The Metropolitan Museum of Art Gala—the MET Gala—was not optional. It was a battlefield in couture.

Catherine wore her own design. It was a midnight blue velvet gown, high-necked, long-sleeved, with an open back that revealed the sharp ridge of her spine. It was stunning, elegant, and somber. It hid her thinness and highlighted her bone structure.

Sebastian looked dashing in a tuxedo, but his eyes were constantly scanning the crowd.

They walked the red carpet together. Flashbulbs popped.

"Mr. Vanderbilt! Look here!"

"Catherine! Who are you wearing?"

Sebastian placed a hand on the small of her back for the photos, but his touch was mechanical.

Then, Serena arrived.

She was late. Calculatedly late. She wore white. A flowing, chiffon Grecian number that looked dangerously like a wedding dress. She looked ethereal, fragile, and angelic.

Sebastian's hand dropped from Catherine's back the moment he saw her.

The gala was a blur of fake smiles and air kisses. Catherine spent most of it sitting at the table, sipping water, feeling the exhaustion seep into her marrow.

When the night finally ended, the three of them ended up at the VIP exit at the same time.

"We can share the car," Sebastian offered immediately.

"We'll take the private elevator," he instructed the security team.

They stepped into the small, plush elevator. Sebastian, Catherine, and Serena. The atmosphere was suffocating. The scent of Serena's perfume and Sebastian's cologne mixed into a cloying cloud.

The doors closed. The elevator began to descend.

Clunk.

A violent jolt shook the car.

The lights flickered and died.

Pitch blackness swallowed them.

For a second, there was absolute silence.

Then, Serena screamed.

"No! No, no, no! I can't breathe!" Her voice was high-pitched, terrified.

Sebastian moved instantly. Catherine heard the rustle of his tuxedo.

"Serena? I'm here. I've got you."

Catherine stood frozen against the back wall. The darkness pressed in on her. Her heart began to race. Thump-thump-thump.

She was terrified of the dark. It was a childhood trauma—locked in a closet by a cruel nanny for hours. Sebastian didn't know. He had never asked why she always slept with a nightlight.

"Sebastian?" Catherine whispered, reaching out.

Her hand brushed his arm in the dark.

He pushed past her. Hard.

"Find the flashlight on your phone, Catherine!" he barked, his voice harsh. "Don't just stand there!"

He dropped to the floor. Catherine heard him gathering Serena into his arms.

"Look at me, Serena. Just breathe. Count to ten with me. One... two..."

Catherine fumbled for her clutch, her hands shaking so badly she dropped it. She fell to her knees, groping on the floor until her fingers found the cold metal of her phone.

She turned on the flashlight.

The beam cut through the darkness.

It illuminated Sebastian sitting on the floor, his back against the wall. Serena was straddling his lap, clinging to his lapels, her face buried in his neck. He was stroking her hair, whispering soothing words into her ear.

He looked up at the light. He saw Catherine holding it.

He looked annoyed.

"Call help," he ordered. "She's spiraling."

Catherine looked at the emergency button. She pressed it. Nothing. She checked her phone. "No signal."

"Just keep the light on her," Sebastian commanded. "Focus, Serena. I'm not going anywhere."

"Don't leave me," Serena sobbed, clutching him tighter.

"I won't. I promise."

Catherine leaned back against the cold metal wall. She pulled her knees up.

She watched her husband hold another woman. She watched him be the protector, the rock, the savior.

She sat in the dark, just outside the circle of light.

He doesn't know I'm scared, she realized. He doesn't know because I never screamed. I just endured.

She slid down until she was sitting on the floor too, but on the opposite side of the car.

For twenty minutes, they sat like that. Sebastian murmuring love to Serena. Catherine silent, invisible, holding the flashlight steady even as her arm burned with fatigue.

Suddenly, the power returned. The overhead lights buzzed on.

The elevator began to move.

The doors opened on the ground floor.

A team of firefighters was waiting.

What they saw was a tableau of a marriage: A man on the floor holding a weeping woman in white, and a woman in blue standing alone in the corner, holding a phone like a weapon, her face a mask of absolute desolation.

The next morning at SV Corp, the "Elevator Incident" was the only thing anyone was whispering about. The rumors were already flying: Did you hear? The CEO carried the VP out. Where was the wife?

Catherine was summoned to Sebastian's office at 10:00 AM. She had brought her tablet, determined to show him the new sketches, to prove she was an asset to the company, not just a wife to be tolerated.

She walked in, her back straight, her left hand clutching the device.

Serena was there. Of course she was.

She was sitting on the sofa, looking pale and "brave." She wore a vintage Dior dress.

"Catherine," Serena said softly. "I wanted to apologize for last night. I just... the darkness... it triggers my PTSD."

Sebastian was standing by the window. He nodded approvingly. "See? She's trying to make amends."

Catherine felt numb. "It's fine." She walked to the desk and placed the tablet down, the screen displaying her latest design: The Mourning Gown.

"Let me pour you some coffee," Serena offered, standing up shakily. "It's the least I can do."

She walked to the coffee service on the sidebar. She lifted the heavy silver carafe.

Her hand "trembled."

It was theatrical. A slight shake that suddenly became a violent jerk.

The carafe tipped.

A wave of scalding hot coffee splashed across the desk.

Directly toward the tablet.

Catherine didn't think. She lunged.

She threw her left hand out to block the liquid, trying to save the device and the work on the screen.

The boiling coffee hit her hand and wrist.

Sizzle.

Pain, white-hot and blinding, seared through her nerves.

A few drops splashed onto the hem of Serena's skirt.

"Oh!" Serena gasped, jumping back. "My vintage Dior!"

Sebastian turned from the window. He saw the spilled coffee. He saw Serena clutching her skirt.

He rushed—straight to Serena.

"Are you burned?" he asked frantically, kneeling to check her legs. "Did it touch your skin?"

Catherine stood by the desk. The pain was absolute. She bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted iron. Instinctively, she shoved her burned hand behind her back, hiding the injury. She wouldn't scream. She wouldn't give Serena the satisfaction.

"It's just the fabric," Serena cried, tears welling up instantly. "But I'm so clumsy! I ruined it!"

"We'll replace the dress," Sebastian soothed her. "It's okay. You're okay."

He finally looked up at Catherine.

"Catherine," he said, his voice impatient. "Help her clean this up. Call the cleaners."

Catherine stared at him. Her hand throbbed violently behind her back, the skin already blistering in the silence.

"I can't," she said, her voice tight.

"What?" Sebastian frowned.

"I have to go."

She didn't wait for an answer. She grabbed her coffee-stained tablet with her good hand and walked out of the office. She bypassed the first aid kit on the wall. She needed to get away before she passed out.

She ran into the executive bathroom and locked the door.

She dropped the tablet on the counter and turned on the tap, thrusting her burning hand under the cold water.

The relief was instant, but the tears finally came. They mixed with the tap water swirling down the drain.

She looked at her reflection in the mirror.

"I am invisible," she whispered.

It wasn't a complaint. It was a diagnosis.