Chapter 4

A flicker of something – confusion? Annoyance? – crossed Ethan' s face.

He opened his mouth to retort, but his phone buzzed in his pocket.

He glanced at the screen, and his expression softened instantly. Jessica.

"I have to take this," he said, already turning away, Amelia and her defiance momentarily forgotten.

He walked out onto the balcony, his voice dropping to that familiar, tender murmur.

Amelia watched him go, a profound sense of relief washing over her. Jessica was, for once, a welcome interruption.

Amelia didn't wait. She grabbed her purse and left the oppressive Caldwell mansion.

Sarah and Ben were waiting for her at a small, independent art gallery. It was Amelia' s birthday, a fact Ethan had undoubtedly forgotten, both in this life and the last.

They had planned a low-key dinner, a celebration of her quiet courage in filing for divorce.

The gallery was hosting a private viewing for a new artist, and Ben, a budding art critic, had secured them an invitation.

For a few hours, surrounded by art and genuine friendship, Amelia felt a lightness she hadn' t experienced in years.

The laughter died in her throat as the gallery doors burst open.

Ethan stood framed in the entrance, Jessica clinging to his arm, a smug smile on her face.

Behind them trailed a gaggle of their sycophantic friends, the usual chorus of enablers.

They looked like a conquering army, invading her small patch of peace.

The air crackled with sudden tension.

One of Jessica' s friends, a vapid blonde named Tiffany, sashayed forward.

"Well, well, what have we here?" Tiffany drawled, her eyes sweeping over Amelia' s small group with disdain. "Slumming it, are we, Amelia?"

Another, a man with a cruel smirk, added, "I heard this place was for emerging artists. Didn't realize that meant 'failed socialites'."

He looked pointedly at Amelia. "You and your sad little friends should probably leave. You're lowering the tone."

Sarah, usually mild-mannered, stepped forward, her eyes flashing.

"We were invited," Sarah said, her voice tight. "And we're not going anywhere."

Ben put a protective arm around Amelia. "This is a private event. You're crashing it."

He looked at Ethan. "Don't you have any decency, Caldwell?"

Ethan just smirked, enjoying the confrontation.

Jessica pouted prettily at Ethan. "Ethan, darling, they're being so rude. And this gallery is so... déclassé."

She gestured vaguely at the artwork. "Can't we just have them removed?"

Ethan nodded, pulling a document from his jacket pocket.

"Actually," he said, his voice smooth and arrogant, "as of this afternoon, I'm the primary benefactor of this gallery. Which means," he paused for effect, "I own it. And I say, you're out."

He handed the document to the bewildered gallery owner, who had rushed over.

The owner' s face fell as he read it.

Amelia stepped forward, her voice calm despite the turmoil inside her.

"Ethan, this is unnecessary," she said. "It's my birthday. We'll leave. Just let us finish our dinner."

She was trying to de-escalate, to salvage what little remained of her evening.

She saw a flicker of something in Ethan' s eyes – hesitation? – but it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

Jessica stamped her foot like a petulant child.

"No!" she declared, her voice rising. "I don't want her here! I want this party for us, Ethan! Make them go now! And get rid of that hideous birthday cake!"

She pointed at the small, elegant cake Sarah had brought.

Ethan, always susceptible to Jessica' s whims, nodded curtly.

"You heard her," he said to the gallery owner. "Clear them out. And trash that cake."

His callousness was breathtaking.

Tiffany and the others, emboldened by Ethan' s command, surged forward.

One of them grabbed the cake and, with a malicious grin, upended it onto the floor.

Another started knocking over canapés, laughing.

Sarah cried out, "Stop it! You're animals!"

In the ensuing chaos, deliberately orchestrated by Jessica' s friends, a valuable sculpture was knocked from its pedestal.

Amelia lunged to save it, a desperate, instinctive movement.

Someone – she didn' t see who – pushed her, hard.

She stumbled, her arm outstretched, and felt a sickening crack as her wrist slammed against the edge of another, heavier sculpture.

A wave of excruciating pain shot up her arm.

She crumpled to the floor, cradling her wrist, vision blurring.

Ethan, for a split second, looked concerned, taking a step towards her.

But Jessica tugged at his arm. "Ethan, darling, let's go. This is so boring."

He hesitated, then turned, allowing Jessica to lead him away, not even a backward glance.

The gallery owner, white-faced, was calling security.

The last thing Amelia registered before the pain overwhelmed her was the sound of Jessica' s light, tinkling laughter as she and Ethan swept out, their entourage following like jackals.

Amelia lay on the cold gallery floor, surrounded by the wreckage of her birthday and the sharp, undeniable reality of Ethan' s cruelty.

Her wrist was definitely broken.

This time, the injury was physical, undeniable. A tangible result of his world colliding with hers.

Legal notices would follow. No public hysterics from her. Just the cold, hard facts.

This, she knew, would unnerve Ethan more than any tears.