Chapter 6

The hospital fundraising gala was a mandatory ordeal. I hated these events-the fake smiles, the self-congratulatory speeches, the clinking of champagne glasses. I found a quiet corner, hoping to remain invisible for the rest of the evening.

It was a foolish hope.

Across the grand ballroom, I saw them. Ethan and Emily. They were the center of attention, a king and queen holding court. Emily was radiant in a glittering gown, laughing at something a portly old board member was saying. Ethan stood beside her, a polite smile fixed on his face, but his eyes were distant.

I turned away, focusing on the patterns in the marble floor.

Suddenly, there was a crash and a sharp cry.

A young waiter, no older than twenty, had stumbled, sending a tray of drinks cascading down the front of Emily' s expensive dress. Red wine bloomed across the silver fabric like a grotesque flower.

The boy was stammering apologies, his face white with terror.

Emily's face contorted with rage. "You clumsy idiot!" she shrieked, her voice cutting through the chatter. She drew back her hand and slapped him hard across the face. The sound was like a gunshot in the suddenly silent room. "Do you have any idea how much this dress costs? It's more than you'll make in a year!"

Before anyone could react, Ethan was there. He moved with a swift, predatory grace, placing a protective arm around Emily's shoulders and glaring at the terrified waiter. His presence was a wall of power, instantly casting the boy as the villain and Emily as the victim.

Something inside me snapped. The years of forced silence, of swallowing injustice, fell away.

I stepped out of my corner and walked toward them.

"It was an accident," I said, my voice clear and steady.

Every head turned to me. Emily' s eyes narrowed into slits of pure hatred.

"You," she hissed. "Of course, you'd defend the help. You're just as low as they are. You're probably jealous of my dress." She turned to Ethan, her lower lip trembling in a masterful performance of distress. "Ethan, she's doing it again. She's harassing me."

Ethan's gaze fell on me. It was cold, hard, and full of a weary anger. "Sarah. Stay out of this."

"He didn't do anything wrong," I insisted, looking past Ethan to the boy, who was now crying silently.

"I said, stay out of it," Ethan repeated, his voice low and dangerous. He took a step forward and grabbed my upper arm. His grip was like a vise, his fingers digging into my flesh. "You are making a scene. Stop it. Now."

The pain was sharp, but I didn't flinch. I looked him straight in the eye, my own gaze just as cold as his.

"Let go of me, Ethan."

My voice wasn't a plea. It was a command. A quiet, chilling promise of a fight he didn't want. The air crackled with a tension that had nothing to do with a spilled drink and everything to do with the three years of hell that stood between us.