Chapter 3: From Graduation to Ruin

After that, everything felt easy, almost like fate was making up for lost time.

I gave Ethan space before the SATs, and on graduation day—my eighteenth birthday, June 3rd, sun shining, roses in bloom—I confessed one last time. I expected rejection, braced for it. But he said yes.

I floated through graduation, so high I didn’t notice how cold Ethan’s face was, as if he were mourning, not starting something new.

At Northwestern, Ethan shed his awkwardness and became even more magnetic. As his girlfriend, I marked my territory boldly—pulling him into secluded corners, kissing him breathless, staking my claim.

Only once I had him did I realize how innocent he really was. Ethan was absurdly old-fashioned—blushing from a kiss, stuttering if I wore anything low-cut, refusing to go all the way until I practically staged a rom-com seduction. Our first time was awkward, clumsy, over in a flash. I ached for days, but Ethan looked even more wrecked, red-eyed and lost, as if he’d been the one left vulnerable. I spent the whole morning coaxing him, whispering, “You were amazing,” “It’ll get better,” “I love you,” until he finally relaxed.

Nobody believed in us—not even Grandfather. Over brandy, he warned me, “Sophie, you can play. But Ethan Blake is too proud, too hard to control. He’s not a good match.”

I told him, “Maybe he doesn’t love me yet. But he agreed to be with me, and someday, I’ll win him over completely.”

I mapped out our future—garden wedding, honeymoon in Bora Bora, travels around the world. Grandfather smiled at my optimism, but there was a flicker of worry in his eyes, as if he saw a storm I couldn’t.

Those four years were a cycle of breakups and makeups. I always started the fights—over his studying, over nothing, over jealousy. Ethan, always cold and rational, would finally snap, storming off. Hours later, I’d regret it and chase after him, apologizing with gifts—designer watches, custom suits, rare books. He sneered, “Sophie Mitchell, do you people only know how to throw money?”

Eventually, I learned to control my temper. I learned to cook for him, watching YouTube tutorials until my eyes burned, trying to make up for all the ways I’d failed him.

Then Grandfather had a stroke. He fell, and the vultures circled—family and lawyers picking our fortune clean. My assets were frozen, but Grandfather was still in the ICU at Northwestern Memorial. I scrambled for help, but everyone who’d once sucked up to me now avoided me or kicked me when I was down. I lost everything overnight—my pride, my strength, even twenty pounds in two weeks.

I worried the scandal would drag Ethan down. But he’d just secured a spot in a top MIT PhD program, about to leave for Boston.

Late at night, I clung to him in his tiny apartment, sobbing, “Grandfather will get better…”

Ethan just looked at me, eyes cold, almost unrecognizable. “Ethan, you want him to get better too, right?”

He turned away, silent.

The night Grandfather was in surgery, I was packing for the hospital when I saw the comments again—like evil subtitles. Following their clues, I found the pill bottle in Ethan’s nightstand. My heart shattered. Suddenly, all the pieces made sense—his distance, the pills, the coldness. I made the call. I broke up with him.

Everything unraveled after that.