I Was His Wife, Now I'm His Ruin

Seraphina stayed at the hospital until the sun began to set, painting the Manhattan skyline in bruised shades of purple and orange. She only left when the doctors assured her Sebastian was out of the woods. She used her app to call another car. The ride back to the Vanderbilt Estate was silent, the interior of the cheap sedan smelling of stale pine air freshener-a stark contrast to the leather and cedar of Harrison's limo. The house was dark when she entered. Harrison was home; the Aston Martin was in the driveway. She walked into the kitchen. It was empty. No dinner. No staff. Harrison appeared in the doorway of the study. He was still in his suit trousers and a white shirt, sleeves rolled up. He held a glass of scotch. Where is dinner? he asked. No hello. No 'how is your brother'. Seraphina looked at him. She was exhausted, her bones aching with a deep weariness. "Where is the staff?" I gave them the night off, Harrison said, taking a sip of his drink. "I didn't want them to witness your mood swings. I assumed you would perform your duties." I didn't make anything. She walked past him toward the stairs. I'm talking to you, Harrison snapped. The ice in his glass clinked. Seraphina ignored him. She placed a hand on the marble banister and started to climb. Seraphina! He shouted her name. The sudden noise echoed in the cavernous hall. Seraphina flinched. She turned her head to look at him, distracted by the venom in his voice. Her foot missed the next step. It happened in slow motion. Her heel caught on the edge of the marble. Her ankle twisted at a sickening angle. Gravity took over. She fell. She hit the hard stone steps with a thud, sliding down two stairs before coming to a halt. A sharp, tearing pain exploded in her left ankle. She bit her lip so hard she tasted copper, stifling a scream. She curled into a ball on the landing, clutching her leg. Harrison dropped his glass. It didn't break; it bounced on the rug. He rushed over, taking the stairs two at a time. Sera! He knelt beside her. He saw her ankle. It was already swelling, puffing up against the strap of her shoe. Don't move, he said. His voice had dropped the arrogance; it was low, urgent. He reached out to pick her up. Seraphina saw his hands coming toward her. The same hands that had grabbed her wrist earlier. The same hands that had held Tiffany's. Panic, irrational and feral, seized her. She flinched violently, shrinking away from him, pressing her back against the cold metal railings. No! she gasped. The fear in her eyes was raw. It froze Harrison mid-motion. He hovered there, his arms outstretched, looking at his wife as if she were a stranger. I'm not going to hit you, he said, sounding offended. "I'm trying to help you." Just don't touch me, she whispered. Her chest heaved. "Please. Don't touch me." She tried to stand. A whimper escaped her throat as weight put pressure on the injury. Harrison's jaw clenched. He ignored her protest. You can't walk, he said gruffly. He scooped her up into his arms. Seraphina went rigid. She held her breath, refusing to lean into him, refusing to let her head rest on his shoulder. She held herself stiff, a dead weight in his arms. He carried her into the living room and deposited her gently on the plush cream sofa. He turned and walked to the kitchen, returning moments later with a bag of ice wrapped in a towel and the first aid kit. He knelt at her feet. He unbuckled her shoe with surprisingly gentle fingers. He applied the ice. For a moment, the silence was intimate. He looked up at her, his eyes searching hers. For a second, he looked like the man she had married-the man who had promised to protect her. Does it hurt? he asked softly. Seraphina looked at him. She felt a pang of sadness. It was a grieving for what could have been. Too little, too late, she thought. She reached down and pushed the ice pack away. I can do it myself, she said. She grabbed a cushion, used the coffee table for leverage, and stood up on one leg, wobbling dangerously. Harrison stood up too. "Seraphina, stop being stubborn. You need-" I need you to leave me alone. She hopped, agonizingly slow, toward the guest room on the first floor. She didn't look back. She entered the room and locked the door. The click of the lock was loud in the silent house. Harrison was left standing in the living room, the melting ice pack dripping onto the expensive Persian rug.