Chapter Three

SERAFINA

My bedroom door was open.

Just a crack. Like it didn’t want to be obvious, but also didn’t care enough to hide that it was.

And that’s what made it worse.

I stood there, staring at it like it was going to explain itself. Like the door would suddenly turn and say, “My bad, girl. I slipped.”

It didn’t.

I always close my door, always. I don’t care if I’m dead tired, drunk, or borderline emotionally comatose — I close it. I lock it.

Because I like boundaries.

So no, it didn’t drift open. And no, I wasn’t going to play dumb just to make myself feel better.

I got dressed in silence. Hoodie, black leggings and hair in a bun that I half-pulled together like it owed me money. No makeup or jewelry. And definitely no intention of pretending I was okay.

Because I wasn’t.

I was confused, suspicious, and sharing my space with a man who made less noise than an air purifier but somehow felt louder.

Dorian was already in the kitchen.

Of course he was.

He was pouring coffee like we’d lived together for six years. Barefoot, calm and button-down shirt rolled at the sleeves. Like some stock photo husband who read the financial section while his wife posted about their healthy marriage on I*******m.

Except I didn’t know his middle name. Or where he was from. Or how he knew where the coffee filters were — because I sure as hell didn’t.

“You were near my room,” I said, standing in the doorway.

“No,” he said simply.

“My door was open.”

He poured. “Then you left it that way.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Then, maybe it opened on its own.”

“It’s not a horror movie, genius.”

He turned and handed me a mug like we were about to debrief a mutual friend’s wedding. “Drink. You’ll feel better.”

I didn’t take it.

“Is this your thing? Gaslighting before breakfast?”

“Is this yours? Wild accusations about your husband mixed with caffeine?”

“You’re not my husband.”

“Legally, I am.”

“Spiritually, you’re an Airbnb guest with control issues.”

I drank the coffee.

Not because he told me to. Because I was exhausted and stupid curious. Of course it was perfect. Rich, smooth and expensive.

“You brought your own beans, didn’t you?”

“I brought everything.”

“Why?”

He sipped his own mug. “I don’t like feeling unprepared.”

“You married a stranger. I’d say the window for preparation is closed.”

He didn’t answer that. Just walked past me toward the hallway like the conversation bored him.

And honestly, it probably did.

***

By 10 a.m., I was already three emails deep in panic.

One major sponsor was pulling out. Another wanted to “put our project on hold” until the public settled down. My assistant forwarded me a thread from a PR watchdog account dissecting my marriage like it was a new blockbuster N*****x documentary.

“This is giving crisis rebrand energy,” one tweet read.

“Sis is spiraling.”

I scrolled through the comments, unreadable and numb.

Then I saw it — an email from Richard’s office.

Not from Richard. My father never wasted a direct line on me.

It was from his senior comms rep.

“At this time, the family requests no public statements be made regarding internal matters. Please act accordingly. Regards.”

No name or signature. Just a slap disguised as a “suggestion”.

Right.

Because the last thing Richard Vale wants is people asking why his illegitimate daughter is suddenly trending — and not for something controllable like a campaign launch or engagement announcement. He doesn’t do chaos unless he’s the one spinning it.

And right now, he couldn’t spin me. That era was surely ending.

***

I heard Dorian’s voice down the hall.

He was on a call, calm and confident.

I walked to the edge of the hallway and listened, not even trying to pretend I wasn’t eavesdropping.

“Yes,” he said. Pause. “It’s moving faster than expected.”

Another pause.

“No, she doesn’t know yet.”

I stepped back.

I took a step back — too fast. My foot caught the wood and the floor creaked like it was tattling on me.

The door swung open.

He stared at me, phone still in hand, eyes steady like I hadn’t just caught him in the middle of a very suspicious sentence.

“Enjoying the hallway? hm?” he asked.

“Just passing through.”

He nodded, like that made sense. “You look pale.”

“You look..um..caught.”

A tiny lift at the corner of his mouth. “I was ordering lunch.”

“Oh, is that what they’re calling it now?”

“You want Chinese or Lebanese?”

I blinked. “What?”

“Lunch.”

“You’re serious.”

“I don’t joke about food.”

I walked away before I could respond. Not because I was scared, because I had nothing smart to say to that.

Rhea texted me mid-afternoon:

Update: Your father’s pissed. Major donors pulling out of three appearances. Your marriage is not helping his “family values” brand.

Followed by:

Also, who the hell is Dorian? I asked around. No real hits. One person said he used to work in corporate law and another said offshore investment. Nobody knows for sure, and that’s not normal.

I stared at the messages for a long time.

Then finally texted back:

“Well, he made me coffee and insulted me before 8 a.m. So, I'd say we're off to a great start. :)”

She just replied with the eye rolling emoji, I literally had nothing to say anyways.

That night, I found Dorian sitting on the couch. He wasn’t watching TV or using his laptop. Just him and a notebook.

I walked past him, grabbed a bottle of wine from the fridge, and sat down across the island, flipping through my calendar even though I had nothing left on it.

He finally spoke.

“Are you okay?”

I looked up. “You don’t actually care.”

“Would you feel better if I said no?”

“I’d feel better if you stopped acting like this is normal.”

He leaned back. “I’m not acting.”

I studied him.

His shirt was unbuttoned. I’m pretty sure he was teasing me on purpose, because damn, those were one toned set of abs.

His sleeves were still rolled, his watch was still too expensive. And surprisingly his face was still too calm for someone whose fake wife was currently being investigated by every major gossip account on the internet. And that was NOT okay.

“Why are you still here?” I asked.

“I’m….married.”

“You could’ve left.”

“You could’ve asked me to.”

A pause.

“But you didn’t.”

“Fine. Now I'm asking.”

“It’s too late now, princess,” he said quietly. “You already let me in.”

I didn’t respond.

I poured another glass of wine I couldn’t taste and walked back to my room like the silence wasn’t following me.

I got there, closed the door — and this time, I checked it twice.

I sat on my bed, phone in hand while blankly staring at my lock screen like it owed me some freaking answers.

Then- I checked my notifications.

And there it was.

A post from Amia.

Fresh, just about thirty minutes ago.

There was no caption. Just a blurry shot of me and Dorian at the courthouse. Someone must’ve sold it.

We weren’t facing the camera, but you could see everything — the dress, the paper in his hand, the way he was looking at me like he already knew how it would end.

The comments were blowing up.

But it was the second photo in the carousel that made my stomach turn.

I- I couldn’t believe what my eyes were looking at-