The silence inside the hospital room was broken only by the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor. Sebastian lay in the bed, his skin the color of ash, tubes running into his arms like translucent veins.

Seraphina rushed to his side, grabbing his cold hand. "Seb? Can you hear me?"

His eyelids fluttered but didn't open.

The door behind her burst open. It hit the wall with a loud bang.

Harrison marched in. He looked annoyed, straightening his tie as if the hospital room were a boardroom.

You nearly gave Tiffany a coronary with your aggression out there, he hissed. "She's sensitive, Seraphina. You know about her condition."

Seraphina didn't turn around. She kept her eyes on her brother. "Her brother poisoned mine. And you're worried about her performance?"

Thomas said Sebastian drank willingly to close a deal, Harrison said, his voice taking on that lecturing tone she hated. "Stop blaming the Sloans for your family's incompetence. Sebastian has always been reckless."

Seraphina felt a vein pulse in her temple. She stood up slowly and turned to face him.

Get out, she said. "This is a family room. You aren't family."

Harrison stopped. He looked genuinely shocked. For three years, she had been docile. She had been the "yes" wife. This new version of her was alien to him.

I am your husband, he said, stepping closer. "I paid for this room. I pulled strings to get him into the VIP wing. You should be thanking me."

I don't want your money. I don't want your help.

You need my help. You can't afford a band-aid without me.

On the bed, Sebastian stirred. The heart monitor beeped faster. Beep-beep-beep.

His eyes opened. They were glassy, weak, but as they focused on Harrison, they sharpened into a glare of pure hatred.

Harrison noticed. He stepped toward the bed, putting on his "benevolent benefactor" mask. "Sebastian, you're awake. We need to talk about your drinking-"

Seraphina moved. She stepped between Harrison and the bed. She placed her hands on Harrison's chest and shoved him. Hard.

Don't come near him.

Harrison's reflex was instant. He grabbed her wrist to stop her from pushing him again.

He grabbed the right wrist.

Seraphina cried out. It wasn't a protest; it was a sound of pure, physiological distress. The nerves in her damaged wrist ignited like gasoline. The pain blinded her for a second. Her knees buckled.

Harrison let go immediately, looking at his own hand, then at her, confused.

I barely touched you, he said, defensive. "Stop acting."

Seraphina cradled her wrist against her chest, breathing in shallow gasps. The pain was a white noise in her ears.

You're hysterical, Harrison concluded, adjusting his cuffs. "I can't deal with this right now. Tiffany needs to go home."

A nurse poked her head in. "Please, keep it down."

Harrison nodded at the nurse, charming and composed. Then he looked at Seraphina with cold eyes.

I'm taking Tiffany home. She needs rest. He paused. "Don't expect the driver. He's busy with me."

He turned and walked out.

Seraphina stood trembling in the center of the room. She waited until his footsteps faded down the hall.

Then, a weak hand tugged at her sleeve.

She turned back to the bed. Sebastian was looking at her. His voice was a rasp, barely a whisper, but the steel in it was unmistakable.

Divorce him, Sebastian croaked. "Now."

Seraphina wiped a tear she hadn't realized had fallen. "I am, Seb. I am."

Sebastian squeezed her hand. A small, cryptic smile touched his pale lips.

Good, he whispered, his eyes drifting shut again. "The accounts are secured. It's time to wake the giant."

Seraphina stayed at the hospital until the sun began to set, painting the Manhattan skyline in bruised shades of purple and orange. She only left when the doctors assured her Sebastian was out of the woods.

She used her app to call another car. The ride back to the Vanderbilt Estate was silent, the interior of the cheap sedan smelling of stale pine air freshener-a stark contrast to the leather and cedar of Harrison's limo.

The house was dark when she entered. Harrison was home; the Aston Martin was in the driveway.

She walked into the kitchen. It was empty. No dinner. No staff.

Harrison appeared in the doorway of the study. He was still in his suit trousers and a white shirt, sleeves rolled up. He held a glass of scotch.

Where is dinner? he asked. No hello. No 'how is your brother'.

Seraphina looked at him. She was exhausted, her bones aching with a deep weariness. "Where is the staff?"

I gave them the night off, Harrison said, taking a sip of his drink. "I didn't want them to witness your mood swings. I assumed you would perform your duties."

I didn't make anything.

She walked past him toward the stairs.

I'm talking to you, Harrison snapped. The ice in his glass clinked.

Seraphina ignored him. She placed a hand on the marble banister and started to climb.

Seraphina!

He shouted her name. The sudden noise echoed in the cavernous hall.

Seraphina flinched. She turned her head to look at him, distracted by the venom in his voice.

Her foot missed the next step.

It happened in slow motion. Her heel caught on the edge of the marble. Her ankle twisted at a sickening angle. Gravity took over.

She fell.

She hit the hard stone steps with a thud, sliding down two stairs before coming to a halt. A sharp, tearing pain exploded in her left ankle.

She bit her lip so hard she tasted copper, stifling a scream. She curled into a ball on the landing, clutching her leg.

Harrison dropped his glass. It didn't break; it bounced on the rug. He rushed over, taking the stairs two at a time.

Sera!

He knelt beside her. He saw her ankle. It was already swelling, puffing up against the strap of her shoe.

Don't move, he said. His voice had dropped the arrogance; it was low, urgent.

He reached out to pick her up.

Seraphina saw his hands coming toward her. The same hands that had grabbed her wrist earlier. The same hands that had held Tiffany's.

Panic, irrational and feral, seized her.

She flinched violently, shrinking away from him, pressing her back against the cold metal railings.

No! she gasped.

The fear in her eyes was raw. It froze Harrison mid-motion. He hovered there, his arms outstretched, looking at his wife as if she were a stranger.

I'm not going to hit you, he said, sounding offended. "I'm trying to help you."

Just don't touch me, she whispered. Her chest heaved. "Please. Don't touch me."

She tried to stand. A whimper escaped her throat as weight put pressure on the injury.

Harrison's jaw clenched. He ignored her protest.

You can't walk, he said gruffly.

He scooped her up into his arms.

Seraphina went rigid. She held her breath, refusing to lean into him, refusing to let her head rest on his shoulder. She held herself stiff, a dead weight in his arms.

He carried her into the living room and deposited her gently on the plush cream sofa. He turned and walked to the kitchen, returning moments later with a bag of ice wrapped in a towel and the first aid kit.

He knelt at her feet. He unbuckled her shoe with surprisingly gentle fingers. He applied the ice.

For a moment, the silence was intimate. He looked up at her, his eyes searching hers. For a second, he looked like the man she had married-the man who had promised to protect her.

Does it hurt? he asked softly.

Seraphina looked at him. She felt a pang of sadness. It was a grieving for what could have been.

Too little, too late, she thought.

She reached down and pushed the ice pack away.

I can do it myself, she said.

She grabbed a cushion, used the coffee table for leverage, and stood up on one leg, wobbling dangerously.

Harrison stood up too. "Seraphina, stop being stubborn. You need-"

I need you to leave me alone.

She hopped, agonizingly slow, toward the guest room on the first floor. She didn't look back.

She entered the room and locked the door. The click of the lock was loud in the silent house.

Harrison was left standing in the living room, the melting ice pack dripping onto the expensive Persian rug.

Morning light filtered through the blinds of the guest room. Seraphina's ankle was a swollen, purple mess, but she wrapped it tightly in an ace bandage she found in the bathroom cabinet.

She limped into the kitchen. It was muscle memory. Even with a broken marriage and a broken body, the routine of being a "good wife" was hard to shake.

She couldn't stand to cook. Instead, she dragged a high stool to the stove and perched on it, taking the weight off her leg. She made pancakes and scrambled eggs, her movements awkward and pained, but efficient.

7:30 AM sharp. He was dressed in a navy suit, impeccable as always. He saw the food on the table and the smell of coffee seemed to relax his shoulders.

He smiled. It was a smug, self-satisfied smile.

I knew you'd calm down, he said, pulling out his chair. "You always do."

He sat down and took a sip of the coffee. He sighed in appreciation.

The eggs look perfect. Let's forget about yesterday. I forgive you for the scene at the hospital.

He forgave her.

Seraphina sat opposite him, her leg propped up on a spare chair. She wasn't eating.

She reached into the pocket of her robe and pulled out a folded document. It wasn't a crisp legal filing from a high-rise firm; it was a printout she had made weeks ago at the library, filled out in her own neat handwriting, and hidden in her cookbook.

She slid it across the polished granite table.

Harrison paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. He looked at the paper, then at her.

What is this?

Read it.

He put the fork down. He unfolded the paper.

He scanned the document. His eyes darted back and forth.

Draft Separation Agreement.

Claimant: Seraphina Sterling.

Assets Requested: None.

Alimony Requested: None.

Net zero. A clean break.

Harrison's face turned a deep, angry red. The veins in his neck stood out.

You think this makes you noble? he spat.

He looked up at her, shaking the papers. "Asking for nothing? It makes you look like a martyr. It's a tactic to make me look cheap in the press."

It's not a tactic, Seraphina said calmly. "I don't want your money, Harrison. I just want out."

You don't get to decide when this ends!

He stood up so abruptly his chair fell over. He grabbed the papers in both hands.

Riiip.

He tore the document in half. Then in quarters. He threw the pieces into the air. They fluttered down like snow, landing in the scrambled eggs, in the coffee, on the floor.

You are a Vanderbilt, he growled. "We don't divorce. And you certainly don't walk away from me until I say you can."

I have the digital file, Seraphina said. Her voice was flat, dead. "And I sent it to my lawyer this morning."

Harrison stared at her. He wanted a reaction. He wanted tears, screaming, pleading. He wanted passion, even if it was negative. But she gave him nothing but a wall of ice.

He grabbed the edge of his plate.

To hell with this!

He flipped the plate.

The breakfast-eggs, bacon, toast-crashed onto the floor. Ceramic shattered. Food splattered across the pristine white tiles and onto Seraphina's bandaged foot.

Clean this up, he barked.

He stormed out of the kitchen. A moment later, the front door slammed.

Seraphina looked down at the mess. Broken pottery. Wasted food.

She looked at the broom in the corner.

Then, she stepped over the pile of garbage, careful not to slip. She didn't pick up a single piece.

She went to the foyer closet, retrieved her small overnight bag, and walked out the front door, leaving the mess for the ants.