---- Chapter 10 Back at the gala, Ethan watched Sarah walk away. Her back was ramrod straight, a posture of defiance that belied the bloody stripes on her gown. A sudden, sharp pain lanced through his chest, a physical manifestation of the unease coiling in his gut. He dismissed it as indigestion. Olivia clung to his arm, her victory complete. "She's finally learned her lesson," she purred. Ethan didn't answer. He was watching the empty doorway where Sarah had disappeared. In the back of his mind, a memory surfaced: Sarah, years ago, after a small argument, bringing him a cup of his favorite tea, her eyes full of apology and love. She had always been the one to soothe his temper, to calm the storms that raged inside him. This cold, silent woman was a stranger. He felt a pang of something he refused to name. It felt like loss. He pushed it down. He was in control. He had always been in control. His family had taught him that. The Vances did not show weakness. They did not lose. They dominated. He had sought out Olivia precisely because she was nothing like Sarah. Olivia was pliant, ambitious, and predictable. She understood the transactional nature of their relationship. She wouldn't challenge him, wouldn't demand parts of his soul he ---- wasn't willing to give. He had loved Sarah too much, and that love had made him vulnerable. He wouldn't make that mistake again. "I'm feeling much better now, darling," Olivia said, interrupting his thoughts. "Why don't we go up to your private suite? We can continue the celebration there." Ethan looked at her, at her perfectly made-up face and her calculating eyes. A wave of irritation washed over him. "Don't be ridiculous," he snapped. "We have guests. And you know the rules." One of his cardinal rules: no woman, not even his wife, ever stayed the night in his bed at a hotel. It was a line he never crossed. Olivia flinched, her smile faltering. "Of course, Ethan. I'm sorry." He left her with a curt nod and went back to networking, the perfect host once more. But he couldn't shake the image of Sarah's empty eyes. Later that night, when the last of the guests had departed, he found himself walking down the corridor to the suite he had assigned Sarah. The light was on under the door. He paused, his hand raised to knock. He remembered her crumpled form on the floor, the blood on her dress. A flicker of guilt, hot and unwelcome, pricked at him. He would send for his personal physician. He would have a tray of her favorite desserts sent up. He would be magnanimous in his victory. He ---- would show her that obedience was rewarded. He had a plan. He would tell her the "truth" about Lily's death- the carefully constructed lie his investigator had prepared. He would show her the evidence, prove to her that he was right and she was wrong. It would be the final piece in her re- education. She would see that her defiance was based on a fantasy, and she would finally, completely, surrender to him. The next morning, he waited for her to come to him, to apologize. She didn't. By noon, his patience had worn thin. An irrational anger began to build. "Stop sending food to Mrs. Vance's room," he barked at an assistant over the phone. "Let her get hungry. She'll come crawling soon enough." To prove his point, to show her how little she meant to him, he sent for Olivia. He brought her to his own suite, the one directly across the hall from Sarah's. He made love to her, loudly and performatively, leaving the door ajar. He wanted Sarah to hear. He wanted her to know what she had lost. He wanted to punish her with his pleasure. But there was no reaction from across the hall. No angry shouts, no desperate sobs. Only a cold, unnerving silence.