Chapter 3

I just stood there. Frozen.

The music, the laughter, the clinking glasses – it all faded into a dull roar.

My grandmother' s pick. In the trash.

Destroyed.

Vic... Victoria... how could she?

She saw my face. She must have.

But she turned away, linking her arm through Spencer' s.

"Don' t be such a drama queen, Ethan," she said over her shoulder, her voice cold. "It was just an old pick. Spencer didn' t mean it. You' re always causing trouble."

Causing trouble.

Me.

My heart felt like it was cracking, piece by piece.

She walked away with him. Didn' t look back.

Left me standing there, alone, in a room full of strangers.

The beautiful people, in their beautiful clothes, living their beautiful lives.

And me. The trash. Like the pick.

I felt a hand on my arm. A security guard.

"Sir, are you alright? You look a little pale."

I shook my head. Words wouldn' t come.

He probably thought I was drunk.

Maybe I was. Drunk on pain. Drunk on betrayal.

I found my way out of the ballroom, out of the hotel.

The city lights blurred.

I walked for hours. No destination.

Just trying to walk away from the ache in my chest.

I remembered Vic, her face alight with joy when she gave me that pick.

"It' s a piece of your history, Ethan. A piece of your heart."

She' d understood.

Victoria didn' t. Or wouldn' t.

The pick wasn' t just an object. It was a symbol.

A symbol of a love she had systematically dismantled.

A love she had thrown away.

I ended up back at the penthouse. It felt alien. Cold.

I didn' t belong there. I never had.

I went to my small room, the one that felt like a guest room, not a bedroom.

I lay on the bed, fully clothed.

Stared at the ceiling.

All I wanted was sleep. To escape.

To dream of a time when Vic' s eyes held warmth for me.

When her smile was genuine.

When we were just Ethan and Vic, against the world.

Not Ethan versus Victoria and her world.

The next morning, Victoria came into my room without knocking.

She was already dressed in a sharp business suit.

"Get up, Ethan," she said, her voice brisk. "We have to go to the Hamptons. Mother is expecting us for lunch."

No apology for last night. No concern.

Just an order.

I was an accessory. Something to be dragged along.

My lack of agency was a heavy cloak.

But I was too tired to fight. Too broken.