Chapter 2

The air in the room turned to ice. My father, a man who built a real estate empire from the ground up, stared at Ethan, his face slowly turning a deep, dangerous red.

"What did you just say?" my father' s voice was low, but it cut through the silence.

Ethan' s father, Mr. Scott, puffed out his chest. "You heard him. Our Ethan is making a huge sacrifice here. Marrying a... defective girl. Someone who can't handle a simple conversation without falling apart. He deserves some security for that."

"Defective?" my mother whispered, her hand flying to her mouth.

The word hit me, and my own voice was gone. I couldn't even form a sound.

Ethan didn't defend me. He sided with them.

He looked at my father, his face a mask of false sincerity. "Mr. Smith, I love Jennifer. But we have to be realistic. Her stutter has already cost me opportunities. Promoters get nervous. It's been a struggle. This is the least your family can do to compensate for the challenges we'll face."

"Compensate?" my father roared, slamming his hand on the table. The crystal glasses jumped. "This isn't a business deal! This is my daughter!"

The stress was too much. My father clutched his chest, his face contorting in pain. He gasped, his eyes wide with shock, and then he collapsed, falling from his chair to the floor.

A heart attack.

Chaos erupted. People screamed. My mother rushed to his side. I was frozen for a second, then scrambled to help, my mind a blur of panic.

As the paramedics wheeled my father out, I saw Ethan and his parents standing off to the side, not helping, just watching.

At the hospital, my mother and I paced the waiting room, our world hanging by a thread. A few hours later, my phone started buzzing with notifications. A friend had sent me a link.

It was a video. Ethan' s mother, her face streaked with fake tears, speaking to her phone camera.

"They look down on us," she sobbed. "These rich people... they hid their daughter's disability from us. My poor son, he's a saint, tying himself to a broken woman. And when we asked for a little security, just a little help, they got so angry they gave Mr. Smith a heart attack. They tried to blame us!"

The video was going viral. #JusticeForEthan was trending.

I felt sick. I showed the video to my mother. Just then, a nurse came out to tell us my father was stable and awake. We rushed into his room. He was pale, hooked up to machines, but he gave us a weak smile.

He asked for his tablet to check his company's stock prices. He opened it, and the first thing he saw was the viral video of Mrs. Scott.

I saw the recognition in his eyes, then the disbelief, then a wave of pure, unadulterated rage.

His body seized. The heart monitor screamed a flat, continuous tone.

Doctors and nurses rushed in, pushing us out of the room. But I knew. I knew it was over.

My father was dead.