I Was His Wife, Now I'm His Ruin

The master bedroom was a cavern of silk and velvet, designed to impress rather than to comfort. Seraphina didn't turn on the lights. The moonlight filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows was enough. She walked past the bed and entered the walk-in closet. She ignored the rows of designer dresses Harrison insisted she wear-dresses that were always a size too small, as if he wanted to physically constrain her-and went to the very back, behind the winter coats. She knelt down and pulled out an old, scuffed violin case. It wasn't her performance case; it was a storage relic she had brought from her father's house, one Harrison had deemed "too ugly" to be seen. Her fingers trembled as she opened the latches. Inside, the velvet was worn. She didn't reach for the instrument. Instead, she pried up the false bottom of the case with her fingernail. Beneath the lining lay a small stack of cash, her passport, and a burner phone she had bought six months ago during a moment of panic she hadn't understood until now. She pulled out the phone and dialed a number from memory. Kate? It's midnight, Sera, Kate's voice was groggy, then instantly alert. "Did he forget the anniversary? I swear to God, if he-" I need the file, Seraphina interrupted, her voice steady, void of tears. "The draft you wrote up for me last year. The one I told you to burn." There was a pause on the other end. Then, a sharp intake of breath. "I didn't burn it. I kept it. Just in case. I can email it to you, or-" Email it to the secure account. Now. Done. Are you okay? Do you need me to come get you? No. I need to do this alone. Headlights swept across the bedroom ceiling, slicing through the darkness. The roar of an Aston Martin engine cut through the night air outside. The gravel in the driveway crunched under tires. He's home, Seraphina whispered. "I have to go." She hung up and shoved the phone into her pajama pocket. She pushed the violin case back into the depths of the closet, obscuring it with a heavy fur coat. She heard the heavy front door open downstairs. Then, footsteps. Not the measured, confident strides of the businessman she married, but the slightly heavier, looser steps of a man who had consumed a bottle of vintage Bordeaux. The bedroom door swung open. Harrison Vanderbilt stood in the doorway. He was loosening his tie, his silhouette framed by the hallway light. And then it hit her. The scent. It wasn't wine. It was Chanel No. 5. Powdery, floral, and unmistakable. It clung to his suit jacket like a second skin. It was Tiffany's signature scent. Seraphina felt bile rise in her throat, burning and bitter. She swallowed it down. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her sick. Why are you still up? Harrison asked. His voice was rough, annoyed. He didn't look at her; he walked straight toward the bathroom, discarding his jacket on the chaise lounge. Seraphina stood up. She smoothed the front of her silk pajamas. We need to talk. Harrison scoffed. He stopped at the bathroom door, hand on the frame. "Not tonight, Seraphina. I'm exhausted. The Japanese investors were draining." There were no investors, she said. Harrison froze. He turned slowly, his eyes narrowing. In the moonlight, his handsome face looked sharp, predatory. "Excuse me?" I know where you were. I know who you were with. He stared at her for a long moment, then laughed. It was a dark, condescending sound. He took a step toward her, closing the distance until he was looming over her. He smelled of alcohol and another woman, a toxic cocktail. Stop the drama, he said, his voice low. "You're imagining things. You've been paranoid lately. Is this about the baby thing again? Because we discussed that. You aren't fit to be a mother right now." The cruelty took her breath away. He was using the lie he had manufactured-the lie that she was mentally unstable-to dismiss her reality. I want a divorce, she said. The words were quiet, but they landed like stones in a pond. Harrison blinked. The amusement vanished from his face. He reached out and grabbed her chin. His grip wasn't painful, but it was controlling. He tilted her face up to his. Divorce? He whispered the word like it was a dirty joke. "You want to leave me?" Yes. He laughed again, but this time there was no humor in it. "Seraphina, look around you. The Sterling family is bankrupt. Your father left you nothing but debt. Your brother is a drunk who can barely hold down a job." He leaned closer, his breath hot on her face. You leave this house, you have nothing. No money. No connections. No home. You are nothing without me. Seraphina looked into his eyes-eyes she used to think held the stars. Now, she only saw a black hole. She pulled her face away from his grip. I'd rather be nothing than be yours, she said. Harrison's jaw tightened. His ego, fragile and massive, had been pricked. He turned his back to her, dismissing her as if she were a servant who had spoken out of turn. Go to sleep, Seraphina. We'll discuss your 'tantrum' in the morning when you're rational. He walked into the bathroom and slammed the door. The shower turned on. Seraphina stood in the dark. She didn't cry. She walked to the closet, pulled out a small overnight bag, and began to pack only the essentials.