Chapter 2

The word, barely a whisper, hung in the air.

Vicky's eyes narrowed.

"What did you say?"

Ethan stood his ground. The image of his grandmother falling, the sound of the barn collapsing, burned in his mind.

He remembered the early days with Vicky.

She had seemed like a fairytale princess then.

He was working at the diner, the smell of rancid fry oil clinging to him, a constant reminder of his abusive boss, the relentless bullying.

She'd walked in one day, a vision in Chanel, out of place and dazzling.

She'd ordered coffee, looked at him with an intensity that made him flush.

She'd asked about his stutter, not with pity, but with a strange, possessive curiosity.

She'd said it was... endearing.

She had pursued him, showered him with gifts, attention.

Pulled him out of the grease and grime, into her gilded world.

"I made you, Ethan," she had whispered to him on their wedding night, her breath hot against his ear.

"You were nothing. A boy from a trailer park. I saw something in you. I made you a prince."

Her prince. Locked in her tower.

She had designed a custom scent for him, something expensive and cloying.

"To mask any lingering... diner smell," she'd said with a cruel little smile.

A constant reminder of where he came from, and how much he "owed" her.

Her love was a performance, her promises a carefully constructed lie.

Now, the fairytale was a nightmare.

The princess was a monster.

"No?" Vicky repeated, her voice rising. "You dare to say no to me?"

Ethan met her gaze. The fear was still there, but the rage was stronger.

He shook his head again, more firmly this time.

He would not apologize to the man who had helped orchestrate his grandparents' ruin.

Vicky's face contorted with fury.

"You ungrateful wretch! After everything I've done for you!"

Julian Astor sat up, a pained expression on his face.

"Vicky, please," he said, his voice weak but smooth. "Don't be angry with him. Perhaps he doesn't understand."

He looked at Ethan with false sympathy.

"Ethan, I know you've been under a lot of stress. But what happened to me... it was terrifying. I just want to put it behind us."

His eyes, however, held a glint of malice. He was enjoying this.

Vicky's anger shifted, her concern for Julian overriding everything else.

"You see, Ethan? Julian is willing to forgive you. And you still refuse to apologize?"

She turned back to Julian. "Don't worry, my dear. He will learn his lesson."

Her gaze fixed on Ethan again, cold and hard.

"You leave me no choice."

She snapped her fingers. Two large security guards, always lurking nearby, stepped forward.

"Take him to the old tenement building. The basement unit."

Ethan knew the building. One of the many Vanderbilt properties, decaying and forgotten.

He also knew what was in that basement.

Vicky had shown it to him once, a cruel "tour" of her family's less glamorous assets.

It was infested with roaches, damp, and filled with discarded, rotting things.

And the smell.

The smell of stale food, decay, and something else... something horribly familiar.

Rancid oil.

The same smell that haunted his nightmares, the trigger for his PTSD from the diner.

His abusive boss, the taunts, the filth.

She knew. She knew it would break him.

He started to tremble, the stutter threatening to overwhelm him again.

He tried to write, "NO! P-please!" but his hands were shaking too much.

The guards grabbed his arms.

He looked at Vicky, a silent plea in his eyes.

She met his gaze with a chilling smile.

"A few days in there, Ethan, and you'll remember your place. You'll beg to apologize to Julian."

The guards dragged him out.

The stench hit him as they descended the rickety stairs into the tenement basement.

It was overpowering. Stale grease, decaying food scraps, damp earth.

And beneath it all, the sharp, acrid smell of rancid fry oil.

His breath hitched. His heart hammered against his ribs.

The memories flooded back.

The heat of the kitchen, the sneering face of his boss, the feel of greasy dishwater on his hands.

The bigger boys from school, cornering him, taunting his stutter, shoving his face into bins of refuse.

He was back there, a terrified, helpless boy.

The guards threw him into a small, windowless room.

The single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling cast long, dancing shadows.

Cockroaches skittered across the floor.

The door slammed shut, the lock clicking into place.

He was alone.

With his ghosts.

And the smell.

He sank to the floor, gasping for breath, his body shaking uncontrollably.

The trauma, held at bay for so long, consumed him.