Chapter 3

The memory of my first, brief interaction with Ethan Prescott was still vivid.

It was at a similar charity gala, months before Jessica officially ensnared him in the original timeline.

Mother had been relentlessly pushing Jessica on him, but Jessica, in a fit of pique over some minor inconvenience, had been sulky and dismissive.

To salvage the connection, Mother had practically shoved me towards Ethan, ordering me to "be charming" and "keep him entertained" until Jessica was in a better mood.

I' d been mortified but complied.

To my surprise, Ethan and I had actually talked.

Not just polite small talk, but a real conversation.

He' d asked about my work in event planning, listened with genuine interest to my ideas.

He was intelligent, with a quiet sincerity that was a stark contrast to the usual preening peacocks Mother tried to set us up with.

For a fleeting moment, I' d felt a spark. A possibility.

Then Jessica had reappeared, all smiles and apologies, draping herself over Ethan' s arm.

He' d been polite to me, but his attention shifted, captured by her dazzling, practiced charm.

Mother had shot me a triumphant look.

My brief connection with Ethan was forgotten, dismissed.

Just another instance of being overshadowed, of Jessica taking what she wanted, or what Mother wanted for her.

Now, standing in my room, getting ready for this new, repeated evening, I felt a grim sense of purpose.

Jessica was already downstairs, her laughter echoing up the staircase as she flirted with someone on the phone, probably Jake.

She was already complaining of a slight "stomach bug," a common refrain I knew was linked to her untreated STIs.

A few weeks from now, in the original timeline, her symptoms would become more pronounced, harder to hide.

The faint, persistent odor she tried to mask with perfumes and feminine sprays.

The increasing discomfort she' d blame on stress or bad food.

I remembered finding a half-used tube of cheap antifungal cream hidden in her bathroom once, and a printout from a shady online forum discussing "natural cures" for PID.

She' d been too scared, too proud, or too invested in her "pure" image to see a real doctor.

My attempts to gently suggest a check-up had been met with furious denial and accusations that I was trying to "shame her."

Mother, of course, had sided with Jessica, telling me to "stop being so negative" and "jealous of your sister' s radiance."

This time, I wouldn't suggest a doctor.

Oh no.

I walked over to my laptop.

A quick search. "Discreet online pharmacy PID treatment."

Dozens of questionable sites popped up, promising quick fixes without a prescription.

I clicked on one, then another, leaving a couple of browser tabs open.

I made sure to clear my main search history, but left those tabs visible.

"Accidentally," of course.

If Jessica happened to use my laptop later, looking for something...

Or if I "helpfully" mentioned I'd been researching something for a "friend" and she overheard.

Subtlety was key.

Let her think it was her own clever discovery.

Let her continue down the path of ineffective self-treatment.

Let the problem fester.

It would make her eventual exposure all the more dramatic.

I chose a simple, elegant black dress for the evening.

Not the "not too Sarah" blue one Mother had suggested.

Black was for mourning, after all.

And for a new beginning, forged in the fires of betrayal.

When I went downstairs, Jessica was already by the door, resplendent in a pale pink gown that screamed "innocent debutante."

She looked me up and down.

"Black? Really, Sarah? Trying to fade into the wallpaper?"

"Something like that," I said with a thin smile.

Mother bustled out, her eyes immediately zeroing in on Jessica.

"Oh, darling, you look breathtaking! Ethan won' t be able to take his eyes off you."

She barely spared me a glance.

"Sarah. Well, at least it' s... slimming."

The familiar sting was dull now, replaced by a cold, hard core of determination.

Let them have their illusions.

The night was young. And I had plans.