Chapter 3

The engagement news was like gasoline on a fire.

The old stories about me were dragged out and polished for a new audience. Blogs, social media, gossip sites-they all rehashed the tale of the obsessive girl who couldn't let go.

'Remember Sarah? The one who faked an attack to try and trap Ethan Hayes?'

'So glad he' s finally happy with Emily. She' s a saint for putting up with all that drama.'

'Someone should check on Sarah. Is she on a 72-hour hold yet?'

I read the comments on a news site, my expression unchanged. It was like reading about a character in a book, a sad, pathetic girl I barely recognized. The public had their villain, and they weren't going to let her go.

One afternoon, the doorbell rang. I was in the library, trying to lose myself in a medical journal. I heard the hushed tones of the housekeeper, then my father' s more formal greeting. A moment later, my mother appeared in the doorway, her face pale.

"Sarah," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "You have a visitor."

I didn' t need to ask who it was. I could feel his presence in the house, a shift in the atmosphere.

Ethan Hayes was here.

I followed my mother into the main hall. He was standing there, talking to my father, who was nodding and smiling a little too eagerly. He was dressed in a perfectly tailored dark suit, looking every bit the powerful CEO he was. When he saw me, the conversation stopped.

A strange realization settled over me. He hadn't just 'dropped by.' The security at our gate was strict. They wouldn't have let anyone in without my parents' explicit permission. He hadn't come here as a guest; he had been granted an audience. My family, for all their wealth, still bowed to the power of the Hayes name. They were afraid of him. And that meant he still had control over my life in ways I hadn't even considered.

My mother moved to my side, her hand gently on my elbow. "Sarah, why don't you go upstairs and rest? Your father and Mr. Hayes have business to discuss."

It wasn't a suggestion. It was an order, wrapped in a mother' s fabricated concern. They wanted me out of sight, hidden away like a shameful secret.

I didn't move. I pulled my arm from her grasp, not violently, but with a quiet finality. Her hand dropped to her side.

I just stood there and watched him. I studied his face, the strong jaw, the dark eyes that used to hold so much warmth for me. He was still handsome. I could objectively see the charisma that captivated boardrooms and charmed the press.

But the girl who had loved that face was gone. I felt no flutter in my chest, no quickening of my pulse. There was only a profound and weary disconnect. It was like watching a movie star on a screen. A beautiful image, completely separate from my reality.