Chapter 2

The morning light was a pale gray, filtering through the blinds. I woke up with a start, my body stiff with the tension of feigned sleep. The space next to me in the bed was empty and cold. Ethan was already gone, probably off to start his day, a day that included my slow, methodical destruction. A profound loneliness settled over me, but it was different from before. It wasn't the loneliness of loss, but the stark, chilling loneliness of being utterly on my own in enemy territory.

I had to get up. I had to start moving, to test my own limits. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, my left leg, the one that had taken the worst of the crash, throbbing with a dull, familiar ache. I ignored it. I pushed myself up, my hands gripping the nightstand for support.

My first few steps were wobbly. The world swayed, a dizzying reminder of my own fragility. I needed to get to my laptop, to book a ticket, to contact that clinic in Switzerland myself. I took a deep, steadying breath and aimed for the desk across the room.

One step. Two steps. On the third, my ankle buckled. I cried out as my body pitched forward, my hands flailing for something to grab onto. I hit the floor hard, my shoulder and hip taking the brunt of the impact. A sharp, searing pain shot through me.

I lay there on the cold hardwood, gasping. Tears of frustration and pain welled in my eyes. I was so weak, so helpless.

Just then, the bedroom door opened. Ethan stood there, a tray with a glass of orange juice and a single red rose in his hand. He froze when he saw me on the floor.

"Scarlett!" He rushed over, dropping the tray with a clatter. "What happened? Are you okay?"

He tried to help me up, his hands warm and strong on my arms. The touch was revolting. I flinched away from him.

"I'm fine," I said, my voice tight. "I just tripped."

"You shouldn't be walking around by yourself," he said, a note of irritation creeping into his concerned tone. "You know you're not strong enough yet. You should have called for me." It wasn't concern as much as it was an order. He needed me dependent.

He helped me back to the bed, his movements efficient and practiced. He fussed over me, checking my hip and shoulder. "Does this hurt?" he asked, his fingers pressing gently.

"No," I lied, even though a sharp pain radiated from the spot. I would not give him the satisfaction of knowing he could still cause me pain, even accidentally. My mind was a fortress, and I was reinforcing its walls, brick by painful brick. I knew I had to leave. The fall only made my resolve stronger. I wouldn't let him see it, not a flicker of it in my eyes.

"I brought you breakfast in bed," he said, trying to smile, picking up the fallen rose. "I was going to surprise you." He gestured to the kitchen. "I even tried to make your favorite, Croque Madame. Bethany gave me her recipe."

Bethany. The name hung in the air between us. He said it so casually, so easily. It was a slip, a small crack in his perfect facade.

Suddenly, a flood of memories hit me. The late-night phone calls he'd take in the other room. The faint scent of a different perfume on his clothes sometimes. The way Bethany would look at him across the dinner table, a look I had always mistaken for sisterly admiration. It was all so clear now. It wasn't new. This betrayal had been growing in the shadows for a long, long time.

A wave of disgust so powerful it was physical washed over me. I felt the bile rise in my throat. I turned away from him, clamping a hand over my mouth.

"Scarlett? What's wrong?" Ethan asked, his hand on my back.

"Nothing," I choked out. "Just feeling a little sick."

I pushed him away and stumbled towards the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I leaned over the toilet, my body heaving, but nothing came up. It was a sickness of the soul, a revulsion so deep it was twisting my insides. I splashed cold water on my face, staring at my reflection in the mirror. My eyes were hollow, my face pale. I looked like a ghost.

When I finally came out, Ethan was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking worried. "Feeling better?"

"A little," I said, my voice flat.

"Listen," he began, his tone shifting to something more serious. "Bethany's parents are having a small family dinner tonight to celebrate her nomination for the Le Cordon Bleu prize. They really want you to be there."

Of course they did. They wanted to parade their victory in front of me. They wanted me there as a prop, the tragic sister, a living testament to Bethany's triumph. The thought was sickening.

"I don't think I'm up for it, Ethan," I said, my voice barely a whisper.

His face hardened slightly. "Scarlett, it's important. To me. To Bethany. She feels terrible about what happened to you. It would mean a lot to her to see you there, supporting her."

Supporting her. The irony was so thick I could choke on it. He wanted me to go and watch the woman who stole my career, my future, and my boyfriend celebrate her spoils.

I looked at him, at his earnest, pleading face. It was a performance, and I had to give one of my own. If I refused, he'd be suspicious. I needed to keep the peace until I could make my move.

"Okay," I said, letting out a long, weary sigh. "Okay, Ethan. I'll go."

A bright, genuine smile spread across his face. "Thank you, baby. It means the world to me."

He leaned in to kiss me, but I turned my head slightly so his lips landed on my cheek. "I'm just going to rest a little more," I said, pulling the covers up.

He accepted it without question. "Of course. Get some rest. I'll come get you when it's time to go."

As he left the room, closing the door softly behind him, I stared at the ceiling. A family dinner. It was going to be my own personal hell. But it was also an opportunity. An opportunity to see them all together, to watch their lies up close, to fuel the cold fire of my anger. It would be the last performance I ever gave for them.