Chapter 2

Ethan left me in the cold, sterile lawyer's office after that first, devastating "compromise."

He had to "smooth things over" with his parents, he said.

I sat there, alone, the word "wait" echoing in the silent room.

My mind flashed back to how we met. It wasn't a grand ballroom or an exclusive club.

It was a seafood market in my small Pennsylvania town, during the annual Fall Festival. I wasn't selling pies that day, but helping my grandmother with her small preserves stand.

Ethan, looking completely out of place in his expensive coat, had been drawn to the chaos and the colors.

He'd stumbled, almost knocking over a display of my grandmother's prize-winning blueberry jam.

I'd caught the toppling jars, laughing. "Careful there, city boy."

He'd looked at me, really looked at me, with an intensity that made my breath catch. He bought three jars of jam he clearly didn't need.

He called me "Blueberry Girl" for weeks after that.

He came back to town every weekend. He'd find my little bakery, "Sarah's Sweets," tucked away on a side street.

He'd sit for hours, drinking coffee, eating whatever I'd baked, just watching me work.

He didn't care that my apron was dusted with flour or that my hands were rough from kneading dough.

He said I was the most authentic person he'd ever met.

His courtship was relentless, unconventional.

He once filled my tiny bakery with hundreds of sunflowers because I'd idly mentioned they were my favorite.

He learned the names of all my regular customers. He even tried to help me knead dough once, ending up covered in flour and laughing harder than I'd ever seen anyone laugh.

I resisted at first. He was from a different universe. A universe of unimaginable wealth and expectation.

"This can't work, Ethan," I'd told him, my heart aching because I already knew I was falling for him. "Your world... my world... they're too different."

"Then we'll make our own world," he'd said, his eyes fierce with determination.

He'd chased me for months. He even got a small cut on his hand trying to fix a loose shelf in my bakery, stubbornly refusing my help. He'd held up his bandaged finger proudly, "See? I'm useful."

That silly, earnest gesture, more than any grand display, was what finally made me give in.

He had been so devoted then, so careful with my feelings.

He'd listen for hours while I talked about my grandmother, her recipes, my dreams for the bakery.

He'd trace the lines on my palm and tell me they led to him.

He used to say, "Sarah, you're my anchor. You keep me real."

He'd bring me little gifts, not expensive things, but thoughtful ones – an antique baking tin he'd found, a rare spice he thought I'd like, a first edition of a cookbook he knew I admired.

He spoiled me rotten with his attention, his care.

Now, sitting in that lawyer's office, the memory of his past devotion was a sharp pain.

The Ethan who had just pleaded with me to "wait" felt like a stranger.

A tear escaped, then another. I laughed, a choked, broken sound.

The woman who had been so sure of his love, so confident in their future, was shattering.

I had to get out of there.

I walked out of the Montgomery building, blinking in the harsh New York sunlight.

I didn't go back to the apartment he'd rented for me. Not yet.

I needed air. I needed to think.

I found a small, anonymous clinic a few blocks away. My head throbbed from the stress, from the unshed tears.

The doctor said it was a tension headache, prescribed rest.

Later that evening, Ethan found me at the clinic. He must have called the apartment, then guessed I might seek some quiet place.

His face was etched with worry when he saw me. "Sarah! What happened? Are you okay?"

For a moment, a tiny flicker of hope ignited. Maybe he'd changed his mind. Maybe he'd tell his family to go to hell.

But then his expression shifted. The worry was still there, but something else clouded it – frustration, impatience.

"I was so worried," he said, his voice tight. "You shouldn't have just disappeared like that."

"I needed some air," I said, my voice flat.

"This whole thing... it's a mess, I know," he said, running a hand through his hair. "But you have to trust me, Sarah. This is the only way."

"Trust you?" I looked at him, really looked at him. The earnest, devoted man I fell in love with was fading, replaced by someone caught in a web of his own making. "You're asking me to wait while you marry another woman. While you have a child with her."

He flinched. "Don't say it like that. It's not... it's a means to an end. Our end."

A flicker of remorse crossed his face. He reached for my hand. "I hate this, Sarah. More than you know. But my father... he's ruthless. This is the only strategy I have."

His "plan." His "strategy." It all sounded so cold, so calculated.

My hope died completely. I pulled my hand away.

"I need to go," I said.

"I'll take you back to the apartment," he said, his voice softer now, trying to coax me. "We'll talk. I'll explain everything again."

He sounded so sure he could make me understand, make me accept.

He drove me back, his hand resting on my knee, his thumb stroking my skin in that familiar, comforting way.

But it wasn't comforting anymore. It felt like a brand.

"Just wait," he murmured as he left me at the door of the small apartment. "I'll call you tomorrow. We'll get through this."

He had to go. He had a fiancée to appease, a family legacy to secure.

I watched him walk away, his shoulders slumped for a moment before he straightened them, the heir to the Montgomery fortune once more.

I closed the door.

"I don't believe it anymore," I whispered to the empty room. "I don't believe you."

The words hung in the air, a final, silent declaration.