CHAPTER 4

Serena POV

I push the apartment door shut behind me at 4:48 p.m. and the silence swallows me whole.

No Liam is still in meetings. Anton has gone home. The cleaning ladies left an hour ago. For the next four or five hours the entire sixty-third floor belongs only to me.

I kick off the nude Louboutins in the foyer and sigh when my feet touch the cold marble. The shoes stay where they fall, one on its side like it passed out.

I peel off the camel skirt and cream silk blouse, leave them in a heap, and pull on soft gray cashmere joggers and Liam’s old Harvard T-shirt. The shirt smells faintly of his cologne and my own fear. I roll the sleeves four times so my hands are free.

In the kitchen Anton left dinner under a silver dome: poached salmon, baby asparagus, a tiny potato carved into a heart. A yellow Post-it says:

Miss Serena – Mr. Voss asked that you finish every bite tonight. Dark chocolate in the fridge for dessert. ♥

I scrape everything into the disposal, run the water until no trace is left, then eat half a tub of full-fat Greek yogurt standing over the sink like I’m stealing it.

I carry a big glass of water to the living room and curl up on the long white sofa. The city is turning pink and gold outside the windows. I pull a blanket over my legs even though the apartment is always seventy-one degrees.

My phone lights up.

Emma: Girls night tomorrow?? Just us. My place. Pizza, tequila, face masks, finish that stupid advice jar Chloe is obsessed with. Say yes please I miss your face.

My heart does a happy little jump.

Me: YES. I miss you too. I have family dinner with Liam’s parents tomorrow night in the Hamptons, but I’ll come straight after dessert. Save me a slice with extra cheese.

Emma: Done. I’ll have the tequila breathing and the glue gun hot. Love youuu.

I smile so big my cheeks hurt and set the phone down feeling lighter than I have all day.

I open the wedding laptop. The spreadsheet glares at me with twelve red cells. I type the final dress notes, attach the photos from Madame Laurent, close the lid again.

I wander to the terrace doors, slide them open, step outside barefoot. The October wind is sharp and clean. I lean on the glass railing and look sixty-three floors straight down. The people look like toys, the cars like ants.

Six weeks until the wedding.

The bridal shower is in three weeks.

Tomorrow is just the big family dinner. I can survive one evening of forced smiles.

I go back inside, pour three fingers of hidden vodka into a coffee mug, add ice and a splash of cranberry so it looks innocent. I sit cross-legged on the floor of the wedding room in front of the giant mood board and sip.

My phone buzzes on the table. Liam’s name lights the screen.

I answer on the second ring.

“Hi, baby,” he says, voice smooth, a little distracted. I hear helicopter blades in the background. “Still in the air. Home around eleven. Miss me?”

“Always,” I say automatically.

“Good girl. Wear the pale-blue satin slip tonight. Nothing underneath. I want to walk in and slide my hand straight up your thigh.”

I swallow. “Yes, Liam.”

“Perfect. Oh, and tomorrow after the family dinner we’ll come straight home. I have an early call with Tokyo Sunday morning. I want you in bed by midnight.”

My stomach drops.

“But… Emma and I planned a girls night tomorrow. Just us at her place. I was going to go right after dessert. I’ll be home by-”

“No,” he cuts in, calm, final. “You’ll be tired. You’ll drink too much tequila and have a headache Sunday. I want you home with me. End of discussion.”

The line is quiet except for the helicopter. I open my mouth, close it again.

“Serena,” he says softly, the tone that means don’t push. “You’re going to be my wife in six weeks. Your time is my time. Say you understand.”

“I understand,” I whisper.

“That’s my good girl. See you soon. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

The call ends.

I sit on the floor a long time, staring at the pale-blue slip I already laid out on the bed like an obedient doll. The vodka tastes sour in my mouth now.

I pick up the phone again and open my chat with Emma.

Me: Something came up. I can’t make it tomorrow after all. I’m so sorry. Rain check?

The three dots appear instantly.

Emma: Nooooo what happened?? Everything okay??

Me: Just tired. Liam wants me home early. Next week I promise.

Emma: You sure? I have your favorite spicy marg mix ready :(

Me: I’m sure. Love you. Have a slice for me.

Emma: Love you more. Text if you change your mind. Door’s always open.

I lock the phone and set it face-down.

I finish the vodka in one swallow.

I shower, shave, blow-dry my hair straight the way he likes, slip into the pale-blue satin slip. The fabric is cool and thin; every breath makes it slide across my skin. No bra, no panties, just like he asked. I look at myself in the mirror (too thin, collarbones sharp, eyes too big, lips trembling a little).

I crawl into the huge bed and pull the covers to my chin.

I set an alarm for 10:45 p.m. so I’m awake and waiting when he walks in.

I stare at the ceiling in the dark.

Tomorrow night: family dinner in the Hamptons, Roman’s cold stare, Chloe’s fake hugs, Liam’s hand on my thigh under the table reminding everyone I’m his.

After that, straight home. No Emma. No laughter. No escape.

Just this apartment, this slip, this bed, his hands, his rules.

Six weeks.

Forty-two nights.

I curl into a ball and feel the satin stick to my skin like guilt.

I whisper into the empty room, “I’m sorry, Emma.”

The walls don’t answer.

I close my eyes and wait for the elevator to ding, for his key in the door, for the countdown to tick one more day closer.

Six weeks.

And tomorrow I will smile and nod and let him drive me home like a good girl, while the tiny bird in my chest beats its wings against the bars and wonders how much longer it can keep trying to fly.