Chapter 2

Emily didn't come back with her parents that night. I knew she was crafting her next move, likely huddled with her mother, figuring out how to spin this. The silence in our house was heavy with my parents' disapproval.

Around midnight, I heard the back door creak open. I was in the kitchen getting a glass of water. Emily slipped in, her face tear-streaked and puffy. When she saw me, she froze.

"Ethan," she whispered, her voice hoarse.

I just stared at her, my expression unreadable.

She must have taken my silence for weakness because she immediately started crying again, loud, gut-wrenching sobs designed to wake the entire house.

"How could you?" she wailed. "In front of everyone! You humiliated me!"

My father's heavy footsteps thundered down the stairs. He was a man of simple principles, and public honor was chief among them. He saw Emily crying, saw me standing there silently, and drew the only conclusion his mind could.

"What have you done, you boy?" he roared, his face flushed with anger.

"It's not what it looks like," I said calmly.

"Don't you lie to me!" My mother was right behind him, her face a mixture of worry and disappointment.

Emily, seeing her audience, collapsed into my mother's arms. "He said... he said he doesn't want to marry me, Mrs. Miller. After... after everything."

The implication hung in the air, thick and poisonous.

My father's eyes narrowed. "You will take responsibility for your actions, Ethan. This family's name will not be dragged through the mud."

"There is nothing to take responsibility for," I said, my voice hardening.

That was the wrong thing to say. My father unbuckled his leather belt. The sound of it sliding through the loops was sickeningly familiar. It was the sound of my childhood punishments.

"I'll teach you what responsibility is," he snarled, raising the belt.

"No, Mr. Miller, don't!" Emily cried out, rushing forward to grab his arm. "Please, don't hurt him! It's my fault!"

It was a masterful performance. She appeared to be protecting me, but her words only confirmed my father's suspicions. She was the poor, wronged girl, and I was the cad who wouldn't own up to his mistakes.

My father shoved her aside gently. "Stay out of this, Emily."

The belt came down, striking my back with a sharp, stinging force. I clenched my jaw, refusing to cry out. I took the hit, and another, and another. The physical pain was nothing compared to the agony of my first life's betrayal.

"Stop it, Frank!" my mother begged, tears streaming down her face.

Finally, my father stopped, breathing heavily. I stood straight, my back on fire, but my eyes were fixed on Emily. She was looking at me with a twisted expression of pity and triumph.

The next day, Emily's parents took her to the doctor. The verdict came that afternoon. She was pregnant.

The news landed like a bomb in our small, conservative community. The whispers started immediately. In those days, a scandal like this could ruin a family. The term "hooliganism" was thrown around, a vague but serious charge that could lead to real legal trouble. My father's face went pale. He was a pillar of the community, his integrity everything to him.

He stormed into my room, his face ashen. "They confirmed it. She's pregnant. Is it yours?"

"No," I said, meeting his gaze without flinching.

His hand flew across my face, the slap echoing in the small room. "You will stop this foolishness right now! You will marry that girl, or you will be no son of mine!"

"I won't marry her," I said, tasting blood in my mouth. "Because the child is not mine."

My father's rage was spent, replaced by a deep, weary despair. He and my mother emptied their life savings, a small but significant sum, and took it to the Petersons. It was a settlement, a bribe to make the problem go away, to protect the family name.

But I knew it wouldn't work. Emily didn't want money. She wanted a father for her child, a shield for her lover.

That evening, I lay on my bed, my body aching, my mind racing. I pieced it all together, the fragments of memory from my past life clicking into place. Daniel Sterling's art gallery was just taking off, but he was under a cloud of suspicion from a past scandal involving art fraud. A pregnant, unmarried lover would have been the final nail in his career's coffin.

Emily, in her twisted devotion, had sacrificed me to save him. She had concocted the story of our drunken night, knowing I was too honorable, too in love, to question it. She had trapped me.

I heard a soft knock on my door. It was Emily, holding a small bowl of soup.

"Your mother asked me to bring this up," she said, avoiding my eyes.

I sat up, the pain in my back sharp and insistent. "Why are you doing this, Emily?"

"I don't know what you mean," she mumbled.

"You know exactly what I mean," I said, my voice low. "You're lying. And I'm not going to be your scapegoat."

Fear flashed in her eyes. "I'm not lying! The baby is yours!"

I pushed myself to my feet and walked toward her. She instinctively backed away.

"You're afraid," I said, pressing my advantage. "You're afraid because you know I'm right. Who is he, Emily? Who is the real father?"

She shook her head, tears starting to fall. "It's you, Ethan, it's you!"

Her denial was frantic, but her eyes darted around the room as if looking for an escape. Under the immense pressure, a crack appeared in her carefully constructed facade.

"I... I don't know what to do," she sobbed, finally breaking down. "He can't... he can't be involved in this."

It wasn't a full confession, not yet. But it was a start. She hadn't named Daniel, but she had admitted there was a "he."

I had her. The truth was starting to unravel, and I would not stop pulling the thread until her entire web of lies came crashing down.