Seraphina's POV

Julian doesn't say anything.

That's the first thing that breaks me.

Not his mother's cruelty. Not the divorce papers still sitting on the tray like a death sentence. Not even the way my body still aches from losing my baby.

It's his silence.

I look at him. Really look at him.

Julian Ashford stands at the foot of my hospital bed in a tailored suit that costs more than my entire childhood home. His hair is neat. His face is calm. Too calm. His jaw is tight, his eyes distant, like he's already stepped away from me in his mind.

"Julian," I whisper. My throat burns when I say his name. "Say something."

Margaret Ashford lets out a satisfied breath beside him. "There's nothing to say," she says smoothly. "The situation is clear."

"No," I insist, my voice shaking. "It's not. Julian, tell her she's wrong. Tell her this wasn't my fault. Tell her our baby..."

Margaret slams her palm against the metal tray. "Do not say our baby," she snaps. "You lost the right to that."

I flinch, but my eyes stay on Julian.

"Please," I say. "You were there. You knew I wasn't feeling well. You knew I asked to go to the hospital earlier. You knew..."

"I knew what?" Julian finally speaks, his voice low, controlled, almost bored. He doesn't come closer. He doesn't touch me. "That you were emotional? That you were stressed? Pregnancy does that."

My heart stutters.

"That's not fair," I whisper. "I told you something was wrong."

"You always think something is wrong," Margaret cuts in. "You were always dramatic. Always fragile. We warned Julian about you."

I shake my head. "That's not true. Julian, look at me."

He does. Finally.

And when he does, I know.

There's no love there.

There's discomfort. Irritation. Calculation.

"Mom," he says slowly, turning to Margaret, "the press can't hear about this. We need to handle it quietly."

My stomach drops.

That's it?

That's all he cares about?

"So you agree?" I ask, my voice barely holding together. "You agree with her?"

Julian exhales, rubbing his forehead. "Rina..."

"Seraphina," I correct sharply.

He pauses. "Seraphina," he says, like the name tastes foreign now. "This marriage... it was rushed. We both know that."

My chest tightens.

"You begged me to marry you," I remind him. "You said you loved me."

Margaret scoffs. "Love," she repeats mockingly. "Don't be naive. This family doesn't run on love."

Julian doesn't deny it.

"I didn't know things would end like this," he says. "But the damage is done."

"The damage?" I whisper. "I lost our child."

"And the Ashford name almost lost its future," Margaret snaps. "Do you know what people would say if they found out the heir's wife couldn't even carry a baby to term?"

Something cold settles in my chest.

So that's what this is.

Image.

Legacy.

Not grief.

Not pain.

Not me.

"You're choosing her," I say to Julian. "Over me."

"I'm choosing what's best," he replies.

I laugh, a broken sound. "You mean what's best for you."

He doesn't answer.

Margaret straightens, already done with this. "She'll sign the papers," she says. "And she'll leave today."

"I'm still recovering," I protest. "I can't even stand properly."

"You'll manage," Margaret replies coolly. "You managed to ruin our bloodline. Walking out shouldn't be difficult."

My hands curl into fists. "You're heartless."

"And you," she says sweetly, "are disposable."

The word echoes in my head.

Disposable.

Julian finally looks uncomfortable. "Mom, maybe give her a day-"

"No," Margaret says sharply. "The longer she stays, the messier it becomes."

I look at Julian one last time. "If I walk out that door," I say, "don't ever pretend you didn't know what you did to me."

His lips press into a thin line. "I'll have my lawyer contact yours."

I don't have a lawyer.

Margaret signals to the two men standing near the door, security. I hadn't noticed them before.

"Escort her out," she orders.

"What?" I gasp. "You can't..."

One of them grabs my arm. Not gently.

"Don't touch me!" I cry, panic rushing through me. "Julian!"

He turns away.

That's the moment something inside me shatters completely.

They pull me off the bed. My legs buckle. Pain shoots through my body, sharp and unforgiving.

"I just lost my baby!" I scream. "Have some mercy!"

Margaret watches with a calm smile. "Mercy is a privilege," she says. "You no longer qualify."

The doors open.

The hallway blurs.

Nurses stare. Some look away. No one intervenes.

I'm dragged forward, my feet barely touching the floor, my heart pounding in my ears.

I twist once, just once, to look back.

Julian is already gone.

And then they drag me out of the mansion doors, the cold air slamming into my skin as my body gives in and my knees hit the ground.

Seraphina's POV

The headline hits me before the rain does.

ASHFORD HEIR DIVORCES UNSTABLE WIFE AFTER TRAGIC LOSS.

I stop walking.

My feet freeze on the wet pavement like my body has forgotten how to move. Cars pass behind me, water splashing, horns blaring, life continuing without care. My fingers tighten around the phone, knuckles white, as if squeezing it hard enough will change the words staring back at me.

They don't change.

They never do.

My breath comes out shaky. "No," I whisper. "No..."

I scroll.

I shouldn't, but I do.

Sources close to the family reveal Seraphina Cole's emotional instability endangered the pregnancy.

The Ashford family reportedly acted with compassion and restraint.

Doctors suggest stress may have been a contributing factor.

Stress.

My stomach twists violently.

"They're lying," I whisper again, louder this time, my voice breaking. "They're lying."

Rain begins to fall harder, heavy drops soaking my hair, my clothes, my skin. It doesn't matter. I don't feel it properly. Everything inside me feels numb, like I'm wrapped in thick glass.

I scroll further.

There's a photo.

Me.

Smiling.

Pregnant.

My hand resting gently on my stomach, eyes soft, hopeful. The picture was taken at a charity event months ago. Julian had kissed my cheek that night. Margaret had smiled for the cameras.

The caption underneath burns.

A fragile woman unable to handle the pressures of elite marriage.

My chest tightens painfully.

Fragile.

Unstable.

Liability.

Temporary.

Disposable.

The words stack on top of each other until I can barely breathe.

I lower the phone slightly and look around. I'm standing outside a café. Warm yellow light spills through the windows. Inside, people laugh. Someone clinks a spoon against a cup. A couple leans close, smiling at each other.

Normal life.

A life I no longer belong to.

"They destroyed me," I whisper.

My phone vibrates in my hand.

Unknown number.

For a second, I consider ignoring it. Then I answer.

"Hello?" My voice sounds weak even to me.

"Seraphina Cole?" a man asks. His tone is formal. Distant.

"Yes."

"This is Ashford Legal," he says. "We're calling to remind you that any public statements made regarding your divorce or the pregnancy will be considered a violation of confidentiality."

My fingers curl tighter around the phone.

"I didn't sign anything," I say.

There's a pause. A calculated one.

"You don't need to," he replies. "Silence is expected."

The line goes dead.

I stare at the screen long after the call ends. My reflection stares back faintly, distorted by rainwater on the glass.

Silence.

That's how they're killing me.

I start walking again. I don't know where I'm going. My body moves on instinct, carrying me through streets slick with rain, past luxury stores and towering buildings that scrape the sky.

Everything looks too bright.

Too alive.

My shoes squelch with every step. My clothes cling to my skin. I feel heavy. Exhausted. Like grief has weight and it's crushing my spine.

I pass a large screen mounted above a store.

Another headline flashes.

ASHFORD FAMILY REQUESTS PRIVACY DURING THIS DIFFICULT TIME.

I laugh.

It comes out sharp and broken, cutting through the sound of rain. A man passing me glances over, then quickly looks away.

"Privacy," I mutter. "For who?"

Not for me.

Never for me.

My chest aches, a dull, constant pain that won't go away. I press a hand to my stomach without thinking. It's flat now.

Empty.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, my voice barely audible. "I tried."

The rain soaks my hair completely now, running down my face, mixing with tears I didn't even realize were falling.

Another woman walks past me, her phone held up in front of her. She glances at the screen, then at me.

Her eyes widen slightly.

Recognition.

She turns away immediately.

Shame burns hotter than the cold.

"They believe it," I whisper. "They believe them."

My phone buzzes again.

Messages.

Unknown numbers.

I don't open them.

I don't need to.

I already know what they say.

Questions.

Judgment.

Curiosity sharpened into knives.

I think of Julian.

His calm voice.

His turned back.

The way he didn't fight for me.

I think of Margaret.

Her smile.

Her words.

Disposable.

I stop walking again and sit heavily on a bench. Rain pools around my feet. My hands shake uncontrollably as I drop the phone beside me.

"I don't exist anymore," I whisper.

The city doesn't answer.

My breathing grows uneven. Short. Sharp. My chest feels tight, like something is squeezing it from the inside.

I try to inhale slowly.

It doesn't help.

The thought comes quietly, slipping into my mind like a whisper.

What if you stop?

I shake my head violently.

"No," I mutter. "No."

But it doesn't leave.

It lingers.

If I disappear, the headlines stop. The lies don't matter. The pain ends.

The Ashfords win.

And somehow, that hurts more than the thought of dying.

"I didn't deserve this," I say aloud, my voice cracking. "I loved him. I loved my baby."

My hands curl into fists, nails digging into my palms.

"I mattered," I whisper. "I mattered."

The rain grows heavier, drumming against the pavement, against my shoulders, against my thoughts. My body feels weak. Dizzy.

I stand slowly, swaying slightly as I do. The city lights blur together, stretching and warping.

My phone slips from the bench and falls to the ground with a dull sound.

I don't pick it up.

I take a step.

Then another.

My vision narrows. My heart pounds too fast, too hard.

"I can't do this," I whisper. "I can't survive this."

My legs feel like they're giving out beneath me. Pain spreads through my chest, sharp and frightening.

The rain is everywhere now.

Above me.

Around me.

Inside me.

The ground tilts suddenly.

I gasp, reaching out for something-anything-but there's nothing to hold onto.

The world spins.

My knees buckle.

And as my body gives in, collapsing under grief, cold, and everything they took from me, the rain keeps falling and darkness closes in as I collapse in the rain.