Seraphina braced herself against the wall and struggled to her feet, every movement heavy and slow. She returned to her room at the end of the hallway—she had suffered a few minor cuts and bruises in the accident and needed to remain under observation for one night.
Nurse Emily was waiting for her, her face filled with sympathy."Oh, dear, you're back. They recovered your personal belongings from the car, but they didn't find your phone. Perhaps you can look for it yourself."
"If I can't find it, then forget it," Seraphina said, the words dry as dust in her mouth. Nothing mattered anymore. She just wanted to leave—leave this hospital, leave this place filled with lies."I'm checking out right now."
As she signed the discharge papers at the nurses' station, Mark Foster appeared beside her and handed her a sleek, elegantly wrapped box.
"Mr. Beaumont insisted that you have this," Mark said, his voice smooth and emotionless like a machine. "A new phone. He also transferred some money into an account for you as compensation."
Seraphina stared at the box. The latest iPhone looked like a final bribe. She remembered surviving on cheap sandwiches for an entire month, saving every penny just to buy him a vintage watch for his birthday. The memory left a bitter ache in her chest.
"I don't need it." she said flatly.
Mark gestured toward a small pile of shopping bags from luxury boutiques at his feet. "These are from Mr. Beaumont as well. A small token of his goodwill."
Her eyes swept over the logos—Chanel, Dior—brands she had only ever admired through display windows. It felt like a deliberate insult. He thought he could buy her silence, obedience, and departure with these things. He thought he could put a price tag on the four years she had given him.
"Take it all back," she said, her voice frighteningly calm. "I don't want any of it."
Mark looked genuinely surprised. Clearly, he had never seen a woman refuse gifts like these before. He opened his mouth to argue, but she had already turned away and walked toward the hospital exit without looking back.
Near the revolving doors, she stopped beside a trash can and cleaned out her handbag, throwing away old receipts and crumpled tissues. Her fingers brushed against something hard and sharp hidden in the lining of her bag, and she pulled it out.
It was her phone, but it was ruined beyond recognition. The screen had shattered into a spiderweb of cracks, the back panel was bent at an unnatural angle, and the metal casing had caved inward as if someone had deliberately stomped on it with a heavy boot. This wasn't damage from the accident. It was deliberate destruction.
The discovery hit her like a hammer to the chest. He hadn't just lied to her—he had gone out of his way to erase her existence, destroying every piece of evidence that proved she had once been part of his life. Photos, messages, late-night phone calls—everything had been destroyed.
Some foolish part of her subconscious had still believed this was all a terrible misunderstanding. Every absurd hope she had clung to shattered completely in that moment. He wasn't just a liar. He was cruel.
Without a moment's hesitation, she dropped the ruined device into the trash can. It landed with a dull thud, like a period at the end of a sentence, bringing everything to a close.
Back in his hospital room, Ethan listened as Mark reported over the phone. When he heard that Seraphina had refused everything, a slow, arrogant smile spread across his face.
"See? She's playing hard to get. She wants me to chase after her and beg for her back. It's all part of her game."
Everything was still under his control. Sooner or later, Seraphina would come back and beg for him. It was only a matter of time.
Seraphina stepped out onto the sidewalk and breathed in the fresh New York air.
She walked into a nearby convenience store and used the cash in her pocket to buy the cheapest prepaid phone and a new SIM card. Standing on the sidewalk, she activated the phone and entered only two numbers into the new contact list: Holly Miller, her best and only true friend; and Catherine Reynolds, her former boss.
The first thing she did was call a taxi.
"Upper East Side," she told the driver, giving him the address of the penthouse apartment she had once foolishly believed was home.
She wasn't going back to argue or beg. She was going back to reclaim what belonged to her. Not the gifts he had given her, not the life he had lived with her, but the pieces of herself she had left behind there—her sketchbooks, her design portfolio, and the blueprint for her own future.
The taxi sped through the city as familiar streets blurred past outside the window.
The lost and heartbroken look that had once filled her eyes had become sharp and resolute. She was no longer someone's secret lover. She was going to live for herself.
The taxi pulled up in front of the residential tower's gleaming glass façade. Seraphina paid the fare, stepped out, and stood for a moment on the familiar sidewalk. Once, walking into this building had given her a secret sense of belonging. Now, it felt like a cluttered graveyard, a place she needed to clean out.
The private elevator's scanner still recognized her fingerprint. Apparently, he hadn't gotten around to deleting her access yet. The elevator rose silently, carrying her directly to the foyer of the penthouse.
The first thing that hit her was a sweet floral perfume that didn't belong to her, lingering in the air.
In the living room, a silk robe that also wasn't hers had been carelessly draped over the armrest of the sofa she had personally chosen. She walked toward the master bedroom, her heart like a cold, heavy stone. On the nightstand where her photograph used to sit was a new silver frame, and the smiling woman inside it was Scarlett Finch, an up-and-coming socialite better known for her connections than her talent.
Her side of the walk-in closet had been emptied out, replaced by rows of brand-new, brightly colored designer dresses, their tags still attached. Every trace of her had been systematically erased and replaced.
The sound of the bathroom door opening made her turn around. Scarlett Finch stepped out, wrapped in one of Ethan's luxurious white towels, her hair still wet. She gasped theatrically in surprise, but her eyes glittered with triumph and provocation.
"Oh, Seraphina," she said, her voice dripping with false sympathy, "I never expected to see you here. Didn't Ethan tell you? This is Ethan's and my home now. I'm the mistress of this house now."
Ignoring the mockery, Seraphina asked, "Where are my things?"
Scarlett smiled, a subtle and cruel curve touching her lips, and pointed a perfectly manicured finger toward a storage cabinet at the end of the hallway. "Ethan said you wouldn't need those old things anymore, so I packed them away for you."
Seraphina walked to the cabinet and opened the door, involuntarily sucking in a breath. Her treasured architecture books, the portfolio filled with years of work, and even the small, worn wooden music box—the only connection she still had to her parents—had all been tossed into a dusty corner like garbage. Beside them sat several enormous brand-new Hermès boxes, their bright orange color glaring like trophies announcing that she had been replaced.
The last fragile piece of hope she hadn't even realized she was still holding onto finally shattered.
She said nothing. She simply knelt down and began sorting through the pile methodically. She took out her most important portfolio and the music box, clutching them tightly against her chest. The clothes, shoes, and personal belongings she left behind. They had been tainted, and she wanted nothing that had remained in this house.
As she carried a few of her belongings toward the door, Scarlett walked over from inside the house and blocked her path.
"You forgot this," Scarlett said, holding out a velvet jewelry box. "Your anniversary gift. Ethan wanted me to make sure you got it back."
Seraphina took the box and opened it. Inside lay the diamond necklace he had given her the year before. When he had fastened it around her neck, she had cried with happiness, believing it was a promise. Now, it looked like nothing more than a beautiful and expensive lie.
She walked over to the trash can and, without hesitation, dropped the necklace inside. It caught the afternoon sunlight for a brief moment before falling into the bin with a crisp metallic sound.
She turned back to the stunned Scarlett and said, "Tell Ethan this." Her voice was as cold and hard as the diamonds she had just thrown away. "I don't want his trash."
Scarlett's face twisted with anger. This wasn't the reaction she had wanted. She had expected tears, desperation, humiliation—not this cold, contemptuous defiance.
Seraphina brushed past her and left the apartment, the elevator doors closing on Scarlett's furious face.
The moment she was gone, Scarlett immediately grabbed her phone and called Ethan. With carefully manufactured sobs in her voice, she embellished the story, describing how Seraphina had barged in, thrown a hysterical tantrum, and destroyed the "beautiful gift" he had given her.
Listening to the story, Ethan leaned back against his hospital pillows and chuckled softly. "She's still fighting it," he told Mark, who stood nearby. "She still cares. Keep watching her. She won't last much longer."
Meanwhile, Seraphina stood on the noisy Manhattan sidewalk, clutching her portfolio and music box tightly to her chest. The sounds of the city swirled around her, yet she had never felt more alone. She had nothing but a new phone, a little cash, and the clothes on her back. She had nowhere to go.
