Chapter Two

SERAFINA

There should’ve been some kind of release.

Like… a scream. A breakdown or bottle thrown at the wall. Something.

But I just stood there, still in yesterday’s shirt, watching my legally wedded hot stranger turn the page of a newspaper like he was waiting for coffee service.

“Your husband,” he said, like he was telling me the weather.

We were both silent for a moment.

I should’ve been panicking. I should’ve been yelling. Instead, I blinked at him like an idiot and backed out of the room slowly, as if he was a very calm lion I didn’t want to startle.

Which made no sense.

Because this wasn’t just some random poor actor. This was Dorian-freaking-Everhart.

Okay, not freaking. I still didn’t know who he was. But.. the name looked expensive. The posture definitely was. And no normal person signs a fake marriage license without asking at least one question.

He hadn’t even flinched.

Not once.

Not when I sat down or even when asked him to marry me. Even when I pulled out the documents and pushed them across the table like I was ordering a sandwich.

And now, here he was, reading the Financial Post in my living room while I stood there wondering if I could legally file for annulment based on emotional sabotage and spiritual whiplash.

I went to the kitchen.

My hands went straight to the cabinet even though I wasn’t hungry, and I wasn’t reaching for food.

I opened the door and stared blankly at a box of quinoa I hadn’t touched since 2022.

Behind me, I heard him move.

One step.. then the second. He didn’t rush.

I turned before he got closer. “Don’t,”

He stopped mid-step. Slowly.

“What am I not doing?”

“Existing, near me.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That might be difficult mama, considering we’re married.”

“God, you’re smug.”

“I’m accurate.”

“Are you always this annoying?”

He blinked. “I thought I was being polite.”

I rolled my eyes blankly, I had nothing to say to this man.

My phone buzzed on the counter, again.

I checked the screen and immediately regretted it. Twenty-three new notifications. Headlines and gossip accounts. People tagging me in blurry photos like I’d faked my own death and returned with a new identity. Twisted rebirth storyline.

The top headline read:

“From Betrayed to Betrothed: Serafina Vale’s Rebound Marriage Shocks LA Society”

Below it:

“Who Is Dorian Everhart?”

Yeah. I’d actually like to know that too.

They all had an opinion, but none of them remembered who I was before this mess. Hell, I wasn’t even sure I did.

Rhea called three times before I picked up.

“Tell me you didn’t marry him,” she said, no greeting.

“I… I did.”

“You what?”

“I married him.”

“You married the wrong guy?”

“Not on purpose Rhea, I wasn’t aware he was the wrong guy.”

“You didn’t!”

“Rhea, I don’t even know what this man does when I’m not looking at him.”

“Oh my god.” Pause. “Is he still there?”

“Yes.”

“Did he kill the model?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“I don’t know, Rhea, am I qualified to check for bodies now?”

She groaned. “Do you even know his last name?”

“Everhart.”

Silence.

“I’ve heard that before,” she muttered. “That name’s not small.”

Great. Fantastic. Just what I needed to hear. Not only had I married a complete stranger, he might be a rich stranger. Possibly even dangerous.

“I have to go,” I said.

“Why?”

“Because I need to G****e my “husband” before he finishes my almond milk.”

Back in the living room, Dorian was sitting on the edge of the couch, scrolling through his phone with the energy of someone who had nothing to hide.

I didn’t sit. I just stood near the hallway, arms crossed like a defense line he hadn’t asked for.

“What exactly do you do for a living?” I asked.

He glanced up. “I’m in acquisitions.”

That told me nothing. “Like… um…real estate?”

“Sometimes.”

Corporate speak. Love that.

“Are you famous?” I tried.

“No.”

“Criminal?”

“No.”

“Then why are there zero public photos of you?”

“I don’t like photos.”

“You married someone who works in branding. That’s going to be a problem.”

“Then un-marry me.”

He said it casually. Not defensive. Not even sarcastic. Just flat, like he was giving me the out if I wanted it.

I didn’t respond.

Because I didn’t know if I wanted it, not yet.

*

An hour later, I sat in my bedroom surrounded by half my closet and the one working outlet that didn’t spark every time I plugged in my flat iron.

My inbox was exploding. My assistant had emailed six times. The words “brand stability,” “potential fallout,” and “crisis control” all came up, and that was just in the subject lines.

Two clients had pulled out.

A third wanted to pause our campaign “until things settled.”

I stared at the wall for five minutes. Not crying or even panicking. Just… empty. Like I’d left my body on the couch and floated somewhere safer.

Like I’d walked out of my own damn life and left the lights on.

Leo and Amia got engaged and I got completely ruined. Not by accident, by choice. I walked into that diner to ruin them. To take the headline and avoid being termed the psycho ex-fiancée.

Well, I took it. And now it was eating me alive.

There was a knock on my door. I was on my bed in a towel and two unmatched socks, questioning every decision I’d ever made since age fourteen.

The knock came again.

“Serafina,” Dorian’s voice was calm. That seductive voice was always calm. “There’s a man at the door.”

I sat up. “What?”

“A man. Says his name is Russell.”

I jumped to my feet and ran to the living room, nearly tripping on a hair straightener I hadn’t used in three weeks.

Russell was my publicist.

“What the hell,” I hissed, grabbing my phone. “Why is he here?”

“I let him in.”

“You WHAT?”

Dorian stepped aside. Russell walked in like he owned the place — tinted sunglasses, a half-buttoned shirt, and the sleep schedule of a man on twelve lawsuits.

“This is not how we do things honey,” he said, not bothering with hello. “We don’t get married to strangers. We don’t hijack the press cycle and we surely don’t leave Vogue photographers on read.”

“I didn’t leave them on—wait, how did you get my address?”

Russell waved a dismissive hand. “You’re not that private.”

He turned to Dorian, studied him, and then turned back to me.

“Is he staying?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you want him to?”

“I also don’t know.”

Russell sighed and pulled a folded sheet from his bag. “Well, congratulations, you just made page three of the Daily Watch. We’ve got twenty-four hours to flip the narrative or you’re going to be the poster girl for impulsive instability.”

Dorian tilted his head. “And that’s a problem?”

Russell blinked. “Are you her husband or her handler?”

“Neither.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

The meeting lasted less than fifteen minutes.

Russell left with a plan. I was supposed to release a vague “we met in private” story and smile through it.

I didn’t argue or agree either.

After the door closed, I just turned to Dorian.

“You could’ve told me not to let him in,” I muttered.

“You looked like you needed the help anyways, you’re welcome.”

“Ugh! He was such a diva!

I just pouted my lips while he studied me for a moment. Not like a man looking at his wife. No.

More like a man looking at a very complicated puzzle he wasn’t sure he wanted to solve.

“You should eat something,” he said, like it was an order disguised as care.

And then walked away.

***

That night, I sat on my balcony with a glass of wine I couldn’t taste and a world that suddenly didn’t feel like it was mine anymore.

My name was everywhere.

My face, my marriage.

But my story?

It was still missing.

He was in the guest room. I think.

I hadn’t seen him in two hours, and part of me was glad. The other part kept glancing at the hallway like maybe he’d show up again and answer a question I hadn’t asked.

Then again… maybe I didn’t want to know.

I woke up the next morning with my bedroom door slightly open.

I never leave it open.

Never, ever…