Chapter 4

The next day, the punishment continues. I force Ethan to accompany me on a shopping spree down Fifth Avenue, making him carry bags from stores he couldn't even afford to window-shop at. Then, I take him to a three-Michelin-star restaurant for lunch.

He sits opposite me, pale and hungover, the expensive suit now looking like a costume.

"Why are you doing this, Jocelyn?" he asks, his voice hoarse.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" I reply coldly. "You wrote about it. You dreamed of being the one to buy me expensive things, to take me to fancy restaurants. I'm just helping you fulfill your dream."

His face freezes. He has no idea how I know that.

As if on cue, we run into my cousin. She's the snobbiest of my relatives, someone who has always looked down on me for my "rebellious phase." She recognizes Ethan instantly.

Her lips curl into a vicious sneer.

"Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in. Jocelyn, are you really associating with this trash again? Aren't you the son of that cop who killed those men?"

The world stops. The color drains from Ethan's face. His carefully constructed composure shatters into a million pieces. It's a secret he has guarded his entire life, a wound that has never healed.

He stands up abruptly, knocking over his chair, and flees the restaurant.

I remain seated, my heart pounding. I knew this would happen. I wanted it to. I wanted to break him the way he broke me.

Later that day, my friend Molly calls me. She had seen the commotion.

"Jocelyn, what are you doing? That was cruel, even for you."

"He deserved it."

"Does he? Do you even know what happened after he left you?" Molly's voice softens. "He didn't just break your heart, Jo. He saved your life."

I'm silent.

"After you... after your attempts," she continues gently, "your father was frantic. He hired investigators to find Ethan. They found him living in a slum, working three jobs to pay for his grandfather's medical bills. The money your father gave him? He never spent a dime of it on himself. It all went to the hospital."

My breath catches in my throat.

"And there's something else you don't know," Molly says. "After he left, you tried to kill yourself. Twice. The second time, you almost succeeded. You have scars on your wrists, Jocelyn. Scars you hide with silk ribbons and long sleeves. Does he know that? Does he know he drove the girl he loved to that?"

The phone feels heavy in my hand. No. He doesn't know. I never told anyone the full extent of my breakdown.