Chapter 3

The annual Vance Foundation Gala. The pinnacle of Charleston society.

And my personal circle of hell for the past year.

This year, the tension was thicker. Cassie' s twelve-month clock was ticking in my head.

A man, a known business rival of the Vances, a Mr. Ashworth, loud and drunk, cornered Ethan.

"Vance!" Ashworth slurred, gesturing with his champagne flute. "Still playing devoted stepson to the lovely widow? Or has the dynamic... shifted?"

His insinuation was vile, public. The nearby conversations hushed.

Ethan' s face tightened. He never drank more than a single glass of scotch at these events. It was a rule. His father' s rule.

But tonight, he reached for a passing waiter' s tray, grabbed a full champagne flute, and downed it in one go.

Then he grabbed another.

He looked at Ashworth, his eyes cold. "Cassie is my father's widow. She deserves respect. Something you clearly know nothing about."

He had broken his own rule, for her. To defend her honor.

The pain for me wasn't just being invisible; it was seeing who he chose to see, to protect.

Later, the disaster. Cassie, of course, engineered it.

A waiter, seemingly clumsy, "accidentally" spilled a tray of red wine down the front of my simple, pale blue dress.

The wine was dark, staining. My dress was ruined.

Cassie was instantly at my side, all fake sympathy. "Oh, you poor thing!"

Ethan rushed over, but his concern was for Cassie' s performance. "Are you alright, Cassie? Don't let this upset you."

Then to me, a hiss, "Handle it gracefully, Amelia. Don't cause a scene."

He was so focused on Cassie, on appearances.

As he turned to fuss over Cassie, who was dabbing at a non-existent spot on her own gown, his arm, holding his now empty champagne flute, swung back.

The flute connected sharply with my side. I gasped, a searing pain shooting through my ribs.

He didn't even notice. He was already walking away with Cassie, his arm around her.

I pressed a hand to my side, fighting back tears of pain and humiliation.

He hadn't just ignored my ruined dress; he'd physically hurt me, accidentally, yes, but with such complete unawareness.

Self-pity washed over me, bitter and sharp. He didn' t see me. He truly didn' t see me.

I spent the next hour in the ladies' lounge, dabbing at the wine stain, my side throbbing.

The gala photographer, a woman I knew vaguely from my catering days, gave me a sympathetic look and some club soda.

Alone. Always alone in his world.

When I finally emerged, the party was thinning. I went home alone in a taxi.

The apartment was empty. Silent.

He didn't come home that night.

The next morning, I overheard him on the phone in his study, the door slightly ajar.

It was Cassie. Her voice, even muffled, was clear.

"...she' s just so sensitive, Ethan. Always making things dramatic. You need to be firm."

Then Ethan' s voice, tired, acquiescing. "I know, Cassie. I' ll talk to her. It' s just... a lot."

My anger flared. He was discussing me, our supposed issues, with her. She was twisting everything.

My distress was "dramatic." My pain was an inconvenience.

The confirmation of his emotional neglect, his preference for Cassie' s narrative, burned.

My volunteer role at the Charleston Historical Society was my only solace. A passion.

A week later, I received a letter. My role was terminated. "Competency issues," it said. Fabricated.

I knew it was Cassie. Her reach was long, her methods cruel.

I showed Ethan the letter, my voice shaking with anger and hurt.

"Ethan, look at this! Cassie did this, I know she did!"

He glanced at it, then sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"Amelia, are you sure? Maybe it' s just a misunderstanding."

"No! It's her! She's trying to isolate me!"

"Look," he said, his voice taking on that impatient edge. "Just let it go. Don't make unnecessary trouble for the family. It' s a volunteer role, Amelia. Find another one."

Let it go. My passion, my small piece of independence, dismissed. To avoid trouble for his family.

My anger simmered. This wasn't just about Cassie anymore. It was about Ethan' s spinelessness.

I went to the Historical Society director. I made a formal complaint about undue influence from a Vance family member. I named Cassie.

Retaliation. It felt good, for a moment.

Two days later, Ethan' s driver appeared at my door.

"Mr. Vance requires your presence at the mansion. Immediately."

The command was abrupt. The confrontation was coming.