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.

Seraphina was sitting on a park bench two blocks away, nursing her throbbing ankle, when her phone buzzed.

Grandmother Victoria: Come to the Estate. Now.

A summons from Victoria Vanderbilt was not a request. It was a royal decree. The Estate in the Hamptons was hours away, but refusing was not an option if she wanted to settle this without a war that would destroy her brother.

She checked her bank balance on her phone. She had just enough for a private car service. She booked it, wincing at the cost.

The drive was long and agonizing. The suspension of the hired Lincoln Town Car wasn't kind to her injury. By the time they pulled through the iron gates of the Hamptons estate, the sun was high in the sky.

She was ushered into the drawing room by a silent butler.

Victoria Vanderbilt sat in a high-backed velvet chair by the fireplace. She was eighty years old, withered but sharp as a razor. Her silver cane rested against her knee.

Standing by the window was Aunt Beatrice-Tiffany's aunt by marriage. Beatrice held a teacup and wore a smirk that Seraphina wanted to slap off her face.

Sit, Victoria commanded.

Seraphina sat on the edge of a sofa, keeping her weight off her bad leg.

Beatrice tells me your brother is causing trouble with the Sloan family, Victoria said. Her voice was like dry parchment. "Public intoxication. Brawling."

Victoria hated the Sloans. She considered them "New Money trash."

Is Harrison involved with that Sloan girl? Victoria asked sharply, her eyes boring into Seraphina. "The sickly one?"

Beatrice interrupted quickly, her voice high and nervous. "Oh, Victoria, they are just friends. Seraphina is just jealous. She's imagining things because she... well, she hasn't given the family an heir yet."

Seraphina's hands clenched in her lap. The injustice burned.

She stood up, swaying slightly. She walked to the center of the room.

Harrison is in love with Tiffany Sloan, Seraphina said clearly.

Beatrice gasped. "Lies!"

He was with her last night at Le Bernardin on our anniversary. He was holding her hand at the hospital while my brother was unconscious. Seraphina looked directly at Victoria. "And I am divorcing him because of it."

The silence in the room was heavy enough to crush bones.

Victoria banged her cane on the floor. Thud.

Divorce? Victoria hissed. "A Vanderbilt does not divorce. It is messy. It is common."

A Sterling does not share a husband, Seraphina countered.

Victoria's eyes widened slightly. For the first time, she looked at Seraphina not as a decoration, but as a person. There was a flicker of respect in those ancient eyes.

Suddenly, the double doors burst open.

Harrison rushed in. He was breathless, his suit rumpled. He must have been nearby, perhaps at the Sloan's summer residence, when Beatrice alerted him.

Grandmother! Harrison exclaimed. He glared at Seraphina. "Don't listen to her. She's hysterical. She's having a breakdown."

He marched over to Seraphina and grabbed her arm-the uninjured one, thankfully.

We are leaving, he said through gritted teeth.

Let her speak, Harrison, Victoria said.

Harrison ignored the Matriarch. It was the first time in his life he had defied her. Panic was making him reckless.

She is embarrassing the family, Harrison hissed. He dragged Seraphina toward the door.

Let me go! Seraphina struggled, hopping on her good foot.

You are coming home, Harrison growled. "And you are going to learn your place."

He pulled her out of the drawing room, into the hallway, and out toward the gravel driveway.