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."

SERAFINA

He shrugged once, moved past me, and opened the cabinet like we hadn't just walked over a landmine.

But something lingered, not between us - on him.

He knew what he said. But more than that - he knew I wasn't ready to touch it.

I didn't ask him again.

I didn't bring up the breath comment. Or the way his face cracked for half a second before he brushed it off. I didn't accuse or pry.

I didn't even look at him too long.

But I was watching.

I watched how he moved through the apartment like he'd always belonged here. Watched how he opened drawers without hesitation. How he swapped my kettle for his own sleek one. How he never asked permission - because he never thought he needed to.

I watched.

And I waited.

The next morning, there was an envelope on the counter.

No name on the front. Just: "For us."

I opened it like it was going to explode.

Inside: was a formal invitation. Gold foil, cursive lettering. The kind of card that came with assigned seating and judgmental wine lists.

It was a political fundraiser. Private and exclusive.

Hosted by someone I vaguely remembered from one of Richard's campaign committees. Which meant one thing:

My father would be there.

I set the card down slowly then looked across the room.

Dorian was reading.

Of course he was. Always reading, like chaos, didn't deserve his full attention.

"You're not seriously thinking about going to this," I said.

He didn't look up. "We were invited."

"Yeah, I saw it. I also saw the host list."

"Are you afraid of him?"

"I'm not afraid of anyone."

"You sound like it."

"I sound like someone with common sense."

That got his attention.

He folded the paper like it was a contract he already agreed to.

Then:

"If we're really married, we show up."

"And if we're really enemies, I throw a drink in your face."

"Pick a dress first."

***

Rhea called ten minutes later.

"I don't like it," she said. No hello.

"Join the club."

"This feels deliberate."

"Everything in this damn city is deliberate."

"Not like this," she said. "Amia posted again."

"Oh God."

"It's not even about the photo, it's the caption."

I pulled my phone out and opened the app.

There she was, my stepsister. Same perfect face and fake-happy glow.

She was wearing a champagne silk dress, sitting on the edge of a yacht I didn't quite recognize.

Caption: "Full circle. Can't wait for next week."

What the hell happens next week?

And why was she smiling like she'd just won?

I stared at it, then at the timestamp.

Posted right after I got the invitation.

I threw my phone onto the couch and went into the bathroom, because sometimes you need some walls around you before you crash out.

I just stared at the mirror and said nothing, which was almost worse.

Because the moment you say something out loud, it becomes real. And I wasn't ready for real.

When I came back out, Mr. Mysterious was standing by the window.

Not reading or doing anything, Just looking out over the street like he was memorizing patterns.

"You okay?" he asked without turning.

"Peachy."

"So have you."

He turned slowly. "You don't trust me."

"I didn't realize trust was part of the deal."

"You're right. It wasn't."

"Then don't ask for it."

We stood there, just facing each other, with no rules and too many unspoken terms between us.

Finally, he said, "You talk like you want control. But you move like someone who gave it away a long time ago."

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You let your father dictate your image. Let your ex dictate your plan and now, you're letting fear dictate your silence."

I took a step forward. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know everything about you."

That stopped me cold.

My voice dropped.

 "Say that again."

His eyes didn't move.

 "You heard me right, 'wifey'."

My spine locked.

"No. Say it again. Let's see if it sounds less insane the second time."

There was silence.

Then he spoke.

"You break your knuckles when you're overwhelmed. You eat apples with salt, but only when you're sad. You avoid eye contact when you're lying, but you hold it too long when you're trying not to cry."

I said nothing.

Because I-, I couldn't.

"And your mother's perfume was jasmine and white pepper," he finished, voice soft. "You hated when it faded. You'd sneak into her closet just to smell her dresses."

My stomach sank.

That wasn't on the internet or in some file. That wasn't gossip or speculation either.

That was real.

That was mine.

I took a step back, and my voice came out quieter than I meant it to.

"How- how do you know that?"

He didn't answer.

I left the room. Fast.

I went to the bedroom, closed the door and locked it like that could keep out what was already sinking into my skin.

My hands were shaking.

And then - right as I sat on the edge of the bed, trying to remember how to breathe - my phone beeped.

It was from an unknown number.

Message:

"You're not the first Vale woman he's tried to ruin."

I stared at the screen and read it again.

And again.

Until the words stopped looking like words and started feeling like something crawling up my spine.

My mother's name was Nadine Vale.

And-

She was dead.

DORIAN

She saw the message.

I knew it before I heard the door.

The second her footsteps went quiet. The second the tension shifted. The second her silence started feeling....quite different.

She didn't confront me.

Didn't ask.

Didn't storm out or freeze like people usually do when the past shows up uninvited.

She just disappeared behind the bedroom door.

Didn't scream or slam anything. Not that she needed to anyways.

I didn't follow.

I gave her space - or at least, that's how it looked.

I knew what message she'd seen.

And I knew what kind of spiral it would throw her into.

Not because she told me.

But- because I've seen it before.

Same name.

Same look in the eyes.

Same reaction.

Still-nothing prepares you for seeing it twice.

I didn't sit. Just stood by the counter, half-dressed, going over the same damn files I already knew by heart. Kept my eyes on the paper, but my mind?

It was on the girl who just found out I might've known her mother.

Maybe even more than just known.

She came out a while later. No hesitation, no drama. Just walked right past me like I hadn't watched her unravel from the corner of my eye.

She didn't look at me, but she was watching.

I could tell.

She noticed the papers in my hand. Probably tried to figure out where I got them. Newsflash: no one gave them to me. I didn't need anyone to.

This wasn't her space anymore.

It was ours.

And I never needed permission.

"I'm going out," she said, voice flat.

I didn't look up. "Oh? Where?"

"Um... does it matter, sir?"

"No," I said, calm.

Then - because she clearly needed the reminder -

"Everhart. Husband."

Finally looked at her.

Made sure to lock eyes.

Slow. Intentionally.

Then said it like I'd said it a hundred times.

"Daddy."

She stiffened, just a little.

"You've got a list of names to call me, Mrs. Everhart."

"If we're going to fool people, at least fix your acting skills, okay?"

Her stomach flipped.

I saw it, but I made no comment.

"Wh-who... who do you think you are?" she finally let out, voice catching, gaze bouncing everywhere but me.

"For all I care, this is an act, okay?" she muttered, still avoiding eye contact. "We can attend a few events together - just enough to keep up appearances. Fake smiles. A few Instagram photos for the media. You'll hold my hand once or twice. That's it."

"Hold hands?" I echoed, not moving.

Voice low. I knew exactly what I was doing.

Then I stepped closer.

And closer.

Until I was in front of her - close enough for her to feel my breath.

I slid my hand into hers, deliberately.

"Like- this?"

Then, slow - too slow to be innocent -

I tilted her chin up with two fingers.

Because yeah, I knew she'd been dodging my gaze.

I didn't move after that.

Didn't need to.

I could already tell part of her wanted to see how far this would go.

How far I'd take it.

How far she'd let me.

But I killed it.

"Serafina," I said quietly, "you can not go out alone."

She blinked. "What?"

"I said," I repeated, "you're not leaving this place unaccompanied. Ever."

"Huh? What do you mean?"

I pulled back slowly. "The media's watching. And your father's too quiet."

"Right," she said, sharp. "Wouldn't want to ruin my perfectly curated image."

"Or mine."

She scoffed. "You care about your image now?"

"I do," I said. "But- more about control."

She didn't like that.

I didn't care.

*

Twenty minutes later, she was in the car.

With me.

Of course.

She never said where she was going. That's because she didn't know. That little exit stunt? Just an escape plan with no map.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"You changed your mind on where you were headed? Good. You can follow me, then."

"Follow you? Follow you where?"

Didn't answer right away. Just handed her the card.

Invitation, another one.

This wasn't for a fundraiser.

This one had teeth.

It was a charity gala. Richard's media alley. Public, loud, guaranteed cameras.

Perfect.

"I didn't agree to this," she said.

"You didn't disagree when your agent RSVPed."

"That's not a thing."

"It is when she works for both of us now."

She turned, slowly. "I don't remember signing up for a shared team."

"You didn't," I said. "She did."

The dress was already in the backseat. Black. Expensive. Her size.

I had it pulled from a boutique she used to frequent.

They still had her preferences on file. Dior.

Of course they did.

She looked at me. "What is this? Your controlling era?"

I didn't answer. I fixed my gaze out the window.

I didn't miss the way she watched my jaw either.

We didn't speak for most of the drive.

She was spiraling.

I let her.

There's something people don't tell you about betrayal - it doesn't land in one piece.

It arrives in fragments.

First confusion. Then doubt. Then- rage.

She was in between.

The gala was exactly what I expected.

Big. Loud. Vain.

And when we walked in, and the shift happened. Heads turned. Cameras lifted. Conversations shifted like we were the last topic everyone swore they wouldn't talk about.

We weren't late. We were planned.

She clung to a champagne glass like it was armor.

I didn't say much, I didn't smile either.

Perfect.

Across the room, I spotted him. Richard.

I didn't move or react.

And he hell didn't either.

He kept talking, pretending I didn't exist.

She was trying to do the same.

But I stayed at her side, silent.

Didn't speak unless absolutely necessary, I definitely didn't need to.

I wasn't here to be liked.

And everyone knew that.

"What are we doing here?" she muttered.

"Shifting the power," I said.

"So this is you shifting the power?" she shot back.

"Your father thought you'd disappear after the engagement was stolen. Instead, you walked in wearing Dior."

"Don't flatter yourself."

"You wore it."

"What are you getting out of this?"

I looked at her. Really looked.

And she felt it.

"You're asking the wrong question ma'am."

"Oh? So what's the right one then?"

I didn't answer.

I just reached up.

Fixed a strand of her hair, and stepped back like it meant nothing.

She felt it anyway.

Halfway through, she left for the restroom.

She needed a minute.

I knew she would.

I didn't follow. Didn't even glance towards the door.

Let her spiral. Let her fix her lip gloss.

When she came out again, I was mid-conversation. With some clean-cut guy trying to sound important.

I didn't care. What the hell did I come here for anyways?

Things seemed pretty chill. At least they seemed so. But not until-

Across the room - I spotted her.

Amia.

She looked like a malfunctioning doll. Pretty, sharp edges - but the smile was cracked.

She was staring.

Not at me.

But at the space I took up.

She adjusted her dress. Tensed her shoulders. Looked down, then back up - expecting I'd moved.

I hadn't.

She spilled her drink. Just enough to notice.

But no one did.

Except Serafina.

I didn't look at Amia.

Not once, I didn't have to.

The moment Serafina stepped forward, I looked up.

Locked eyes with her.

Didn't explain anything.

Just said it.

"Let's go."

She didn't answer.

She didn't need to.

On the drive home, she didn't speak.

Neither did I.

It wasn't quite peaceful.

It was the kind of silence that rots under your skin.

I drove the car. Smooth. Controlled.

She glanced at me when she thought I wasn't looking.

Except - I always was.

We got back.

Neither of us moved.

She stayed in her seat. Hands folded. Still spiraling.

I didn't look at her.

Then I said it. Simple and measured.

"You shouldn't let her get under your skin."