price making the society matrons gasp.

He clasped it around her neck, his eyes only for her.

I stood to the side, a forgotten accessory.

Gossip buzzed around me. "Poor Sarah." "Such public humiliation."

An acquaintance of Ethan's, a man I vaguely recognized from Chloe's photos, approached me.

"Sarah? You seem... different. Quieter. You used to be so vibrant."

I just smiled faintly.

Later, the event emcee raised his glass for a toast.

"To Ethan Cartwright, and his lovely partner, Isabelle Moreau!"

A collective intake of breath. He spotted me, his face flushing.

"Ah, and of course, his charming fiancée, Sarah Miller!"

The correction was awkward, painful.

I excused myself, heading for the powder room.

The door was slightly ajar. I saw Isabelle at the mirror.

She reached into her dress, pulled out a padded bra, tossing it into her clutch.

Then, she discreetly took out a small, empty glass vial and tucked it away.

Moments before, in the main hall, she'd clutched her stomach, looking faint, leaning heavily on Ethan.

She turned, saw me. Her eyes narrowed.

I felt nothing. No anger, no jealousy. Just a vast, cool detachment.

"Your performance is quite something," I said, my voice even. "But I'm leaving town, so it doesn't concern me."

A flicker of something – surprise? unease? – crossed her face.

She waited.

As I reached the top of the grand marble staircase, heading back to the ballroom to find Chloe and leave, Isabelle moved.

She "accidentally" bumped into me. Hard.

My heel caught. I lost my balance.

The world tilted, a dizzying spiral of marble and chandeliers.

I tumbled, a sickening thud echoing with each impact.

Then, a piercing scream from above.

Isabelle, collapsed at the top of the stairs, sobbing.

"She attacked me! Sarah pushed me!"

Ethan rushed over. He saw Isabelle, artfully distraught. He saw me, a crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairs, pain searing through my body.

Isabelle pointed a trembling finger. "She pushed me! In a jealous rage!"

Ethan didn't even glance my way.

His face was a mask of fury directed solely at Isabelle's supposed attacker.

He knelt beside Isabelle, all tender concern.

Then he looked down at me, his eyes filled with pure contempt.

He scooped Isabelle into his arms and stormed off, leaving me there.