Chapter 3

They say it takes twenty-one days to form a habit.

For the last three weeks, I had been trying to form the habit of being a "Thriving Divorcee." I had rebranded my art gallery with a sleek new logo that screamed I don't need a billionaire’s backing. I had bought a sofa that was pink—a color Dominic had once called "architecturally offensive." I had even started dating again.

Well, if you could call it dating. It was more like a series of interviews where I sat across from men who used words like "synergy" and "crypto-portfolio" while I tried to remember if I had left the oven on.

My current date, a fitness influencer named Jax who had more teeth than personality, was currently explaining the benefits of raw liver smoothies.

"It’s all about the ancestral nutrients, Sera," Jax said, flashing a blindingly white smile. "Gives you that primal edge."

"Primal," I repeated, swirling my glass of sparkling water. "Fascinating. I usually just go for a double espresso, but I suppose pulverized organs are an option too."

The truth was, the very thought of espresso—the dark, rich Italian roast I used to live for—made my stomach do a backflip that would have earned a gold medal in the Olympics. For the past four days, the smell of the coffee shop near my gallery had become my mortal enemy. I’d blamed it on stress. I’d blamed it on the "New Life Jitters."

I was currently standing in the ballroom of the Metropolitan Museum for the Summer Solstice Gala. It was the "it" event of the season, which meant it was the one place I was guaranteed to run into my ex-husband. I had prepared for this. I was wearing a vintage Versace dress that was essentially a weaponized silk slip. It was a deep, midnight blue that made my eyes pop and my skin glow. Or at least, it was supposed to.

"Are you okay?" Jax asked, his brow furrowing in a way that suggested he was trying to remember a line from a self-help book. "You’ve gone a bit... translucent."

"I’m fine," I lied, though the smell of the seared scallops being carried past us by a waiter felt like a physical assault. "It’s just the lighting. Very atmospheric."

It wasn't the lighting. The room was starting to spin. The chatter of five hundred socialites sounded like a hive of angry bees. And then, through the crowd, I saw the North Star of my misery.

Dominic was standing by the champagne fountain, surrounded by a group of older men who looked like they owned several continents. He was in a classic black tuxedo. He looked infuriatingly composed. He looked like a man who hadn't spent the last three weeks wondering if he’d left a diamond earring in his bed.

He looked up, and our eyes locked. Even from across the crowded ballroom, I felt the air leave my lungs. His gaze didn't just land on me; it anchored me. It was heavy, dark, and filled with a thousand unspoken arguments.

I turned back to Jax and grabbed his arm with a little too much enthusiasm. "You know, Jax, tell me more about that liver thing. Is it... organic?"

Jax lit up, but my victory was short-lived. A few minutes later, I excused myself to find the "quiet" of the coat room. I needed to breathe. I needed the world to stop tilting.

I pushed through the heavy velvet curtains of the coat check area, leaning my head against the cool wood of a wardrobe. My skin was clammy. My heart was racing.

"The fitness enthusiast is a downgrade, Seraphina. Even for a rebellion."

I didn't open my eyes. I didn't have to. The cedarwood and arrogance had arrived.

"He’s a professional athlete, Dominic," I muttered, finally looking at him. He was standing just a few feet away, his hands in his pockets, looking at me with a mixture of disdain and something that looked suspiciously like hunger. "And he knows how to have a conversation that doesn't involve a spreadsheet."

"He looks like he struggles with basic multiplication," Dominic countered, stepping closer. The coat room was small, dimly lit, and smelled of expensive perfume and leather. It was far too intimate. "You’re pale. Paler than usual."

"I’m a delicate flower. You knew that when you married me."

"You were never delicate," he said, his voice dropping to that low, vibrating register that always made my knees weak. He reached out, his thumb grazing my cheek. His touch was like fire on my cold skin. "You look ill. Is this the 'Single Girl Summer' you were bragging about? Fainting in museums over liver-eating Neanderthals?"

"I’m not ill," I snapped, batting his hand away. "I’m just... tired. Working hard. Not being a trophy is exhausting, you should try it."

He leaned in, pinning me against the wardrobe with nothing but his presence. "You’re still hungover from that party, aren't you? Three weeks later and you’re still trying to drink the memory of us away."

"You aren't that hard to forget, Dominic. Trust me."

He smirked, but it didn't reach his eyes. "The way you were shaking when I touched you just now says otherwise."

I pushed past him, my stomach giving a violent, nauseating heave at the scent of his cologne. "I need the restroom. Stay here and talk to your reflection, I’m sure you’ll have a great conversation."

I bolted. I didn't walk; I ran for the ladies' room at the end of the hall. Luckily, the gala was in full swing, and the marble-tiled bathroom was empty.

I leaned over the sink, splashing cold water on my face. It’s stress, I whispered to the mirror. It’s just the divorce. It’s the rebranding. It’s the tequila from three weeks ago finally catching up.

Then I remembered the small, rectangular box I’d shoved into my clutch earlier that day. I’d bought it at a pharmacy three blocks from my gallery, hiding it under a pack of gum and a fashion magazine. I’d told myself I was being paranoid. I’d told myself it was impossible.

With shaking hands, I retreated into the furthest stall.

The silence of the bathroom was deafening. I waited, staring at the small plastic stick like it was a ticking bomb. One minute. Two minutes.

I closed my eyes. Please let it be negative. I have a pink sofa. I have a gallery. I have a life that doesn't include Dominic Thorne.

I looked down.

Two pink lines. Bright, clear, and utterly life-shattering.

"Oh, god," I breathed, the walls of the stall feeling like they were closing in. "Oh, no. No, no, no."

Suddenly, the door to the restroom burst open. The sound of high heels clicking rapidly against the marble echoed off the walls.

"Sera? Are you in here?" It was Jade. Her voice was panicked.

"I’m... I’m busy, Jade!" I yelled, trying to shove the test back into my bag with fingers that felt like lead.

"Sera, open the door! Your ex-husband is hovering outside like a gargoyle with a grudge. He told me you looked like you were about to collapse. He’s demanding to take you home right now. He said if I don't get you out in thirty seconds, he’s coming in here himself."

I looked at the bag in my hand. I looked at the two lines.

Dominic was outside. The man who had just made me sign a paper saying our "physical encounter" meant nothing. The man who valued logic over everything.

"Sera!" Jade hammered on the door. "He’s serious! He looks like he’s about to break the law just to carry you out of here. You look like a ghost, honey. Just let him take you home before he causes an international incident."

I took a deep breath, tucked the secret deep into the velvet lining of my purse, and opened the stall door.

"Fine," I said, my voice surprisingly steady even though my world was currently in freefall. "Let him take me home. He wants to be a hero? Let’s see how he feels when he realizes what he’s actually rescued."