Chapter 2

Julian, ever the sycophant, practically jumped back, his eyes wide with a flicker of fear.

"Ethan! Mr. Miller! So sorry," he stammered, smoothing his already perfect tie. He tried to subtly distance himself from Isabelle.

"We didn't mean to intrude."

Isabelle, however, merely arched an eyebrow, her gaze cool and appraising as it swept over me.

She tugged Julian slightly closer, a possessive gesture. "Don't be ridiculous, Julian. Ethan knows we're expected."

She dismissed my presence as if I were a piece of furniture. Julian, though, kept glancing at me, a nervous energy about him.

Isabelle turned her full attention to me, a slight, condescending smile playing on her lips.

"So, Ethan. Still under Eleanor's wing? I suppose some things never change."

Her tone implied I was incapable of independent thought. The old Ethan would have bristled, would have felt that familiar sting of inadequacy she was so good at inflicting.

But the memory of her final, callous words in my past life echoed: "You were a placeholder, Ethan. A convenient step."

That pain was a shield now. I would not make that mistake again.

I met her gaze, my expression calm, neutral.

"Isabelle," I said, my voice even. "I have no interest in you. Not anymore."

Her smile faltered for a microsecond. Julian looked from her to me, his nervousness increasing.

Surprise flickered in her eyes, quickly masked.

Isabelle recovered swiftly, a brittle laugh escaping her.

"Oh, please, Ethan. Don't be tiresome." She stepped closer, her expensive perfume invading my space.

Then, with a sudden, sharp shove, she pushed me. "Still so clumsy."

I stumbled, catching myself on a console table. Not hard, but deliberate. A petty show of dominance.

I straightened, looking past her, past the life she represented.

My attachment to her in the first life hadn't been love. It was a longing for the perfect family she seemed to embody, the belonging I craved, perhaps even envy of her effortless place in a world I always felt on the fringes of.

That desire was dead. Utterly and completely.

I resolved then, standing there, to sever every last thread of that old, foolish yearning.

News of Eleanor Hayes endorsing a marriage for her godson, Ethan Miller, spread through New York society like wildfire.

The announcement was discreet, but Eleanor' s influence ensured it reached the right ears instantly.

The Vance family, Isabelle's parents, suddenly found their social calendar overflowing.

Invitations, calls, subtle inquiries – all because of the assumed connection to me, and by extension, to Eleanor.

Everyone assumed, naturally, that the bride-to-be was Isabelle Vance.

It was the logical conclusion, the match everyone had whispered about for years. My past self had believed it too.

The advantages of such an alliance were obvious. Aligning with Ethan Miller meant aligning with Eleanor Hayes.

Her philanthropic power was immense, her political connections legendary. For families like the Vances, it was a golden ticket.

Isabelle, however, held a different view. She was convinced I was playing some elaborate game to win her back, to prove my devotion after some imagined slight.

Her ego wouldn't allow for any other interpretation.