Chapter 5

Ethan insisted on driving her to her birthday party. He'd booked a private room at one of New York's most exclusive, old-money restaurants.

"Tiffany won't be joining us tonight," he said, a magnanimous tone in his voice as they navigated Midtown traffic. "She understood this evening should be... just for you. She's very considerate, really."

Sarah stared out the window, silent. Considerate. Tiffany was a barracuda in a designer dress. Ethan's emotional blindness was staggering.

The party was an opulent, suffocating affair. Ethan had outdone himself with lavish decorations, a string quartet playing softly, and a parade of expensive gifts he presented with a flourish. A rare vintage diamond watch. A first-edition classic novel she'd once mentioned. A custom-designed couture gown.

He was trying to buy her forgiveness, her compliance.

Each gesture, each expensive trinket, landed with a dull thud in the wasteland of her emotions. She smiled, she thanked him, she played the part of the grateful wife, all the while counting down the days, the hours, until her flight. Her heart was a stone.

They were halfway through the main course when the doors to the private room burst open.

Tiffany Vance stood framed in the doorway, looking artfully distressed, her eyes wide and tear-filled. She was wearing a stunning, shimmering gown that outshone Sarah's understated elegance.

"Ethan!" she cried, her voice trembling. "I... I couldn't stay away! I had to see you!"

Ethan, mid-sentence with Sarah, shot to his feet, his expression instantly transformed from feigned attentiveness to genuine concern. "Tiffany! What's wrong? What happened?" He rushed to her side, drawing her into the room.

The carefully constructed facade of Sarah's birthday dinner shattered.

Later, when the string quartet began a waltz, Ethan dutifully led Sarah to the small dance floor. They moved stiffly, a universe of unspoken resentment between them.

Then, Tiffany, who had been watching with a forlorn expression, glided towards them. "Ethan," she murmured, her hand touching his arm. "May I... may I have this dance?"

Ethan looked from Tiffany's pleading face to Sarah's impassive one. He hesitated for only a second.

"Of course, sweet girl." He released Sarah, leaving her standing alone in the middle of the dance floor, and swept Tiffany into his arms.

The other guests in the main dining room, peering through the open doors, whispered and stared. Sarah felt their pity, their judgment, like a physical blow. She turned and walked back to their table, her back straight, her expression carefully neutral.

A few minutes later, Tiffany, flushed and triumphant, approached Sarah's table while Ethan was momentarily distracted by a business associate.

She leaned in, her voice a low, gloating whisper, and held out her phone. "Look."

On the screen was a string of text messages between her and Ethan.

Ethan: Missing you tonight. This is... tedious.

Tiffany: Miss you more, baby. Wish I was there with you.

Ethan: Soon. This won't last much longer. You're the only one I want.

Tiffany smiled, a cat-like curl of her lips. "See? He's just going through the motions with you. It's me he loves. Me he wants to be with."

Sarah looked at the phone, then at Tiffany's smug face.

"Good," Sarah said, her voice calm, almost serene. "Then it's all yours, Tiffany. I officially cede my position."

Tiffany's smile wavered. "What... what are you talking about?"

Before Tiffany could say more, she gasped, her eyes widening in theatrical shock. She grabbed Sarah's hand, the one with the cast, and with surprising strength, slammed Sarah's palm against her own cheek.

SMACK.

The sound was sharp, unmistakable.

Tiffany stumbled back, a perfectly feigned look of horror on her face, tears instantly springing to her eyes. "You... you hit me!" she shrieked, just as Ethan turned back towards them.

Ethan's face contorted with rage. He lunged towards Sarah.

"How dare you!" he snarled.

He didn't ask. He didn't question. He simply reacted.

His hand came up.

Sarah closed her eyes, bracing for the blow.

Instead, he grabbed her shoulders, his grip brutal. "You will stand here," he hissed, his voice dangerously low, "and you will not move."

He turned to Tiffany, who was now sobbing into her hands. "She hit you, sweet girl?"

Tiffany nodded, her shoulders shaking. "Yes, Ethan! For no reason! I was just trying to be nice!"

Ethan looked back at Sarah, his eyes like chips of ice. He then turned to a nearby table where a bucket of champagne sat chilling. He picked up an empty champagne flute.

He held it out. "Tiffany," he said, his voice cold. "Show me where she hit you."

Tiffany, confused, pointed to her cheek.

Ethan then, with a calm, deliberate motion, brought the base of the heavy crystal flute down hard against Sarah's cheekbone.

Pain exploded through Sarah's face. Stars burst behind her eyes.

He did it again. And again. Each blow precise, controlled, brutal.

The room was silent, save for Tiffany's soft sobs and the sickening thud of crystal against flesh.

Sarah didn't cry out. She didn't resist. She just stood there, enduring it, her mind a distant, numb observer.

Finally, he stopped. He tossed the flute onto the table, where it shattered.

He turned to Tiffany, his expression softening instantly. He drew her into a tender embrace, stroking her hair, murmuring comforting words. "There, there, my sweet girl. It's alright. I won't let her hurt you again." He kissed Tiffany's forehead, then her lips, a long, possessive kiss, right in front of Sarah, in front of everyone.

Sarah tasted blood in her mouth. Her cheek throbbed, already beginning to swell.

She looked at Ethan, at the man she had once loved, the man who was now tenderly comforting the woman who had orchestrated her public beating.

A single, profound regret echoed through the ruins of her heart.

Not regret for leaving him.

But regret for ever, ever loving him in the first place.