Reborn Rich, My Vengeance Rises

The brass handle of the double oak doors felt like ice against Seraphina's palm. It was the only cold thing in the hallway; the rest of the thirty-fourth floor of Vance Innovations was suffocatingly warm, humming with the invisible, frantic energy of a billion-dollar tech empire. But right here, standing outside her husband's office, the air was still. Dead still.

She shouldn't be here. It was Tuesday. Tuesday was usually for volunteering at the library or organizing the archives—busy work Ethan allowed her to do. For three years, Seraphina had played the role of the decorative, silent wife. It was a role she had chosen, a necessary camouflage. After the explosion in Mali five years ago that had nearly broken her body and mind, she had needed a place to disappear. Ethan Vance, with his mundane ambition and safe life, had been that hiding place. But she was healed now. The Phoenix was waking up.

But she had forgotten her phone charger. A trivial, stupid reason to end a marriage.

Her hand tightened on the metal. She was about to push down when she heard it.

A laugh.

It wasn't Ethan's laugh. His was a practiced, sharp bark that he used in boardrooms to signal dominance. This sound was low, throaty, and feminine. It was a sound that vibrated through the heavy wood and settled straight into the pit of Seraphina's stomach, turning the coffee she'd had for breakfast into acid.

She knew that laugh. Susanna Thorne. Her "best friend." The woman who had helped her pick out her wedding dress three years ago. The woman who was currently the Chief Marketing Officer of this company.

Seraphina didn't knock. She didn't announce herself. The time for politeness had evaporated the moment that laugh hit her ears.

She pushed the handle down. The mechanism clicked-a sharp, mechanical judgment-and the door swung open.

The scene inside wasn't just a betrayal; it was a cliché. A cheap, tawdry scene from a movie she would have turned off for being too predictable.

Ethan was on the leather sofa, his tie loosened, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar. Susanna was straddling him, her skirt hiked up high on her thighs, her head thrown back. They were a tangle of limbs and ambition.

The door hitting the stopper made a sound like a gunshot.

Susanna scrambled off him, not with shame, but with annoyance. She smoothed her skirt down, her fingers brushing against the fabric with a casualness that made Seraphina's vision blur. Ethan sat up. He didn't look guilty. He didn't look horrified.

He looked irritated. Like she was a waitress who had brought him the wrong order.

"Seraphina," Ethan said. He adjusted his tie, his movements jerky but precise. "You don't knock?"

The audacity of it took the air out of the room. He wasn't scrambling for an excuse. He was reprimanding her for her manners.

Seraphina stood in the doorway. She felt a strange sensation in her chest, as if her heart had stopped beating and was simply vibrating against her ribs. She looked at Susanna. Susanna's lipstick was smeared-a bright, violent red that matched the shade she had convinced Seraphina was "too bold" for a wife to wear.

"We need to talk," Seraphina said. Her voice surprised her. It wasn't shaking. It was flat. Dead.

Susanna smirked. It was a micro-expression, there and gone in a second, but Seraphina saw it. It was the look of someone who had won a game the other player didn't even know had started.

"Honey," Susanna said, her voice dripping with fake concern. "This looks bad, I know. But Ethan and I were just... discussing strategy."

"Strategy," Seraphina repeated. She walked into the room. The carpet was thick, swallowing the sound of her cheap flats. "Is that what we're calling it now?"

Ethan stood up. He walked behind his massive mahogany desk, putting the furniture between them like a shield. He felt safer there. Powerful. "Don't be dramatic, Seraphina. You're hysterical. Go home. We'll talk later."

He waved his hand, a dismissal. As if she were a dog he could shoo away from the dinner table.

Seraphina reached into her tote bag. It was an old canvas bag, one she'd had since before she was a Vance. Ethan hated it. He said it made her look poor.

She pulled out a thick manila envelope. She had been carrying it for days, debating, hesitating. It contained the rough draft of a petition she had printed at the library.

She dropped it on the desk. It landed with a light slap against the polished wood.

"I'm filing for divorce," she said.

The silence that followed was heavy, pressing against her ears.

Ethan looked at the envelope, then at her. A laugh bubbled up from his throat-that short, barking sound. "You? Leave me? With what money, Seraphina? You have nothing. You are nothing without me."

Susanna walked over to the desk, leaning her hip against it, aligning herself with him. The visual was clear: them against her. "Oh, sweetie," Susanna cooed, her voice sickly sweet. "Don't be rash. Where would you go? Back to the trailer park?"

Seraphina ignored her. She locked eyes with her husband. "Irreconcilable differences. I want a clean break."

Ethan picked up the packet. He flipped through the single page with a sneer. "You want nothing? No alimony? No house?"

"I just want out," Seraphina stated. Her hands were clasped in front of her to hide the fact that her fingers were trembling. Not from fear. From rage.

Ethan tossed the paper back. "Good. Because you wouldn't get a dime anyway. I have ironclad pre-nups. You walk out that door, you walk out as the charity case I found you as."

"I'm aware," Seraphina said softly. She turned around. The sight of them-Ethan arrogant and Susanna looking like the cat who got the cream-gave her no joy. Just exhaustion.

"Wait," Ethan said. His voice changed, turning darker. "You don't just walk away from a Vance. Not until I say we're done."

He lunged around the desk. "You're not going anywhere until we discuss how you're going to spin this to the press!"

He reached for her. His hand clamped onto her wrist, his grip bruising.

In that split second, Seraphina didn't think. Instinct flared, but she suppressed the urge to strike. She wasn't a soldier here; she was a wife.

She yanked her arm back, using the sweat on her skin to her advantage, twisting away frantically. She stomped hard on his instep-a clumsy, desperate move of a frightened woman.

"Let go!" she screamed.

Ethan yelped, surprised by the sudden pain in his foot, and his grip loosened. Seraphina stumbled back, her shoulder hitting the doorframe.

He stared at her with wide, angry eyes. He had never seen her fight back, not even clumsily. He expected tears, not resistance.

Seraphina stood in the hallway, clutching her wrist where his fingers had left red marks. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

"See you in court, Ethan."

She turned and walked toward the elevators. She didn't run. She walked with a rhythm, forcing herself to breathe.

Click. Click. Click.

She made it to the elevator. She pressed the button. The doors slid open. She stepped inside.

As the doors closed, cutting off the view of her husband shouting her name, Seraphina Reed finally let out the breath she had been holding. Her legs gave out. She slumped against the metal wall of the elevator, sliding down until she hit the floor. She brought her knees to her chest and buried her face in her hands.

She didn't cry. She couldn't. The part of her that could cry had died a long time ago.