Chapter 18:the uniform ghost

Serena’s POV

The door closed behind me with a sound that felt soft, precise, and absolute.

The guard didn’t speak as he led me down the corridor. His footsteps were measured, rehearsed, like everything else in this house. The Romano estate swallowed sound the way it swallowed people. Thick carpets , muted movement. Even fear seemed to disappear before it could scream.

When we stopped, he opened a door and gestured once.

“This is your room.”

I turn, but the guard is already gone .

For a moment, I just stand there, my hand still hovering near the door as if touching it might change something. It doesn’t. The silence settles quickly, heavy and deliberate, pressing in from all sides.

I take a slow breath and look around.

The room is massive and a lot bigger than any place I’ve ever lived, yet it doesn’t feel like it belongs to me. White marble floors stretch beneath my feet, polished to the point of reflection. Soft recessed lighting brightens every corner without warmth. Mirrors line the walls from floor to ceiling, throwing my image back at me again and again until I don’t know where to rest my eyes.

I look everywhere at once and nowhere at all.

A woman stands near a chaise lounge, her posture straight, her hands folded neatly in front of her. The seamstress. She’s older, dressed in neutral gray, her expression professional and distant.

“Come here,” she says, her voice calm and practiced.

I hesitate, then walk toward her. My steps feel loud even though the carpet swallows the sound. She doesn’t ask my name. She doesn’t make conversation. She lifts a measuring tape and begins working around me with quick, efficient movements.

“Arms up,” she says.

I raise them.

The tape slides around my waist, my shoulders, my hips. Her fingers are cool and careful, never lingering. She steps back occasionally to jot something down, then returns without comment.

“You can lower them,” she says when she’s done.

I drop my arms slowly.

She gives a single nod, folds the tape, and moves toward a side door I hadn’t noticed before. Before she leaves, I speak.

“How long will I be here?”

She pauses just long enough to glance back at me. Her expression doesn’t change.

“That depends on your husband,” she says.

Then she’s gone.

The door closes behind her, leaving me alone again.

This time, there’s no mistaking it.

I turn in place, the mirrors forcing me to watch myself do it. I look pale under the lights, the bruises along my arms still faintly visible beneath the thin hospital fabric I’m wearing. My hair hangs loose, unstyled, unfamiliar. I barely recognize the woman staring back at me.

I walk toward the wardrobe.

The doors are tall and heavy, made of dark polished wood. When I pull them open, they part silently, revealing rows of perfectly arranged clothing. My first reaction isn’t awe. It’s confusion.

There’s no color.

Everything is arranged in shades of white, gray, and black, ordered so precisely it looks curated rather than owned. Dresses, coats, tailored suits, all sharp lines and structured silhouettes. Nothing soft or casual.

I reach out and touch one of the garments. The fabric slides beneath my fingers, smooth and cool. Another piece feels heavier, wool stiff and unyielding. Leather farther down the rack is polished and firm.

These clothes aren’t meant to be lived in.

They’re meant to be worn.

I scan the wardrobe again, slower this time, looking for something familiar, something that feels like me. I don’t find it.

There is no sweaters, no loose shirts, no flats or sneakers tucked away somewhere discreet. Instead, the bottom shelves are lined with heels, tall and narrow, identical in shape if not color. They look like they’d force my posture into something sharper, something more deliberate.

I pull one black dress from the rack. The fabric is soft, but the cut is severe. High neckline, Long sleeves, Floor-length hem. As I lift it, a small card slips into view, pinned carefully near the shoulder.

I unfold it with unsteady fingers.

“A Romano’s wife does not draw attention.

She controls it.

Wear black tonight.”

There’s no signature, I didn’t expect any one.

My grip tightens around the card, and for a moment, I consider tearing it in half. I don’t, instead I let it fall onto the vanity instead.

I move toward the drawers beneath the mirror and begin opening them one by one. Jewelry fills the first few. The is heavy gold chains, diamond earrings that feel too large to be subtle. Each piece looks expensive and intentional, like a signal rather than an accessory.

When I reach the bottom drawer, my breath catches.

Lingerie, all black Lace and silk, arranged neatly. Even here, there’s no escape from the uniform he’s chosen for me.

I close the drawer slowly.

Turning back toward the mirror, I hold the black gown up against myself. The reflection stares back, assessing, measuring. The dress fits the image of a woman I don’t recognize but apparently now inhabit.

A smell reaches me then.

Faint, Sharp andUnmistakable.

I turn my head toward the far wall.

The fireplace sits cold and clean, except for the ash settled inside. Gray remnants scattered unevenly across the stone. I take a step closer, then another, my stomach tightening with each movement.

I don’t need confirmation.

My suitcase is gone.

Everything I brought with me. Every piece of clothing that belonged to the woman I was before today. They are all Burned, destroyed and erased without ceremony.

I stand there for a long moment, staring at the ash, the reality settling heavily in my chest.

He didn’t just take my freedom.

He made sure I couldn’t reach back for it.

I clutch the black dress tighter and turn away from the fireplace. There’s no point standing here longer. There’s nothing left to recover.

A knock sounds at the door.

I stiffen.

“Serena,” a voice calls from the other side. A woman this time. Calm and Controlled. “You have fifteen minutes.”

I don’t answer.

The silence stretches, then the voice returns, firmer.

“Your husband expects you downstairs.”

My fingers tighten around the fabric as I stare at my reflection one last time. Then I hear it.

Dante’s voice, low and unmistakable, cutting through the door.

“Put the dress on,” he says. “Tonight, you stop pretending you’re still someone else.”