Chapter three: Alive, Aching

Serena

 And then the edges of everything softened. The light went wrong and the machines hummed like distant thunder. I clung to his hand until my fingers loosened and the last thought that fluttered through was a single stupid, aching gratitude, that I had not been completely alone.

The rest was a slow, beautiful nothing—a darkness that smelled faintly of leather and rain and the remembered weight of a small, sleeping body.

When I slipped away, it was into the steady press of another person’s promise

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The memory did not come gently. It tore through me, jagged and cruel, the way only certain nights could. I had begged my mind for silence, begged my body to rest, but instead, I found myself back there—back at the Caldwell-Warrick dinner, under glittering chandeliers and crystal light, where the world had laughed quietly at me.

I had worn gold that night.

A satin dress, smooth against my skin, the color rich enough that I thought—foolishly—that maybe I could shine. Ethan’s assistant had picked it, not him, and I hadn’t minded. I just wanted to look like his wife, to stand at his side without people whispering. Liam had pressed his tiny fingers into the fabric before we left, giggling, “Mommy looks like sunshine.” I carried that with me as armor, walking into the grand hall with my chin lifted.

The hall had been alive with chatter, the air heavy with perfume and champagne. Everywhere, eyes turned toward Mia. My sister—half-sister, though no one ever bothered to clarify. Her laughter carried across the room like bells, her hair gleaming like polished gold. She thrived in rooms like that, bathed in attention, while I stayed at the edges, trying to make myself invisible.

But that night, I couldn’t be invisible. Not in the dress. Not in gold.

Elena noticed me first.

Her eyes slid down my body, from my curled hair to the hem of my dress, slow and assessing. She smiled, but it was the kind of smile that pressed you into the ground rather than lifting you up.

“Gold,” she murmured, her voice smooth as silk, but sharp enough to pierce. “I wouldn’t have guessed you’d wear it, Serena. It’s… bold for you.”

A ripple of polite chuckles stirred around us, as though she had delivered some clever remark. My chest tightened.

Then Mia, always eager to sharpen the knife her mother had set down, leaned forward. Her hand slipped through Ethan’s arm—my husband’s arm—with such casual ease it made my stomach twist. Her perfume reached me, sickly sweet.

“Mother’s right,” she said, tilting her head, her lips painted in a smile that was both kind and cruel. “You do look different, Serena. But gold has always been more my color, don’t you think?”

The words danced in the air, wrapped in honey, but every woman at that table understood what they meant. Every man smirked into his drink.

And Ethan—my husband—said nothing.

He didn’t take my hand. He didn’t lean in to whisper something to soothe me, to remind them all that I was his wife. He only raised his glass, his cufflink catching the light, and his gaze slid over me like I wasn’t even there.

The laughter around the table swelled. A sharp, delicate kind of laughter, the kind meant to appear harmless to outsiders, but to the person it targeted—it cut deeper than a knife.

I had smiled then, because that’s what I had been taught. Smile and let it pass. Don’t make a scene. Don’t give them another reason to remind me that I was not really one of them. I dropped my eyes to my plate, staring at the glistening roast in front of me as if it could swallow me whole.

That humiliation had not been loud. It had not been dramatic. It had been subtle, quiet, invisible to anyone who wasn’t looking. But it had buried itself inside me like a splinter. And now, lying in this hospital bed, stitched together with tubes and blood that wasn’t mine, it throbbed like it had only just happened.

The memory shifted, flickered like a cruel dream, and suddenly I wasn’t at the dinner anymore. I was here—back in the hospital, the scent of antiseptic sharp in my nose, the ceiling light glaring white above me. My arms were heavy. My chest ached.

But Elena’s voice lingered in my ears. Bold for you.

Mia’s laughter echoed, that airy, effortless laugh. Gold has always been more my color.

And Ethan’s silence—oh, God, Ethan’s silence—rang the loudest of all.

My lips trembled. A sob clawed its way out of my throat before I could stop it. I pressed my fist to my mouth, trying to smother it, but the sound escaped, harsh and broken.

They had taken everything.

Piece by piece, moment by moment, until I had nothing left. Not my dignity. Not my family. Not even my child.

“Liam,” I whispered into the sterile air, his name splintering on my tongue.

The monitors beside me beeped steadily, too steady, as though mocking the storm raging inside me. My body was alive, but my soul—my soul was splintered, fractured by years of being made small, by one night that ended with my son bleeding in my arms.

And still, even now, I could hear Mia’s laugh.

I shut my eyes, willing it away, but it clung to me. Maybe it always would.

Maybe that was what revenge really was. Not anger. Not fire. But memory. Memory that never left you, that whispered in your ear when the world went quiet.

I rolled onto my side, the IV tugging sharply at my skin. My body ached with the movement, but the pain grounded me. Because as much as I wanted to sink, as much as I wanted to follow Liam into the dark, I couldn’t forget what Elena had said. I couldn’t forget the way Mia had smiled at Ethan, or the way Ethan hadn’t looked at me.

It was all still here. All still sharp.

And one day—if I lived long enough to crawl out of this bed—I would make them feel it too.