The Vanishing Heiress

Chapter 28

"I'm sorry, Megan."

Ethan Sterling set aside his dignity and pride, casting off years of arrogance and superiority as he knelt before Megan Sullivan. He reached for her pale, slender hand but restrained himself at the last moment.

"Megan, I know nothing I do can undo the pain I've caused you. I just want to make things even—to give you an outlet for all the suffering, the grief, the injustice you've endured these years..."

"You—all of you—just want to ease your own guilt. Why should I give you that chance? I will never reconcile with you. I want you to suffer, forever and always, more than I ever did!"

Megan grabbed the glass ashtray beside her and hurled it at Ethan.

A muffled grunt escaped him as the ashtray struck his shoulder.

Yet Ethan, eyes red-rimmed, straightened and pulled Megan into his arms.

"It's alright, Megan. You don't have to forgive me. You don't have to reconcile. Hurt me if you need to."

For a moment, Megan froze.

The embrace was awkward, stiff—as if Ethan himself realized it. A second later, he released her.

His shoulder ached where the ashtray had hit, and the old wound in his chest throbbed faintly. Still, he pressed his lips together, gaze lowered.

"I'm sorry. That was... my fault. I lost control."

The unmistakable vulnerability in his voice snapped Megan out of her daze.

For a fleeting second, she had thought of Ethan—the Ethan from sixteen years ago.

That Ethan had been the best version of himself. And the Megan now was the strongest she had ever been.

Between the best of them lay sixteen years of love and hate, swallowed tears and silent suffering.

"Ethan Sterling, losing control over someone like me?" Megan laughed coldly, her eyes glacial. "Don't I disgust you anymore?"

Ethan paled.

Cruel words, once spoken, were like spilled water—impossible to take back.

And now, years later, the bullet had finally struck him between the eyes.

Memories of that hellish night surged—the damp, suffocating darkness of the prison cell.

"Get out!" She pointed at the door, voice sharp. "I don't want to see you. You only bring me pain, only remind me of that night, of those seven years I wished I were dead!"

That night?

Ethan didn't move. Instead, he pulled her into his arms again.

"Megan, listen to me. That night—I never kissed Rachel. I never kissed her."

But what did that answer matter now?

It was irrelevant. It had been for years.

Thirteen years ago, Ethan hadn't chosen Megan. He had sent her to prison.

From that moment on, there had been no way back.

"Ethan Sterling, who gave you the right to treat me like this? Because you're powerful? Because you're wealthy? Does that make me less than human? Am I not a living, breathing person to you?"

She struggled in his arms, striking, clawing—until her teeth sank into the bruised flesh of his shoulder.

A deep, vicious bite, as if she could expel every ounce of hatred she'd carried all these years.

The metallic tang of blood filled her mouth.

"I'm sorry, Megan. I'm so sorry..." Ethan repeated the words like a mantra.

They were hollow. Worthless.

But what else could he say?

Slap.

Her palm struck his cheek with a sharp crack.

He took it without flinching.

Then, slowly, gently, his hand came up to stroke her back.

"It's alright, Megan. Let it out. Don't keep it festering inside you. It's alright."

The words were familiar.

For a fleeting moment, it almost felt like seventeen-year-old Ethan was holding her again.