Chapter 2

The memory hit me like a physical blow, sharp and brutal.

It was just after Sophia' s engagement party. Not with me. With Mark Peterson, her childhood friend. She had thrown it at the most exclusive hotel in the city, a place where a single plate of food cost what I made in a week.

I saw the pictures online. Sophia, radiant in a silver dress, holding hands with Mark. The headline called them the city' s golden couple.

Lily saw them too.

My sister, Lily, who had just received a life-saving organ transplant. Her body was still fragile, a delicate balance of medication and hope. Seeing that picture, seeing the woman her brother had loved for seven years celebrating her engagement to another man, shattered something inside her.

She had a crisis that night. A severe rejection episode. The doctors said the emotional shock was too much for her system.

I remember sitting in the sterile hospital hallway, the smell of antiseptic burning my nose. I called Sophia. I begged her.

"I just need the money back, Sophia. The money I saved. The money I gave you to hold onto."

My voice was breaking. I was a mess.

"Please, Lily needs it. It's for her treatment."

Her voice on the other end was cold, bored. "Ethan, I'm not a charity. You should have thought about that before your sister got sick."

Then she hung up.

I went to her family's mansion. I stood at the gates, begging the security guard to let me in. When she finally came out, she looked at me like I was something she'd scraped off her shoe.

"You're making a scene," she said.

"Please, Sophia. It's my money. I worked for it."

She just sighed, a sound of pure annoyance, and gestured to her bodyguards. They grabbed me, their hands rough on my arms, and threw me onto the sidewalk.

Lily died on New Year's Eve.

The world was celebrating, fireworks painting the sky, and I was holding my sister's cold hand, watching the light fade from her eyes.

I handled the funeral alone. I paid for it with the last of my savings and a loan I knew I couldn't afford.

Now, standing in our bedroom, Sophia' s words about a wedding echoed in the silent space. The pain was so intense it felt like a physical wound, right in the center of my chest.

"A wedding won't bring her back," I said, my voice hoarse.

Sophia's face clouded with confusion. "Bring who back? What are you talking about?"

She genuinely didn't understand. To her, Lily's illness was just a detail, a minor inconvenience in my life that I was using for leverage.

She reached for her purse and pulled out a small, exquisitely wrapped box.

"Here," she said, pushing it into my hand. "I got you something. It's a watch. A real one."

The implication was clear. Unlike the cheap one I wore.

I let the box drop from my hand. It landed on the plush carpet with a soft thud.

Her jaw tightened. "What is your problem?"

I didn't answer. I just looked at her. Really looked at her. For seven years I had loved a fantasy, a woman I thought existed underneath the wealth and the privilege. Now I saw only the truth. A spoiled, heartless woman who broke things just to see if she could.

She sighed, exasperated. She reached into her wallet and pulled out a few hundred-dollar bills, thrusting them at me.

"Fine. Here. For your sister's... whatever. Now can you stop this ridiculous act?"

She always did this. Threw money at problems. Threw money at me. For seven years, I had given her my paycheck every week. "For our future," I'd said. "You're better with money," I'd believed.

She was frugal with my money. She scoffed when I wanted to buy a new pair of shoes. She laughed at the idea of spending a hundred dollars on a marriage license.

But for Mark Peterson, she bought a multi-million dollar apartment. For his birthday, a sports car. For their engagement party, she spent a fortune.

My money.

My future.

It had all gone to him.