Chapter 3

"Upset, little sister?"

Veronica. She swirled the champagne in her flute, a smug smile playing on her lips.

"You had a nice little run while I was out, didn't you? Playing the tragic heroine, the devoted fiancée."

Her eyes, so like mine yet so different, glittered with malice.

"Daddy told me it was Marcus Thorne's company that provided the drug. Quite the price you paid, I hear."

She leaned closer, her perfume, a heavy, cloying gardenia, enveloping me.

"Don't for a second think I'm grateful. You need to remember your place, Amelia. You'll always be living in my shadow."

Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, the same tone she used when we were children.

"Just like you always got my hand-me-down dolls. The ones I'd already broken."

Before I could react, she let out a small, theatrical gasp.

The champagne flute tilted.

Red wine, not champagne, cascaded down the front of her blush-pink dress – my dress.

"Oh, Amelia!" she cried, her voice loud enough to carry back into the drawing-room. "How could you?"

Heads turned.

Ethan was by her side in an instant.

"Veronica, what happened?"

"Amelia... she... she just threw her wine on me!" Veronica sobbed, clutching the stained silk. "She said... she said I stole her dress and her fiancé!"

My mouth fell open. I hadn't even been holding a glass of wine.

"Amelia!" Ethan's voice was sharp, his eyes, usually so serene, now blazing with anger. He didn't even look at me. His entire focus was on Veronica, dabbing at the stain with his handkerchief.

"How could you be so petty? So cruel? After everything Veronica's been through?"

"But I didn't..." I started, but my voice was drowned out by Veronica's renewed sobs.

Dad rushed over, his face a mask of fury. "Amelia Walker! Apologize to your sister at once!"

I looked from Dad's angry face to Ethan's disappointed one, to Veronica's tear-streaked, triumphant expression.

There was no point.

I turned and fled, the whispers following me like angry bees.

The next week was a blur of similar incidents.

A charity auction at the Met. Veronica, claiming a sudden dizzy spell, insisted Ethan take her home just as I was about to present my donated painting.

A family dinner. As I sat down at the grand piano to play a piece I'd been practicing for weeks – a Chopin nocturne Ethan had once said he admired – the heavy lid slammed down on my fingers.

Pain, sharp and blinding, shot up my arm.

I cried out, cradling my hand.

Veronica, from across the room, let out a small, satisfied sigh, quickly masked by a look of concern.

"Oh, dear, Amelia, are you alright? You must have dislodged the safety catch. So clumsy."

Ethan, who had been talking to Dad, glanced over, a flicker of something – annoyance? – in his eyes before he turned back to their conversation.

He didn't come to me. He didn't ask if I was hurt.

My mother rushed to my side, her face pale. "Your fingers! We need to get you to a doctor!"

My fingers were already swelling, a sickening purple bruising under the skin. My art. My painting.

The music I loved.

Later that night, the doctor confirmed it. Two fractured metacarpals and severe tendon damage.

"You'll be in a cast for at least six weeks, Miss Walker," he said gravely. "And I'm afraid playing the piano, or even holding a paintbrush, will be out of the question for some time after that. Possibly, for a very long time."

I stared at my bandaged hand, the white gauze a stark symbol of everything I was losing.

When I got home, Ethan was in the library, a book open in his lap, though he wasn't reading.

"Your mother told me about your hand," he said, not looking up. "Unfortunate."

Unfortunate.

That was all.

"She said you think Veronica did it on purpose." His voice was cold. "That's a rather serious accusation, Amelia. Veronica is still recovering. She wouldn't hurt a fly."

I looked at him, really looked at him. The man I had loved for a third of my life.

And I felt nothing.

Just a vast, empty space where my heart used to be.

"You're right, Ethan," I said, my voice devoid of emotion. "It was an accident. I was clumsy."

He nodded, satisfied. "I'm glad you see reason."

He finally looked up, a faint frown creasing his perfect brow. "You know, the door code to my penthouse. I've changed it."

I waited.

"It's Veronica's birthday now. Easier for her to remember."

Of course.

I nodded. "Good to know."

I walked out of the library, out of the townhouse, and didn't look back.

My engagement to Ethan Hayes was over. Not with a bang, or even a whimper.

Just a quiet, final severing.