Chapter 4

True to her nature, Isabelle orchestrated a grand spectacle.

She and Julian Croft became the city's most ostentatiously affectionate couple. Lavish dinners, paparazzi-ready appearances, interviews where Julian hinted at their "unbreakable bond" and Isabelle spoke of "true love conquering all."

It was all designed to paint me as the spurned, desperate suitor.

And it worked. The society pages, the gossip columns, even some mainstream news outlets, picked up the narrative. Ethan Miller, the pitiable godson, jilted and trying to save face.

I became a figure of ridicule.

I, however, remained outwardly unfazed by the whispers and the blatant mockery.

Eleanor, from her recovery, sent messages of support, her anger at the Vances palpable even through her assistant.

Isabelle Vance, Julian Croft – they were utterly insignificant to my future.

My focus was on Sarah, on the quiet correspondence we had begun, facilitated by Eleanor. Her letters were blunt, honest, and surprisingly witty.

Eleanor, now recovered and fiercely protective, insisted I attend the annual "Heart's Promise" charity gala.

"You will go, Ethan," she'd said, her voice leaving no room for argument. "And you will hold your head high. We show them they cannot break us."

So, I went, despite my personal aversion to such high-society circuses.

My arrival at the gala sent a ripple through the glittering crowd.

Eyes followed me, whispers like the rustle of silk. Judgmental, pitying, amused.

It didn't take a genius to figure out why.

Across the ballroom, Isabelle and Julian were holding court, radiant and smug. Her dress was a confection of white, almost bridal. His arm was possessively around her waist.

They were the conquering heroes; I was the defeated fool. The public had made its judgment.

Julian, emboldened by their perceived victory, approached me, Isabelle on his arm.

He had a look of feigned sympathy. "Ethan, old man. Tough break, huh?"

Isabelle' s smile was pure malice. "Julian and I are announcing our engagement tonight, officially," she purred, loud enough for those nearby to hear. "We just couldn't wait any longer."

A strange, ironic thought struck me.

The date Isabelle had chosen for her grand announcement, the date she was so smugly flaunting, was the exact date she and I were supposed to have gotten married in my first, disastrous life.

The universe had a twisted sense of humor.

The onlookers, misinterpreting my silence as distress, murmured amongst themselves.

"Poor Ethan, he still hasn't given up."

"She's made her choice so clear. He should just accept it."

The narrative was set. I was the pathetic one, still clinging to a lost cause.