Chapter 2

Julian recoiled, feigning offense.

Vicky scoffed. "Ethan, don't be so precious. What is it, anyway?"

"It's nothing that concerns you," I said, my voice tight.

"Let Julian see it," Vicky commanded. "If he wants it, I'll buy him a dozen."

Her casual dismissal of something so personal cut deep.

"It's my grandfather's Purple Heart," I said, my voice low but firm. "It's not for sale. And it's not for him to touch."

For a moment, Vicky looked almost... surprised. Maybe even a fraction uncomfortable. The mention of family honor, of sacrifice, was outside her usual realm of transactions.

Julian pouted, a calculated expression of disappointment.

"But Vicky, darling, it looks so... vintage. It would be a wonderful conversation piece."

Vicky's brief hesitation vanished. Julian's whims always took precedence.

"Ethan, just let him hold it for a moment. He's the father of my child, after all. Show some respect."

The words were like a slap. My grandfather' s medal, a symbol of courage, reduced to a plaything for her boy-toy.

Before I could react, Julian lunged for the case.

His fingers fumbled, and the case slipped, hitting the marble floor.

The medal clattered out, a piece of the enamel chipping off.

Julian yelped, clutching his hand. "Ow! My nail! I think I broke my nail!" He glared at me. "Look what you made me do, you clumsy oaf!"

Vicky rushed to Julian's side, all fluttering concern.

"Julian, baby, are you okay? Let me see!"

She pushed me aside roughly as she fussed over his hand.

I stumbled, my head cracking against the sharp edge of a console table.

Pain exploded behind my eyes, hot and sharp.

Dizziness washed over me.

I barely registered the throbbing in my skull.

My gaze was fixed on the damaged Purple Heart lying on the cold floor.

The chipped enamel felt like a wound in my own chest.

It was more than a medal; it was my father's pride, my family's legacy, a testament to something real and honorable in a life that had become a shallow charade.

And now, it was broken. Like me.

"Ethan! Apologize to Julian right now!" Vicky' s voice was sharp, cutting through my haze.

I looked at her, at Julian cradling his supposedly injured finger, and a bitter laugh almost escaped me.

My head was bleeding, I could feel the warm trickle down my temple, but her concern was solely for her lover's manicure.

The injustice of it was staggering.

Any lingering hope that Vicky might see reason, might recognize the cruelty, died in that moment.

"Fine," I said, my voice hollow. "I'm sorry, Julian. For your... nail."

I had apologized to Vicky countless times before.

For her affairs. For her moods. For existing.

This apology was different. It was the apology of a man who had nothing left to lose.

Vicky deferred to Julian with a glance. "Is that good enough for you, darling?"

Julian, ever the opportunist, was already eyeing the medal again, despite its damage.

"Well," he said, a sly look in his eyes, "it is a rather unique piece. Perhaps if he could find a... replacement? An identical one?"

I understood. He didn't want the broken one. He wanted the status, the story.

"I'll get you another one," I said, the words tasting like ash. "I'll find an exact replica. Then, I'm leaving."

I needed to get out. Away from them. Away from this gilded cage.

Vicky sighed, annoyed. "Still on about leaving? Honestly, Ethan."

Julian suddenly gasped, doubling over dramatically. "Oh, Vicky! The pain! My hand! I think it's serious!"

Vicky's attention snapped back to him. "Oh, my god, Julian! We need to get you to a doctor!"

She glared at me. "This is your fault, Ethan!"

She barked orders into her phone. "Security! Get down here! Mr. Miller is... unwell. He needs to be escorted."

Two of Vicky' s burly security guards appeared almost instantly.

They grabbed my arms. I didn't resist.

"Take him to Dr. Albright's clinic," Vicky commanded. "Now."

Dr. Albright. Vicky' s society dermatologist, known for expensive and often unnecessary procedures.

At the pristine, sterile clinic, Vicky was in full command mode.

Julian was being treated for a bruised finger, a tiny bandage already applied.

My head was still bleeding, the cut now throbbing insistently. No one had even looked at it.

Vicky turned to a bewildered Dr. Albright.

"Julian has had a slight... reaction. His skin is very sensitive. I need a perfectly matched skin culture for a graft. From Mr. Miller."

Dr. Albright looked from Julian' s barely perceptible scratch to the gash on my head.

"Mrs. Sterling, a skin graft for... that? And Mr. Miller clearly has a head injury that needs attention."

Vicky hesitated for a split second. A flicker of something – doubt? – crossed her face.

Then it was gone, replaced by her usual iron resolve.

"Julian's appearance is paramount, Doctor. And he's carrying my child."

She turned to me, her voice softening into a mockery of concern.

"Ethan, darling, it's just a small patch of skin. For Julian. For the baby. It won't hurt much."

I knew it was pointless to argue.

My head throbbed. My heart ached for the broken medal, for my broken life.

I just wanted it to be over.

"Fine," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "Do it."

I focused on Olivia' s voice, her promise of Austin. A different life. A future.

During the painful procedure, as a patch of skin was being removed from my arm, Julian peered at the sample in the petri dish.

He wrinkled his nose in disgust.

"Ugh, on second thought, I don't think I want his skin on me. It's... common. And he' s probably got all sorts of stress toxins in it."

Even Dr. Albright looked appalled at his callousness.

Vicky, however, just nodded.