Chapter 2

Ethan didn't come home that night, or the next. It was a familiar pattern. He would disappear, expecting me to fall apart, to flood his phone with desperate texts and calls. He wanted me to chase him.

This time, I didn't. I spent the days in my room, methodically going through my ruined portfolio, salvaging what I could. I ate my meals alone. The silence of the huge house, usually a source of anxiety, now felt like a balm. I was breathing my own air for the first time in a long time.

My history with Ethan was a decade long, a tangled root system that had started when we were just kids. I was an orphan, taken in by a distant relative who happened to be the Reeds' housekeeper. My world was small and uncertain. Then Ethan, the golden boy of the wealthy Reed family, crashed into it.

He was two years older, and from the moment I arrived, a shy, scared ten-year-old, he appointed himself my protector. He fought the neighborhood bullies who made fun of my secondhand clothes. He shared his expensive snacks with me when he knew I was hungry. He was the only one who seemed to see me as a person, not just a charity case living in the staff quarters.

We were inseparable. We did homework together in his family's grand library. He taught me how to swim in their massive pool. He was the sun, and I was a small planet caught in his orbit. Everyone, from his parents to the staff, saw us as a pair. "Ethan and his Sarah," they'd say with knowing smiles.

His parents, though distant, were kind. They saw me as a stabilizing influence on their wild, entitled son. They paid for my schooling, bought me clothes, and treated me like a part of the family, albeit a lower-ranking one. I was grateful, so grateful that I never questioned the dynamic.

I grew up believing my future was tied to his. I imagined us going to the same college, getting married, living in a smaller, cozier version of his family home. My dreams were all reflections of his life. I depended on him not just for emotional support, but for my very existence.

Then, a year ago, Tiffany Chen appeared.

She came to the Reed family's charity foundation, a picture of tragic beauty. She told a heart-wrenching story of being a poor, brilliant student from a broken home, fighting to pay for her education and support her sick mother. Her story was compelling, her tears convincing.

The Reeds, moved by her plight, took her under their wing. They offered her a generous scholarship and a part-time job assisting Mrs. Reed with her charity work. It seemed like a kind, noble gesture.

Soon, Tiffany was a regular presence in the Reed mansion. She was quiet, polite, and always eager to help. She would bring Mrs. Reed tea, organize her files, and listen with rapt attention to Mr. Reed' s stories about the business world.

Ethan and I felt sorry for her at first. We included her in our outings, trying to bring some fun into her seemingly difficult life. We took her to the movies, invited her to join our dinners. For a few weeks, the three of us formed an unlikely, fragile friendship. It was a calm, peaceful time.

The peace didn't last.

One evening, I was walking past the library and heard Tiffany's voice. The door was slightly ajar. I stopped, not meaning to eavesdrop, but her words froze me in place.

"Don't worry, Mom, everything is going according to plan," she was saying into her phone, her voice no longer soft and timid but sharp and cold. "The Reeds are complete idiots. They bought the whole sob story. Another few months, and I'll have Ethan wrapped around my finger. That little orphan, Sarah, is the only problem, but she' s so pathetic and dependent on him. Getting rid of her will be easy. Once I'm Mrs. Ethan Reed, we'll never have to worry about money again."

The world tilted on its axis. The sweet, struggling girl was a predator, and we were her prey. I felt a wave of nausea. My hand flew to my mouth to stifle a gasp. I had to tell Ethan. I had to warn him.