Chapter Five

SERAFINA

He shrugged once, moved past me, and opened the cabinet like we hadn’t just walked over a landmine.

But something lingered, not between us — on him.

He knew what he said. But more than that — he knew I wasn’t ready to touch it.

I didn’t ask him again.

I didn’t bring up the breath comment. Or the way his face cracked for half a second before he brushed it off. I didn’t accuse or pry.

I didn’t even look at him too long.

But I was watching.

I watched how he moved through the apartment like he’d always belonged here. Watched how he opened drawers without hesitation. How he swapped my kettle for his own sleek one. How he never asked permission — because he never thought he needed to.

I watched.

And I waited.

The next morning, there was an envelope on the counter.

No name on the front. Just: “For us.”

I opened it like it was going to explode.

Inside: was a formal invitation. Gold foil, cursive lettering. The kind of card that came with assigned seating and judgmental wine lists.

It was a political fundraiser. Private and exclusive.

Hosted by someone I vaguely remembered from one of Richard’s campaign committees. Which meant one thing:

My father would be there.

I set the card down slowly then looked across the room.

Dorian was reading.

Of course he was. Always reading, like chaos, didn't deserve his full attention.

“You’re not seriously thinking about going to this,” I said.

He didn’t look up. “We were invited.”

“Yeah, I saw it. I also saw the host list.”

“Are you afraid of him?”

“I’m not afraid of anyone.”

“You sound like it.”

“I sound like someone with common sense.”

That got his attention.

He folded the paper like it was a contract he already agreed to.

Then:

“If we’re really married, we show up.”

“And if we’re really enemies, I throw a drink in your face.”

“Pick a dress first.”

***

Rhea called ten minutes later.

“I don’t like it,” she said. No hello.

“Join the club.”

“This feels deliberate.”

“Everything in this damn city is deliberate.”

“Not like this,” she said. “Amia posted again.”

“Oh God.”

“It’s not even about the photo, it’s the caption.”

I pulled my phone out and opened the app.

There she was, my stepsister. Same perfect face and fake-happy glow.

She was wearing a champagne silk dress, sitting on the edge of a yacht I didn’t quite recognize.

Caption: “Full circle. Can’t wait for next week.”

What the hell happens next week?

And why was she smiling like she’d just won?

I stared at it, then at the timestamp.

Posted right after I got the invitation.

I threw my phone onto the couch and went into the bathroom, because sometimes you need some walls around you before you crash out.

I just stared at the mirror and said nothing, which was almost worse.

Because the moment you say something out loud, it becomes real. And I wasn’t ready for real.

When I came back out, Mr. Mysterious was standing by the window.

Not reading or doing anything, Just looking out over the street like he was memorizing patterns.

“You okay?” he asked without turning.

“Peachy.”

“So have you.”

He turned slowly. “You don’t trust me.”

“I didn’t realize trust was part of the deal.”

“You’re right. It wasn’t.”

“Then don’t ask for it.”

We stood there, just facing each other, with no rules and too many unspoken terms between us.

Finally, he said, “You talk like you want control. But you move like someone who gave it away a long time ago.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You let your father dictate your image. Let your ex dictate your plan and now, you’re letting fear dictate your silence.”

I took a step forward. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know everything about you.”

That stopped me cold.

My voice dropped.

“Say that again.”

His eyes didn’t move.

“You heard me right, ‘wifey’.”

My spine locked.

“No. Say it again. Let’s see if it sounds less insane the second time.”

There was silence.

Then he spoke.

“You break your knuckles when you’re overwhelmed. You eat apples with salt, but only when you’re sad. You avoid eye contact when you’re lying, but you hold it too long when you’re trying not to cry.”

I said nothing.

Because I—, I couldn’t.

“And your mother’s perfume was jasmine and white pepper,” he finished, voice soft. “You hated when it faded. You’d sneak into her closet just to smell her dresses.”

My stomach sank.

That wasn’t on the internet or in some file. That wasn’t gossip or speculation either.

That was real.

That was mine.

I took a step back, and my voice came out quieter than I meant it to.

“How- how do you know that?”

He didn’t answer.

I left the room. Fast.

I went to the bedroom, closed the door and locked it like that could keep out what was already sinking into my skin.

My hands were shaking.

And then — right as I sat on the edge of the bed, trying to remember how to breathe — my phone beeped.

It was from an unknown number.

Message:

“You’re not the first Vale woman he’s tried to ruin.”

I stared at the screen and read it again.

And again.

Until the words stopped looking like words and started feeling like something crawling up my spine.

My mother’s name was Nadine Vale.

And—

She was dead.