Chapter 2

I got back to the penthouse. Our penthouse. Victoria' s penthouse.

My hand throbbed from where Spencer' s friend had "accidentally" slammed a heavy equipment case on it earlier that week.

I ran it under cold water in the enormous, sterile bathroom.

The pain was a dull ache, a constant reminder.

Victoria had barely glanced at it. "It was an accident, Ethan. Don' t make waves with the Hayes family."

Make waves. Right.

I remembered Vic, years ago, fussing over a paper cut on my finger like it was a major wound.

She' d kissed it better, her eyes full of genuine concern.

That Vic was a ghost now, a memory.

This Victoria didn' t see my pain. Or chose not to.

I started packing a small bag. My old guitar case, a few clothes.

Not much to take from a life that was never really mine.

Victoria walked in. She saw the bag.

"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice sharp.

Not concerned. Accusatory.

"Are you running away, Ethan? Being dramatic?"

I didn' t answer. What was the point?

She wouldn' t understand. She hadn' t understood for months.

"You' re being childish," she said, crossing her arms. "Overreacting to everything."

Dismissing my feelings. Again.

That was her new normal. My pain was an inconvenience.

A few days later, there was another event. A gala.

Eleanor insisted I go. Victoria insisted.

"Keep up appearances, Ethan."

So I went. Another monkey in a suit.

Victoria was stunning in a sapphire blue gown.

She spent the evening by Spencer' s side. Laughing. Touching his arm.

He presented her with a diamond necklace. A king' s ransom.

She kissed his cheek. The cameras flashed.

"Power Couple."

I stood in the corner, nursing a glass of cheap wine they probably kept for the staff.

My grandmother' s guitar pick. The one Vic had bought back for me.

It was there. On a velvet cushion. Part of the auction.

How?

My heart hammered. I had to get it back.

It was the last piece of Vic I had. The last piece of us.

I had a little money saved. My gig money. Not much.

The bidding started.

I raised my hand. My voice trembled. "Five hundred."

Spencer Hayes, standing next to Victoria, chuckled.

He raised his paddle. "Ten thousand."

He looked straight at me, a smirk on his face.

He knew.

I was out. Crushed.

Then Victoria, with a cool smile, raised her own paddle.

"Fifty thousand," she said.

My heart leaped. For me?

No.

She won the bid. The auctioneer beamed.

She turned to Spencer.

"A charming little trinket for you, darling," she said, handing him the pick.

He took it, examined it like it was a piece of dirt.

"Cute," he said. Then, he casually tossed it into a nearby trash receptacle hidden by a plant.

"Oops, clumsy me," he said, not looking sorry at all. He claimed to have "misplaced" it later, feigning apology.

Victoria just laughed, a light, careless sound.

My grandmother' s pick. Vic' s gift. Our memory.

Gone. Trashed. Like me.