SERAFINA

There should've been some kind of release.

Like... a scream. A breakdown or bottle thrown at the wall. Something.

But I just stood there, still in yesterday's shirt, watching my legally wedded hot stranger turn the page of a newspaper like he was waiting for coffee service.

"Your husband," he said, like he was telling me the weather.

We were both silent for a moment.

I should've been panicking. I should've been yelling. Instead, I blinked at him like an idiot and backed out of the room slowly, as if he was a very calm lion I didn't want to startle.

Which made no sense.

Because this wasn't just some random poor actor. This was Dorian-freaking-Everhart.

Okay, not freaking. I still didn't know who he was. But.. the name looked expensive. The posture definitely was. And no normal person signs a fake marriage license without asking at least one question.

He hadn't even flinched.

Not once.

Not when I sat down or even when asked him to marry me. Even when I pulled out the documents and pushed them across the table like I was ordering a sandwich.

And now, here he was, reading the Financial Post in my living room while I stood there wondering if I could legally file for annulment based on emotional sabotage and spiritual whiplash.

I went to the kitchen.

My hands went straight to the cabinet even though I wasn't hungry, and I wasn't reaching for food.

I opened the door and stared blankly at a box of quinoa I hadn't touched since 2022.

Behind me, I heard him move.

One step.. then the second. He didn't rush.

I turned before he got closer. "Don't,"

He stopped mid-step. Slowly.

"What am I not doing?"

"Existing, near me."

He raised an eyebrow. "That might be difficult mama, considering we're married."

"God, you're smug."

"I'm accurate."

"Are you always this annoying?"

He blinked. "I thought I was being polite."

I rolled my eyes blankly, I had nothing to say to this man.

My phone buzzed on the counter, again.

I checked the screen and immediately regretted it. Twenty-three new notifications. Headlines and gossip accounts. People tagging me in blurry photos like I'd faked my own death and returned with a new identity. Twisted rebirth storyline.

The top headline read:

"From Betrayed to Betrothed: Serafina Vale's Rebound Marriage Shocks LA Society"

Below it:

"Who Is Dorian Everhart?"

Yeah. I'd actually like to know that too.

They all had an opinion, but none of them remembered who I was before this mess. Hell, I wasn't even sure I did.

Rhea called three times before I picked up.

"Tell me you didn't marry him," she said, no greeting.

"I... I did."

"You what?"

"I married him."

"You married the wrong guy?"

"Not on purpose Rhea, I wasn't aware he was the wrong guy."

"You didn't!"

"Rhea, I don't even know what this man does when I'm not looking at him."

"Oh my god." Pause. "Is he still there?"

"Yes."

"Did he kill the model?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"I don't know, Rhea, am I qualified to check for bodies now?"

She groaned. "Do you even know his last name?"

"Everhart."

Silence.

"I've heard that before," she muttered. "That name's not small."

Great. Fantastic. Just what I needed to hear. Not only had I married a complete stranger, he might be a rich stranger. Possibly even dangerous.

"I have to go," I said.

"Why?"

"Because I need to Google my "husband" before he finishes my almond milk."

Back in the living room, Dorian was sitting on the edge of the couch, scrolling through his phone with the energy of someone who had nothing to hide.

I didn't sit. I just stood near the hallway, arms crossed like a defense line he hadn't asked for.

"What exactly do you do for a living?" I asked.

He glanced up. "I'm in acquisitions."

That told me nothing. "Like... um...real estate?"

"Sometimes."

Corporate speak. Love that.

"Are you famous?" I tried.

"No."

"Criminal?"

"No."

"Then why are there zero public photos of you?"

"I don't like photos."

"You married someone who works in branding. That's going to be a problem."

"Then un-marry me."

He said it casually. Not defensive. Not even sarcastic. Just flat, like he was giving me the out if I wanted it.

I didn't respond.

Because I didn't know if I wanted it, not yet.

*

An hour later, I sat in my bedroom surrounded by half my closet and the one working outlet that didn't spark every time I plugged in my flat iron.

My inbox was exploding. My assistant had emailed six times. The words "brand stability," "potential fallout," and "crisis control" all came up, and that was just in the subject lines.

Two clients had pulled out.

A third wanted to pause our campaign "until things settled."

I stared at the wall for five minutes. Not crying or even panicking. Just... empty. Like I'd left my body on the couch and floated somewhere safer.

Like I'd walked out of my own damn life and left the lights on.

Leo and Amia got engaged and I got completely ruined. Not by accident, by choice. I walked into that diner to ruin them. To take the headline and avoid being termed the psycho ex-fiancée.

Well, I took it. And now it was eating me alive.

There was a knock on my door. I was on my bed in a towel and two unmatched socks, questioning every decision I'd ever made since age fourteen.

The knock came again.

"Serafina," Dorian's voice was calm. That seductive voice was always calm. "There's a man at the door."

I sat up. "What?"

"A man. Says his name is Russell."

I jumped to my feet and ran to the living room, nearly tripping on a hair straightener I hadn't used in three weeks.

Russell was my publicist.

"What the hell," I hissed, grabbing my phone. "Why is he here?"

"I let him in."

"You WHAT?"

Dorian stepped aside. Russell walked in like he owned the place - tinted sunglasses, a half-buttoned shirt, and the sleep schedule of a man on twelve lawsuits.

"This is not how we do things honey," he said, not bothering with hello. "We don't get married to strangers. We don't hijack the press cycle and we surely don't leave Vogue photographers on read."

"I didn't leave them on-wait, how did you get my address?"

Russell waved a dismissive hand. "You're not that private."

He turned to Dorian, studied him, and then turned back to me.

"Is he staying?"

"I don't know."

"Do you want him to?"

"I also don't know."

Russell sighed and pulled a folded sheet from his bag. "Well, congratulations, you just made page three of the Daily Watch. We've got twenty-four hours to flip the narrative or you're going to be the poster girl for impulsive instability."

Dorian tilted his head. "And that's a problem?"

Russell blinked. "Are you her husband or her handler?"

"Neither."

"Could've fooled me."

The meeting lasted less than fifteen minutes.

Russell left with a plan. I was supposed to release a vague "we met in private" story and smile through it.

I didn't argue or agree either.

After the door closed, I just turned to Dorian.

"You could've told me not to let him in," I muttered.

"You looked like you needed the help anyways, you're welcome."

"Ugh! He was such a diva!

I just pouted my lips while he studied me for a moment. Not like a man looking at his wife. No. More like a man looking at a very complicated puzzle he wasn't sure he wanted to solve.

"You should eat something," he said, like it was an order disguised as care.

And then walked away.

***

That night, I sat on my balcony with a glass of wine I couldn't taste and a world that suddenly didn't feel like it was mine anymore.

My name was everywhere.

My face, my marriage.

But my story?

It was still missing.

He was in the guest room. I think.

I hadn't seen him in two hours, and part of me was glad. The other part kept glancing at the hallway like maybe he'd show up again and answer a question I hadn't asked.

Then again... maybe I didn't want to know.

I woke up the next morning with my bedroom door slightly open.

I never leave it open.

Never, ever...

SERAFINA

My bedroom door was open.

Just a crack. Like it didn't want to be obvious, but also didn't care enough to hide that it was.

And that's what made it worse.

I stood there, staring at it like it was going to explain itself. Like the door would suddenly turn and say, "My bad, girl. I slipped."

It didn't.

I always close my door, always. I don't care if I'm dead tired, drunk, or borderline emotionally comatose - I close it. I lock it.

Because I like boundaries. 

So no, it didn't drift open. And no, I wasn't going to play dumb just to make myself feel better.

I got dressed in silence. Hoodie, black leggings and hair in a bun that I half-pulled together like it owed me money. No makeup or jewelry. And definitely no intention of pretending I was okay.

Because I wasn't.

I was confused, suspicious, and sharing my space with a man who made less noise than an air purifier but somehow felt louder.

Dorian was already in the kitchen.

Of course he was.

He was pouring coffee like we'd lived together for six years. Barefoot, calm and button-down shirt rolled at the sleeves. Like some stock photo husband who read the financial section while his wife posted about their healthy marriage on Instagram.

Except I didn't know his middle name. Or where he was from. Or how he knew where the coffee filters were - because I sure as hell didn't.

"You were near my room," I said, standing in the doorway.

"No," he said simply.

"My door was open."

He poured. "Then you left it that way."

"No, I didn't."

"Then, maybe it opened on its own."

"It's not a horror movie, genius."

He turned and handed me a mug like we were about to debrief a mutual friend's wedding. "Drink. You'll feel better."

I didn't take it.

"Is this your thing? Gaslighting before breakfast?" 

"Is this yours? Wild accusations about your husband mixed with caffeine?"

"You're not my husband."

"Legally, I am."

"Spiritually, you're an Airbnb guest with control issues."

I drank the coffee.

Not because he told me to. Because I was exhausted and stupid curious. Of course it was perfect. Rich, smooth and expensive.

"You brought your own beans, didn't you?"

"I brought everything."

"Why?"

He sipped his own mug. "I don't like feeling unprepared."

"You married a stranger. I'd say the window for preparation is closed."

He didn't answer that. Just walked past me toward the hallway like the conversation bored him.

And honestly, it probably did.

***

By 10 a.m., I was already three emails deep in panic.

One major sponsor was pulling out. Another wanted to "put our project on hold" until the public settled down. My assistant forwarded me a thread from a PR watchdog account dissecting my marriage like it was a new blockbuster Netflix documentary.

"This is giving crisis rebrand energy," one tweet read.

"Sis is spiraling."

I scrolled through the comments, unreadable and numb.

Then I saw it - an email from Richard's office.

Not from Richard. My father never wasted a direct line on me.

It was from his senior comms rep.

"At this time, the family requests no public statements be made regarding internal matters. Please act accordingly. Regards."

No name or signature. Just a slap disguised as a "suggestion".

Right.

Because the last thing Richard Vale wants is people asking why his illegitimate daughter is suddenly trending - and not for something controllable like a campaign launch or engagement announcement. He doesn't do chaos unless he's the one spinning it.

And right now, he couldn't spin me. That era was surely ending.

***

I heard Dorian's voice down the hall. 

He was on a call, calm and confident.

I walked to the edge of the hallway and listened, not even trying to pretend I wasn't eavesdropping.

"Yes," he said. Pause. "It's moving faster than expected."

Another pause.

"No, she doesn't know yet."

I stepped back.

I took a step back - too fast. My foot caught the wood and the floor creaked like it was tattling on me.

The door swung open.

He stared at me, phone still in hand, eyes steady like I hadn't just caught him in the middle of a very suspicious sentence.

"Enjoying the hallway? hm?" he asked.

"Just passing through."

He nodded, like that made sense. "You look pale."

"You look..um..caught."

A tiny lift at the corner of his mouth. "I was ordering lunch."

"Oh, is that what they're calling it now?"

"You want Chinese or Lebanese?"

I blinked. "What?"

"Lunch."

"You're serious."

"I don't joke about food."

I walked away before I could respond. Not because I was scared, because I had nothing smart to say to that. 

Rhea texted me mid-afternoon:

Update: Your father's pissed. Major donors pulling out of three appearances. Your marriage is not helping his "family values" brand.

Followed by:

Also, who the hell is Dorian? I asked around. No real hits. One person said he used to work in corporate law and another said offshore investment. Nobody knows for sure, and that's not normal.

I stared at the messages for a long time.

Then finally texted back:

"Well, he made me coffee and insulted me before 8 a.m. So, I'd say we're off to a great start. :)"

She just replied with the eye rolling emoji, I literally had nothing to say anyways.

That night, I found Dorian sitting on the couch. He wasn't watching TV or using his laptop. Just him and a notebook.

I walked past him, grabbed a bottle of wine from the fridge, and sat down across the island, flipping through my calendar even though I had nothing left on it.

He finally spoke.

"Are you okay?"

I looked up. "You don't actually care."

"Would you feel better if I said no?"

"I'd feel better if you stopped acting like this is normal."

He leaned back. "I'm not acting."

I studied him.

His shirt was unbuttoned. I'm pretty sure he was teasing me on purpose, because damn, those were one toned set of abs.

His sleeves were still rolled, his watch was still too expensive. And surprisingly his face was still too calm for someone whose fake wife was currently being investigated by every major gossip account on the internet. And that was NOT okay.

"Why are you still here?" I asked.

"I'm....married."

"You could've left."

"You could've asked me to."

A pause.

"But you didn't."

"Fine. Now I'm asking."

"It's too late now, princess," he said quietly. "You already let me in."

I didn't respond.

I poured another glass of wine I couldn't taste and walked back to my room like the silence wasn't following me.

I got there, closed the door - and this time, I checked it twice.

I sat on my bed, phone in hand while blankly staring at my lock screen like it owed me some freaking answers.

Then- I checked my notifications.

And there it was.

A post from Amia.

Fresh, just about thirty minutes ago.

There was no caption. Just a blurry shot of me and Dorian at the courthouse. Someone must've sold it. We weren't facing the camera, but you could see everything - the dress, the paper in his hand, the way he was looking at me like he already knew how it would end.

The comments were blowing up.

But it was the second photo in the carousel that made my stomach turn.

I- I couldn't believe what my eyes were looking at-

SERAFINA

The second photo was older - like, years old.

It was Amia. On a yacht, standing next to who seemed to be Dorian.

But he looked different. His hair was longer and he wasn't wearing a suit. But I was sure it was him.

And she was smiling, not like she didn't know him or like he was a stranger.

I blinked. Then again. And again. I wasn't breathing, probably not thinking too. Just... staring.

It couldn't be him.

No, scratch that - it shouldn't be.

Then, a knock on my door.

And his voice-

"Serafina?"

His voice was too calm.

I stood frozen, my right thumb still on the photo of him and Amia. The screen glared back at me like it wanted to see how I'd react.

I didn't react. I just locked the phone, shoved it face-down under a pillow, and turned towards the door.

"What?" I called.

A pause.

"We should talk."

Translation: I want to know if you've figured it out yet.

I took my time opening the door. Not because I was nervous but because I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of thinking I was pressed.

He stood there, as usual. Composed and unbothered. Dorian was either the most emotionally balanced person alive, or just really committed to the bit.

"What do you want?" I asked.

"Do you own anything comfortable?"

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

"We're leaving the house."

I crossed my arms. "To go where?"

He didn't answer immediately. Which annoyed me. If you're going to surprise me, at least do it with confidence.

Finally, he said, "Somewhere...less noisy."

I changed into a hoodie and flats because spite is free and comfort is power.

He waited in the living room, arms folded, jacket slung over the back of a chair like he lived here. I grabbed my phone - quickly opened the post again just to be sure I hadn't hallucinated it.

I hadn't.

Amia was smiling and what seemed like Dorian, was standing too close to her.

And neither of them looked like it was their first time meeting. 

I couldn't stop staring at that photo. I looked again and again until I could describe every single detail out loud.

But it couldn't be real, right? Because ever since Dorian came into the picture, Amia had always flinched at the mention of his name. 

Some weird reflex I just couldn't explain. So I'm sure someone who flinched at his name couldn't have anything to do with him.

It could be some....AI generated crap, probably a stunt to get a reaction from me. 

Probably. Hopefully.

I shoved the phone into my tote, eyes narrowed. "Let's go."

He didn't ask questions. Just opened the door and walked out like we'd been married for ten years and still liked each other.

The car ride was quiet.

It wasn't awkward or anything, just quiet.

I watched the city's view through the window while Dorian typed something on his phone, probably plotting my emotional demise via calendar invite.

I didn't ask where we were going. Mostly because I didn't want to admit I was curious. Also because I was busy replaying the image of him and Amia in my head like a crime scene.

If he noticed I was thinking too hard, he didn't show it.

We ended up in Malibu.

Of course we did.

Because when you fake-marry a man who reads like a business proposal in human form, he takes you to a private beach cafe with two security cameras, no paparazzi, and coffee that costs more than my rent in college.

He ordered for both of us.

I didn't argue, because he somehow got my order right and I wasn't about to start a feminism lecture over oat milk.

We sat outside.

For a minute, it almost felt like something.

Then he spoke.

"Your father's donors are starting to fold."

I blinked. "Okay... Creepy thing to open a conversation with."

He didn't react. "I figured you should know."

"And you figured that out how?"

He stirred his coffee. "You're not the only one who reads headlines."

"No. But I'm the only one whose father still pretends I'm part of his family only when the cameras are rolling."

"You're useful when you behave."

I stared at him. "Was that an opinion or an observation?"

"Yes."

Yes? Yes to what? I didn't ask. Just made a face like I'd just tasted regret.

I quickly snapped when my phone buzzed.

Text from Rhea:

Another client pulled out. One of Richard's people called my office to "inquire" about our long-term goals. Be careful Sera, he's playing chess again.

I didn't answer.

I locked the phone, sat back, and studied the man across from me.

Dorian wasn't twitchy or on edge. He didn't fidget, blink too much, or even try to fill silences.

Like he knew exactly how things would unfold and wasn't in a rush to watch it happen.

I sipped my drink. "So this is what you meant by 'somewhere less noisy?'"

"You needed space."

"And you needed photo ops?"

"I needed you out of your head."

I laughed once. "That's rich - coming from the man who lives in so much mystery."

He didn't smile. "You think I'm hiding something."

"You ARE hiding something."

He didn't answer. He just clicked his tongue against his teeth while staring down slowly at his drink.

"Oh? You're not?"

Touché.

On the way back, I didn't look at him.

He didn't seem bothered by that either.

When we reached the apartment, I walked in first, dropped my bag, and headed straight for the kitchen.

I wasn't hungry. I just needed something to do with my hands.

He followed me in.

"You really don't believe in casual conversations, do you?" I muttered.

"I don't like wasting time."

"Good. Then let me skip to the part where I pretend this is all going great."

I opened the fridge and just stared at a bottle of oat milk I didn't remember buying.

He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching me.

"Don't forget to breathe," he said.

I frowned. "What?"

"You do that," he said lightly. "You hold your breath when you're overwhelmed. You've done it since you were seventeen."

I froze.

What the fuck?

Turned toward him, slowly.

"What did you just say?"

His expression flickered - just for half a second. Like the words had surprised even him.

Then it was gone, covered.

"I meant generally," he said, brushing it off like it meant nothing. "A lot of people do that."

I stared at him. 

"That's- that's not what you just said Dorian."