Three years later.

The duplex in South Philly was better than the studio, but not by much.

Seraphina was wiping down the counter. She worked two jobs now—waitress by day, cleaning lady by night.

She checked her watch. June was next door with Mrs. Gable, the elderly neighbor who watched her while Seraphina worked. June's lungs were still weak. The doctors said the smoke inhalation at birth had caused permanent scarring.

The specialist had told her yesterday. "She needs surgery. A tracheal reconstruction. Soon. Or the next infection could be... fatal."

The cost: Fifty thousand dollars. Upfront.

Seraphina had two hundred dollars in a coffee tin.

A knock on the door. Not the frantic knock of a neighbor, but a solid, authoritative rap.

Seraphina froze. She looked through the peephole.

A black Lincoln Town Car was parked at the curb. An elderly man stood on the porch.

Butler grandiose. The head of staff at Silver Sands.

Seraphina opened the door a crack, blocking the view inside. "Mr. Henderson?"

"Ms. Sterling," the butler said. He looked at her faded jeans, her messy bun. His eyes softened with pity. "Mrs. Vanderbilt sent me."

Seraphina's heart raced. "Is she..."

"Madam Victoria is dying," Henderson said. "She has requested your presence. She wants to make peace before the end."

"They threw me out," Seraphina said, her voice hard. "Julian threw me out. I can't go back there."

"Mr. Julian... has become difficult," Henderson admitted. "But Madam insists. She knows your stipend was... interrupted."

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a thick envelope.

"Madam sent this. She calls it 'retroactive allowance'. She suspects you have been struggling."

Seraphina took the envelope. It was heavy. She opened it.

Cash. Stacks of hundreds.

She did a quick visual estimate. It was at least fifty thousand. Maybe more.

Exactly enough for June's surgery.

The world tilted. It was a trap. Or a miracle. Or both.

"I can't stay long," Seraphina said, clutching the envelope.

"Just until she passes," Henderson said. "A few days. Maybe a week."

Seraphina thought of June. June was safe with Mrs. Gable for now. If she took June to New York, Julian might see her. He might do the math.

"I have to make arrangements," Seraphina said. "I... I have a cat. I need to tell the neighbor."

"I will wait in the car," Henderson said.

Seraphina closed the door. She ran next door to Mrs. Gable.

"I have to go for a job," Seraphina told the older woman, pressing five hundred dollars from the envelope into her hand. "A big cleaning job in New York. It pays for the surgery. Please, watch her. Don't let her go outside."

"Go, child," Mrs. Gable said, hugging her. "We'll be fine."

Seraphina kissed a sleeping June on the head. "I'll bring you the moon," she whispered.

She got into the black car. She didn't look back.

The drive to New York was a funeral procession for her freedom.

Silver Sands loomed against the grey sky. It looked like a fortress.

She was led to the master bedroom. The smell of lavender and sickness hung in the air.

Victoria Vanderbilt lay in the massive bed, looking like a dried flower. Machines beeped rhythmically.

She opened her eyes. "Seraphina."

"I'm here," Seraphina said, standing stiffly at the foot of the bed.

"You're so thin, child," Victoria whispered.

"I survived," Seraphina said.

"Julian..." Victoria coughed, a wet, rattling sound. "He needs... softening. He has become stone. Promise me... stay. Until I go."

"I can't stay here," Seraphina said.

"Please," Victoria wheezed. She reached out a skeletal hand. "For an old woman's regret. I should have stopped him that night. I knew you didn't do it."

Seraphina felt the cash burning in her bag. The price of June's breath.

"Fine," she said. "I'll stay."

"Good," Victoria closed her eyes. "You'll stay in the main house."

Seraphina was shown to a guest room. It was luxurious. The sheets were Egyptian cotton.

She collapsed on the bed. It felt too soft. It felt like quicksand.

She was back in the lion's den. And the lion was hungry.

The next morning, Seraphina woke up before dawn. Old habits.

She walked down the hallway, the plush carpet silencing her footsteps. She needed coffee before she could face the day.

The door to the home gym opened.

Seraphina stopped.

Julian walked out.

He was shirtless. He had a towel draped around his neck. Sweat glistened on his chest, highlighting muscles that were harder, more defined than she remembered. He looked like a weapon forged in fire.

He stopped when he saw her.

Time suspended.

For three years, she had only seen him in nightmares. In person, the impact was physical. A punch to the gut.

He didn't look surprised. He looked annoyed.

"Grandmother gets what she wants," he said. His voice was deeper, rougher.

Seraphina clutched her cheap cardigan tighter around her chest. "I'm only here for her."

"Good," Julian said. He walked past her, his scent—sandalwood and sweat—washing over her. "Then we can finalize the paperwork."

"Finalize what?"

"Follow me."

He led her to the study. The same room where he had exiled her. The scene of the crime.

He walked behind the desk and pulled a file from a drawer. He slapped it onto the wood.

"The Separation Amendment," he said. "Grandmother thinks we are just 'working through things.' If she knows I filed for divorce three years ago, the stress will kill her. So, we pretend."

He uncapped a fountain pen and held it out.

"This is a Non-Disclosure Agreement regarding your stay here. And an agreement to play the role of the estranged wife attempting reconciliation. In exchange, I won't have security throw you out onto the street before she dies."

"You're asking me to lie to a dying woman?" Seraphina asked.

"I'm asking you to give her peace," Julian corrected. "Sign it."

Seraphina took the pen. "Did you run a background check on me, Julian? Before letting me back in?"

Julian laughed, a cold, harsh sound. "Why would I? I don't want to know which gutter you crawled out of. I don't want to know anything about your life since you left. Ignorance is the only way I can tolerate your presence."

He stared at her with such intense loathing that she almost flinched. He hadn't checked. He didn't know about Philadelphia. He didn't know about June.

She signed the paper.

Scratch. Scratch.

She pushed it back to him. "Done."

Julian stared at the signature. He looked at her hand. He ran his thumb over the calluses on her palm as he took the pen back. Rough. Hard. Worker's hands.

"You've changed," he muttered, staring at her skin.

She pulled her hand away as if he had burned her.

"You haven't," she said.

"One more thing," Julian said, opening a drawer and pulling out a black card. "Buy some clothes. You look like a vagrant. Don't embarrass us in front of the guests."

Seraphina stared at the card. "Guests?"

"Dinner tonight. A welcome home charade for Grandmother. Be there."

He turned his back on her.

Seraphina walked out. Her heart was pounding. He didn't know. He chose not to know.

And that arrogance was the only thing keeping her daughter safe.

Seraphina needed to clear her head. The mansion was suffocating.

She told the staff she was going into the city to check on her "apartment." A lie. She didn't have an apartment in New York. She had a crumbling duplex in Philly and a daughter waiting for surgery.

But she couldn't leave the grounds. Not really. She had no car, and taking a train would take too long.

She found herself wandering to the old east wing. It was dusty, unused.

She found the dance studio.

It was exactly as she had left it. The barre, the mirrors, the piano in the corner.

She locked the door. She needed to move. To burn off the anxiety.

She stripped down to her underwear—a mismatched, cheap set. She didn't have dance clothes.

She turned on the old sound system. A haunting cello melody filled the room.

She began to move. Her body remembered the training she had abandoned for motherhood and survival. She spun, extended, leaped.

As she pivoted, her back faced the large mirrors.

The scars were visible.

Jagged, pink and white lines of keloid tissue that ran from her left shoulder blade down to her hip. The brand of the fire escape. The mark of the night June was born.

She closed her eyes, losing herself in the pain and the music.

The door handle rattled.

Seraphina froze. She had locked it.

But this was Julian's house. He had the master key.

The door swung open.

Julian stood there. He had been looking for her to discuss the dinner seating chart. He expected to find her sulking.

He didn't expect this.

He saw the woman in the center of the room. He saw the grace of her line.

And then he saw her back.

His eyes widened. The file in his hand slipped, hitting the floor with a thwack.

"What..." Julian stepped into the room, his voice losing its edge. "What is that?"

Seraphina spun around, her arms flying up to cover her chest, backing away until she hit the barre.

"Get out!" she screamed.

Julian didn't leave. He walked toward her, his eyes fixed on the angry, twisted skin peeking out from behind her arm.

"Who did that to you?" he demanded. His tone wasn't angry anymore. It was shocked. Horrified. "Is that why you look like a starved animal? Did someone hurt you?"

"It's none of your business," Seraphina hissed, grabbing her shirt from the floor and frantically pulling it on. The fabric covered the scars, but the image was burned into his retina.

"That looks like a burn," Julian said, stopping a few feet away. "A severe one. You didn't have that when you left."

"A lot of things happened after I left, Julian," she said, her voice trembling. "Things you didn't want to know about. Remember?"

He flinched. He had said that. I don't want to know.

But seeing the physical evidence of her suffering... it cracked something in his chest.

"Seraphina," he reached out a hand.

"Don't touch me," she warned, stepping back. "You forfeited the right to care about my scars three years ago."

She grabbed her jeans and bolted past him, running out of the room before he could see the tears threatening to fall.

Julian stood in the empty studio, the music still playing. He looked at the mirror where her reflection had been.

For the first time in three years, the ice in his veins felt like it was melting. And it burned.