Chapter 3

​SERAPHINA’S POV 

​ Rejected Devotion

​​The smell of freshly brewed espresso did nothing to warm the arctic chill of the penthouse dining room.

​It was seven in the morning. Outside the floor to ceiling windows of the Upper East Side high rise, Manhattan was buried under a blanket of grey autumn fog. Inside, the only sound was the faint, rhythmic ticking of the antique tall clock in the foyer and the rustle of the Financial Times in Lucian’s hands.

​He sat at the head of the dark marble table, impeccably tailored in a slate grey suit, his black tie knotted with mathematical precision. His raven hair was styled cleanly, not a single strand out of place. He looked every bit the dark king of New York real estate flawless, untouchable, and completely unreachable.

​My fingers tightened around the edge of the leather binder resting in my lap.

​For two months, while Lucian spent his late nights at the office or attending private medical consultations for Chloe, I had buried myself in the study. I didn't spend my days shopping on Fifth Avenue or hosting tea parties with the society wives who sneered at my background. I studied Vance Global’s portfolio. I analyzed their commercial acquisitions, mapped out financial vulnerabilities in their European expansion, and drafted a sixty pages strategic restructuring plan that could save the firm billions in tax exposure.

​I didn't want his money. I didn't want his status. I just wanted him to look at me not as an inconvenient burden forced upon him by his uncle, but as an equal. As a human being with a mind, a voice, and something of value to offer.

​Taking a slow, shuddering breath to calm the frantic beat of my heart, I stood up and walked around the long table.

​"Lucian," I said softly, keeping my tone measured and quiet.

​He didn't move. He didn't even lower the newspaper. "I have a board briefing at eight, Seraphina. If the household allowance needs adjusting, speak to my administrator."

​The dismissive sharpness in his baritone cut into me, but I swallowed the sting and placed the sleek leather binder gently onto the marble surface beside his coffee cup.

​"It’s not about the household," I said, my voice steady despite the tremor in my chest. "It’s about the Sterling-Vance commercial lease restructuring in London. Your analysts are projecting a twelve percent growth margin, but they’ve overlooked the regulatory shifts in the UK tax code. I spent the last few weeks running the numbers. If you pivot the holding structure now, you can offset the risk before the Q4 earnings report."

​For three excruciating seconds, the room went dead silent.

​Slowly, deliberately, Lucian lowered the paper. His dark eyes, shadowed with perpetual fatigue and cold authority, settled on the binder. Then, his gaze dragged up to mine.

​There was no curiosity in his expression. No surprise. Only a heavy, suffocating contempt that made my skin prickle.

​"You spent the last few weeks running numbers," he repeated flatly, his voice smooth and cold as ice.

​"Yes," I pressed forward, taking a tiny step closer, desperate to catch even a sliver of genuine engagement in his eyes. "Page fourteen breaks down the asset allocations. I cross-referenced the 

cross-border trade metrics with…"

​"Seraphina."​He didn't raise his voice, but the single word acted like a steel wall dropping between us. He picked up the binder by its corner, holding it between two fingers as if it were contaminated waste, and slid it back toward me.

​"Do you honestly believe that a few weeks of playing analyst at my dining table equips you to instruct my executive board?"

​The blood rushed to my ears, hot and humiliating. "It’s not playing, Lucian. The data is sound. If you just open it and read page fourteen…"

​"I don't need to read it," he interrupted, leaning back into his chair and folding his hands together. His sharp jawline tightened, his dark eyes locking onto mine with brutal intensity. "I know exactly what this is."

​"What is it, then?" I whispered, my chest burning.

​"It's a desperate, transparent bid for attention," he said coldly. Each word was delivered with precision, meant to strip away every last layer of my self-respect. "You think if you dress up like an executive and drop corporate jargon at breakfast, I’ll suddenly treat this contract like a real marriage. You think I’ll look at you differently."

​The air left my lungs in a sharp gasp. I stood there under the bright chandelier, feeling smaller and more exposed than if he had physically struck me.

​"I am trying to help your company," I choked out, fighting with everything inside me to keep the tears burning behind my eyes from falling. "I am trying to be useful to you."

​"If you want to be useful, Seraphina," Lucian said, picking up his coffee cup and taking a slow sip without taking his eyes off my face, "then stay out of my business, stay out of the press, and stop attempting to carve out a place for yourself where you don't belong. You signed a prenuptial agreement. You are a ghost in this house. Act like one."

​He set his cup down with a sharp clink, picked up his newspaper, and snapped it open, effectively erasing me from the room.

​I stood there, paralyzed by the sheer toxicity of his words, my hand hovering over the binder. My throat felt like it was coated in glass. I wanted to scream, to smash his cup, to force him to see the bleeding, human heart he was trampling under his expensive leather shoes every single day.

​Instead, I picked up the binder, turned around, and walked toward the hallway with as much dignity as my trembling legs could manage.

​As I reached the threshold of the dining room, the private landline on the sideboard rang, a sharp shrill sound that broke the quiet tension.

​Lucian answered it on the second ring. Instantly, the rigid, cruel tone he had just used to shatter me evaporated completely.

​"Chloe?" his voice softened, filled with a sudden, tender anxiety that made my stomach turn inside out. "What’s wrong? Are you breathing okay? ... Slow down. I’m leaving right now. I’ll be at your apartment in ten minutes."

​I froze in the doorway, my fingers digging into the leather of my rejected work.

​Lucian pushed back his chair so hard it scraped violently against the marble floor. He didn't check to see if I was still standing there. He threw on his wool coat, snapped his phone shut, and rushed past me into the private elevator lobby.

​Just before the silver doors slid shut between us, he locked eyes with me one last time.

​"Lucian," I said, a sudden, terrifying instinct spiking through my chest as I took a step toward the lift. "Where are you going?"

​Lucian’s face remained a mask of iron as the doors began to narrow.

​"She’s bleeding, Seraphina," he said, his voice dropping into a dark, hollow whisper that made the hair on my arms stand up. "And the doctor said the donor papers are already on their way to your desk."