Chapter 2

The days that followed were a blur of cold, grey misery.

The news of my public breakdown spread like a virus. My phone buzzed constantly with texts and missed calls from people I hadn't spoken to in years, all of them filled with morbid curiosity.

"Sarah, are you okay? What happened?"

"I heard you fainted at the gala. Is it because of Ethan?"

"Who is this Dr. Carter to you?"

I ignored them all. I deleted the messages without reading them, blocked the numbers, and turned my phone off. I would sit by the window in my room, staring out at the rain-drenched street, my mind a complete blank. The grief was a constant, heavy weight in my chest, a pain without a source, a sorrow without a memory.

My parents tiptoed around me. My father would bring me meals on a tray and leave them outside my door, knocking softly before retreating. My mother would watch me from the hallway, her face a mask of worry and confusion. They didn't know how to talk to me. Three years ago, they had believed the lies, believed I was unstable and obsessive. They had helped Ethan send me away "for my own good." Now, they saw a stranger in their house, a daughter broken by something they couldn't comprehend.

"She just sits there," I heard my mother whisper to my father one night from the other side of my door. "She doesn't eat, she doesn't talk. It's like she's a ghost."

"What do we do, Helen?" my father's voice was heavy with regret. "What if we were wrong? What if we made a terrible mistake?"

"Don't say that," she sobbed quietly. "Ethan said the doctors abroad would help her. He said she needed a clean break, away from everything... away from him."

"And away from that... that incident with Emily," my father added, his voice low. "He paid for everything, Helen. The treatments, the clinic... He said they would help her forget the trauma."

Forget. The word echoed in the hollow space inside me. What trauma? The public humiliation? The heartbreak? No, this grief felt older, deeper. It felt like a phantom limb, an amputation of the soul.

A week after the gala, the city's main news channel ran a special tribute to Dr. Ben Carter. I was sitting numbly in the living room when it came on. My mother tried to change the channel, her hand trembling.

"Sarah, honey, let's watch something else."

"Leave it," I said, my voice raspy from disuse.

They showed pictures of him. A kind smile, warm eyes, a man who looked dedicated and gentle. They spoke of his groundbreaking work, his charity missions, his compassion. He saved lives. He had rescued people from war zones, from natural disasters. The screen showed a brief clip of him in a foreign country, a dusty, sun-baked place, helping a small child. The background looked vaguely familiar, a memory I couldn't quite grasp.

The news anchor announced that Ethan Hayes, CEO of the Hayes Corporation, had made a massive donation to St. Jude's Hospital in Dr. Carter's name to establish a new research wing.

An image of Ethan flashed on the screen, looking solemn and philanthropic. The caption read: "A Tribute to a Friend and a Hero."

A bitter, humorless laugh escaped my lips. It was a dry, ugly sound. My parents flinched.

For three years, I had built a wall of indifference around myself. I had convinced myself that I didn't care about Ethan, about Emily, about any of them. I had returned home a hollow shell, content to be left alone.

But seeing Ethan's face linked to Ben Carter's name, seeing him purchase a legacy for a man whose death was destroying me in a way I couldn't understand, changed something.

The numbness began to recede, replaced by a slow, burning anger.

I stood up, walked to the kitchen, and poured myself a glass of water. I drank it slowly, deliberately. The fog in my mind was beginning to clear. I didn't have answers, but for the first time in a week, I had a purpose.

I had to find out why the name Ben Carter was breaking my heart.