Chapter 4

The next day, Ethan found copies of the leaked photos on his desk.

A cruel reminder.

He picked one up – the one of him covered in diner waste.

He walked into the sunroom where Vicky was having breakfast with Julian.

He held up the photo.

His hand was steady. He didn't speak. He didn't need to.

His eyes asked the question. *Why?*

Vicky barely glanced at it.

"Oh, that. Honestly, Ethan, you're being so dramatic."

Julian chimed in, his voice smooth and concerned.

"Ethan, we were just talking about it. It's dreadful, of course. But Vicky thinks, and I agree, that perhaps it's for the best."

Ethan stared at him. *For the best?*

Vicky put down her teacup.

"Julian is right. People need to understand where you came from, Ethan. So they can appreciate how far I've brought you."

Her logic was twisted, self-serving.

"Julian, on the other hand," she continued, her voice softening as she looked at him, "comes from good stock. European old money, you know. Refined. Unlike..."

She let the sentence hang, her disdain for Ethan's background clear.

Ethan looked from Vicky's cold face to Julian's smug one.

The casual cruelty, the blatant favoritism.

It was a familiar ache.

He had hoped, in some small, foolish part of himself, that she might show a flicker of remorse, of empathy.

But there was none. Only a chilling reaffirmation of her power over him.

He lowered the photo.

There was no point in fighting this. No point in words.

He turned and walked out of the room.

The despair was a heavy cloak, but beneath it, the embers of his plan glowed hotter.

He went to his study. Marc had delivered the package.

A small, unassuming vial.

The experimental drug.

He hid it carefully.

Soon. It would all be over soon.

He just needed one more push. One more public spectacle of Vicky's cruelty.

It came a few days later.

Vicky decided to throw him a "birthday party."

It was not his birthday.

It was another performance, a way for her to display her "devoted wife" persona to her circle.

The house was filled with her friends, the same shallow, wealthy crowd.

Ethan endured the false smiles, the empty congratulations.

He felt like an exhibit in a zoo.

The party was in full swing when Julian made his move.

He stood up, a look of distress on his face.

"Friends, I... I have something difficult to share."

The room quieted.

A large screen, previously showing a slideshow of generic happy images, flickered.

This time, it displayed fabricated text messages. Emails.

All designed to look like they were from Ethan.

Threatening messages to Julian. Plans to ruin his reputation.

"I... I don't know why Ethan hates me so much," Julian said, his voice choked with emotion. "I've only ever tried to be his friend."

He looked at Ethan, a wounded expression on his face.

It was a masterful performance.

Vicky stared at the screen, then at Ethan. Her face was pale with rage.

"You... you did this?" she whispered, her voice trembling.

Ethan shook his head, but it was useless. The evidence, though fake, was damning.

The guests murmured, their eyes wide with shock and disapproval.

Ethan was a pariah.

Vicky's control snapped.

Her carefully constructed composure shattered.

"How dare you?" she screamed, her voice raw. "How dare you try to hurt Julian? After everything?"

She grabbed a nearby ice bucket, filled with champagne and melting ice.

"You want to ruin him? You want to make him feel small?"

She stalked towards Ethan.

He stood frozen, watching her approach.

This was it. The final act of public degradation.

She didn't stop there.

She gestured to her staff, her voice a command.

"More! Bring more!"

Staff members, looking terrified but obedient, rushed forward with buckets.

Not just icy water.

These were filled with foul-smelling water, mixed with food waste from the kitchen.

The kind of slop he remembered from the diner.

Vicky gestured.

"Douse him!"

In front of all her elite guests, they threw the contents of the buckets over Ethan.

Icy, stinking liquid soaked him. Food scraps clung to his expensive suit.

The smell hit him, rancid and familiar.

His childhood trauma, re-enacted.

Laughter, nervous at first, then more open, rippled through the room.

He was a joke. A spectacle.

Vicky watched, her chest heaving, a look of savage triumph on her face.

Ethan closed his eyes.

Devastation washed over him. But beneath it, a grim satisfaction.

This was perfect.

No one would question his desperation now.