Chapter 3

Ethan' s eyes blazed.

He strode towards her, his movements quick and angry.

He grabbed her arm, yanking her to her feet.

His grip was like iron.

"What do you think you' re doing?" he hissed, his voice low and dangerous, meant only for her ears.

The cameras were still flashing.

"You' re making a fool of yourself. And me."

Abby swayed, the sudden movement making her head spin.

"I' m holding you to your word, Ethan."

"My word?" He laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. "You think this pathetic display means anything? You Vances are all the same. Manipulative. Deceitful."

He was hurting her arm. She could feel her bones grind.

She was too weak to pull away.

He saw her wince. For a split second, something flickered in his eyes. Concern?

Then it was gone, replaced by cold anger.

"Get her out of here," he barked at his security.

Two large men moved towards her.

"No!" Abby cried, pulling against his grip. "Ethan, please! The Foundation!"

He tightened his hold.

"You will go home. And you will stay there. If you ever try a stunt like this again, I will personally ensure that every last remnant of the Vance name is wiped from this city."

His voice was a venomous whisper.

The security guards gently but firmly escorted her out, away from the flashing cameras and the shocked faces of the reporters.

Back in the cold silence of the Blackwood mansion, Abby felt a crushing despair.

She had tried. She had humiliated herself. For nothing.

Later that afternoon, Ethan' s assistant, a severe-looking woman named Ms. Albright, appeared.

"Mr. Blackwood requires your presence."

Abby followed her, her heart heavy with dread.

Where was he taking her?

Ms. Albright led her not to Ethan' s study, but to a wing of the mansion Abby had never seen.

It was... different.

The rooms were filled with light, with flowers, with art that was vibrant and modern.

It didn' t feel like Ethan' s cold, imposing taste.

Then she saw them.

Ethan and Isabelle were in a sun-drenched conservatory, filled with exotic plants.

Isabelle was laughing, her head thrown back, as Ethan fed her a strawberry.

It was an intimate, domestic scene. A life Abby would never have with him.

Isabelle saw her first. Her smile faltered, then returned, sharper, more predatory.

"Abby, darling! So glad you could join us."

Ethan turned, his expression unreadable.

"Isabelle was just saying she' s feeling a bit tired," Ethan said, his voice smooth. "Perhaps you could fetch her a glass of water, Abby. And be quick about it."

The unspoken words hung in the air: You are her servant now.

Isabelle leaned back, enjoying the moment. "And then, Abby, I believe you owe us some music. Ethan tells me you play the piano beautifully. Something... uplifting, this time. To celebrate."

To celebrate what? Abby wondered. Her complete and utter subjugation?

She brought the water.

Then she sat at the grand piano in the corner of the conservatory.

Her fingers, already sore from her illness, trembled as she placed them on the keys.

She began to play, a complex classical piece her grandfather had loved.

She played for hours.

Her fingers grew raw, then numb.

Small flecks of blood appeared on the ivory keys.

Ethan and Isabelle barely noticed.

They danced slowly, intimately, lost in their own world.

They whispered. They kissed.

Abby played on, her vision blurring with unshed tears and pain.

Finally, as dusk settled, Ethan led Isabelle away.

"You can stop now, Abby," he said over his shoulder, as if dismissing a hired musician.

They disappeared into the deeper recesses of the mansion, their laughter echoing softly.

Abby was left alone, her fingers bleeding, her heart shattered, the melancholic notes of her life filling the empty room.