Chapter 2

I dragged myself back up the long staircase, each step sending a jolt of pain through my swollen ankle. My room felt cold and unfamiliar. I didn' t bother turning on the main light, just a small lamp on my desk. I sat on the edge of my bed and carefully took off my shoe. My ankle was already turning a dark shade of purple.

I hobbled to the bathroom, found the first-aid kit, and began to wrap it myself. My hands were shaking, not from the pain, but from a deep, chilling loneliness. I remembered all the times before, when a scraped knee would bring both Richard and Ethan running with concern, their faces etched with worry. Now, they were downstairs, probably making Tiffany a cup of hot chocolate, murmuring soothing words to her. The contrast was a physical ache in my chest.

A knock on my door startled me. It wasn' t the firm knock of Richard or Ethan. It was softer, hesitant.

"Come in," I said, my voice hoarse.

It was Tiffany' s personal maid, a girl named Sarah. She looked at me with a mixture of pity and contempt. "Miss Tiffany is very upset," Sarah said, avoiding my eyes. "Mr. Miller and Mr. Ethan said you are to go down and apologize to her."

The request was so absurd it almost made me laugh. Apologize? For what? For being pushed? For getting injured? The humiliation burned in my throat.

"No," I said simply.

Sarah' s eyes widened slightly. "Miss Chloe, they were very insistent."

"I said no," I repeated, turning my attention back to my ankle. "You can tell them I' m injured and can' t walk."

Sarah sniffed, a small, dismissive sound. "Some people just don' t know when they' re lucky. Causing trouble right before you' re supposed to save the family." She turned and left, closing the door a little too loudly behind her.

Her words stung more than I wanted to admit. Lucky. I looked around my beautiful room, at the expensive furniture, the collection of art books Richard had bought me over the years. On my dresser was the mother-of-pearl paintbrush, left there after the disastrous evening. I walked over to it and picked it up. It felt heavy in my hand, no longer a symbol of love but a reminder of what I had lost.

My own maid, Anna, entered quietly. She had been with me since I was a little girl and was the only one who saw everything clearly. Her eyes fell on my ankle and filled with worry.

"Miss Chloe, what happened?" she asked, rushing to my side.

"It' s nothing, Anna," I said, my voice tired. I held out the paintbrush to her. "Here. I want you to have this."

Anna looked shocked. "But Miss, this is your favorite. Mr. Miller gave it to you."

"I don' t want it anymore," I said. "It doesn' t mean anything to me now. Please, take it. Or sell it. Do whatever you want with it."

Before Anna could respond, the door flew open, and Ethan stormed in. His face was dark with anger. He didn' t knock. He didn' t ask. He just invaded my space.

"What do you think you' re doing?" he demanded, his eyes fixed on the paintbrush in Anna' s hand. He strode over and snatched it from her. "How dare you? You get a priceless gift from Dad, and you just give it away to a servant like it' s trash?"

He glared at me, his handsome face twisted into an ugly sneer. "Tiffany would never be so ungrateful. She cherishes every little thing Dad gives her. You' ve been spoiled, Chloe. That' s your problem. You' ve had it too good for too long."

The force of his words hit me. The way he barged into my room, the way he spoke to Anna, the way he compared me to Tiffany... it was all so wrong. This wasn' t the Ethan I grew up with. The brother who used to defend me from bullies, who taught me how to ride a bike, who held my hand when I was scared. He was a stranger now, one with a cold heart and blind eyes. The pain in my ankle was a dull throb, but the pain of his betrayal was a fresh, gaping wound.