Chapter 4

A week later, Scarlett was still a prisoner in Ethan's glass tower. She spent her days sketching in a notebook, designing clothes fueled by a cold, sharp anger. She avoided him, and he, in turn, seemed to be giving her space. The tension between them was a thick, unspoken thing.

One morning, he found her in the kitchen, staring blankly at a cup of coffee.

"I need you to come with me tonight," he said, not a request, but a command. He was already dressed in a perfectly tailored suit.

"I'm not in the mood for a party," she said without looking at him.

"It's not optional, Scarlett," he replied, his tone leaving no room for argument. "It' s a welcome-home party for Willow. My business partners will be there. It's important that we present a united front."

A united front. The irony was so bitter it almost made her laugh. She was his secret mistress, and he wanted her to play a part in welcoming his real sweetheart. The whole situation was sick, twisted.

"Fine," she said, her voice clipped. If he wanted a performance, she would give him one.

The party was held at a lavish mansion in Beverly Hills. As they walked in, Scarlett felt a hundred pairs of eyes on her. She was Scarlett Hayes, the disgraced designer, on the arm of Ethan Vance, the untouchable mogul. The whispers followed them like a trail of smoke.

Then she saw them. Her father, her stepmother, and at the center of it all, Willow. She was dressed in a pale pink dress, looking fragile and ethereal. She saw Scarlett and a triumphant glint flashed in her eyes before being replaced by a look of sweet innocence.

"Scarlett, you came!" Willow said, gliding towards them. She reached out and squeezed Ethan's arm possessively. "I'm so glad. I was hoping we could put the past behind us."

"There is no 'us' to put anything behind," Scarlett replied, her voice like ice.

Willow' s face crumpled slightly, and she looked up at Ethan, her eyes welling with tears. "Ethan, she's still so angry."

Ethan shot Scarlett a warning look. "Be nice, Scarlett," he murmured, his voice low and threatening. He then turned his full attention to Willow, his expression softening instantly. "Don't worry about it, Will. She's just having a bad week."

He gently brushed a stray strand of hair from Willow's face, a gesture so tender and intimate it made Scarlett's stomach clench. He had never, not once, touched her with such gentle care. Their interactions were always fire and gasoline, never warmth and light.

The night wore on, a torturous parade of fake smiles and polite conversation. Scarlett stood by the bar, nursing a glass of champagne, watching Ethan dote on Willow. He got her a shawl when she looked cold, brought her a plate of food, and laughed at her weak jokes. He was a different person with her, a person Scarlett had never known.

Later, one of Ethan's cheerful business partners decided to start a party game. "Let's play 'Most Likely To'!" he announced, gathering everyone in the living room.

Scarlett tried to slip away, but Ethan caught her arm. "Don't make a scene," he hissed.

They asked a series of silly questions. "Most likely to survive a zombie apocalypse?" Someone shouted Ethan's name. "Most likely to win an Oscar?" A famous actress in the room blushed.

Then the questions turned personal, directed at Ethan. "Ethan, who's most likely to talk you into a bad investment?"

The host grinned. "The fiery designer, Scarlett, or the sweet-hearted Willow?"

The room went quiet. All eyes were on Ethan. He hesitated for a fraction of a second before a small smile touched his lips. "Willow," he said. "She could talk me into anything."

The crowd "awed" and Willow beamed, a flush of victory on her pale cheeks. Scarlett felt a cold knot form in her stomach.

The game continued, each question a new form of torture. "Who has a better sense of style?" The question was aimed at Scarlett' s profession, her identity. Ethan's gaze flickered to her, then to Willow. "Willow has a classic elegance that's timeless," he said, a diplomatic but clear choice.

The final question was the kill shot. The host, now quite drunk, pointed at Ethan. "Alright, Vance, the big one. You're on a sinking ship. You can only save one. The stunning Scarlett or the lovely Willow?"

The air crackled with tension. It was a stupid, drunken game, but in that moment, it felt like a verdict. Scarlett held her breath, her heart pounding. Ethan looked at Willow, who was gazing at him with wide, pleading eyes. Then he looked at Scarlett, his expression unreadable, cold.

He didn't answer. His silence was louder than any word he could have spoken. It stretched for an eternity. The crowd started to get uncomfortable.

Willow broke the silence. "Oh, don't be silly," she said with a light, tinkling laugh, though her eyes were fixed on Ethan. "Of course he'd save me. I can't swim."

Ethan gave a tight, confirming nod. The crowd, relieved, laughed and applauded.

But Scarlett wasn't laughing. The humiliation was absolute, a searing pain that burned through her chest. She felt the eyes of everyone in the room on her, a mixture of pity and amusement. She couldn't breathe.

She turned and fled, pushing through the crowd, desperate for air. She ended up in a long, empty hallway leading to the back of the mansion. She leaned against the wall, trying to get her breathing under control, fighting back the tears that threatened to fall. She would not cry. She would not give them the satisfaction.

She pushed off the wall and headed towards the powder room at the end of the hall. As she passed a darkened alcove, a hand shot out and grabbed her arm. It was one of the drunk guests, a man who had been leering at her all night.

"Where you going in such a hurry, pretty thing?" he slurred, his breath hot and smelling of whiskey. He pulled her towards him, his other hand fumbling at her dress.

"Get off me," Scarlett snarled, trying to wrench her arm free.

Just then, Ethan appeared at the end of the hallway. Relief, sharp and immediate, flooded through her. But it vanished just as quickly.

"Ethan!" a faint voice called from the other direction. It was Willow. "I think I twisted my ankle on the stairs!"

Ethan' s head whipped around. He saw Scarlett struggling, he saw the man pawing at her, but his gaze immediately shifted to the direction of Willow's voice. Without a moment's hesitation, he turned and ran towards Willow, leaving Scarlett to fend for herself.

The abandonment was so blatant, so complete, it stole the air from her lungs. In that moment, she knew she meant absolutely nothing to him.

Rage, pure and white-hot, surged through her. She stopped struggling and drove her stiletto heel down hard on the man's instep. He howled in pain, his grip loosening. She didn't stop there. She swung her purse, heavy with her phone and keys, and smashed it into his face. He staggered back, blood pouring from his nose.

She didn't wait to see the result. She ran. She ran past the drawing room where Ethan was now kneeling, tenderly examining Willow's perfectly fine ankle. She ran out the front door and into the cold night air.

She was halfway down the long, winding driveway when she heard footsteps behind her. It was Willow, hobbling slightly in a pathetic imitation of an injury.

"Scarlett, wait! I'm so sorry, he didn't mean it," Willow called out, her voice dripping with fake sympathy.

"Don't talk to me," Scarlett spat, not slowing down.

"You can't blame him for choosing me," Willow continued, her voice gaining a cruel edge. "I'm his past. You're just... a distraction. A toy. Did you know my mother is Eleanor Hayes? I' m your stepsister."

Scarlett stopped dead in her tracks and turned to face her. "I know exactly who you are."

They stood there, two women on a dark driveway, locked in a silent battle. Suddenly, the screech of tires cut through the night. A car, one of the guest's sports cars, came careening around the corner, its headlights blinding them. The driver was drunk, going way too fast.

It was all happening in slow motion. The car was heading straight for them. There was no time to think.

Ethan appeared out of nowhere, a dark shape against the blinding lights. He was running towards them. His eyes met Scarlett' s for a fraction of a second. She saw panic, she saw fear.

Then he looked at Willow.

He lunged, not for Scarlett, but for Willow. He threw his body into her, tackling her out of the car's path, rolling with her onto the grass verge.

He chose her.

Scarlett was frozen, paralyzed by the headlights, by the ultimate, undeniable proof of his choice. The last thing she felt was a searing, unimaginable pain as the bumper of the car slammed into her legs, sending her flying through the air. And then, darkness.