Seraphina's POV
The mirror doesn't lie. But I wish it would.
I stare at the woman looking back at me. Platinum blonde hair styled in perfect waves. Porcelain skin. Those pale blue eyes that everyone says are innocent. Tonight, those eyes stare empty. Dead inside.
I'm wearing white. Pure, perfect white. The kind of dress that screams wealth and goodness and everything a dying man's wife should be. Except nothing about tonight is good. Nothing has been good for five years.
My phone buzzes on the vanity. Another text from my stepsister Madison: "Try not to embarrass us tonight lol. Some of us actually deserve to be here."
I don't text back. I never do. Responding only gives her power.
The Ashford Foundation Gala starts in an hour. The event everyone in Manhattan fights to attend. The charity that says I'm charitable. The husband everyone pities. The perfect tragic love story that's actually just a business transaction written in ink that never dries.
My fingers trace the wedding band on my left hand. Five years. Sixty months of sleeping in a separate bedroom. Of pushing a wheelchair through ballrooms. Of pretending to be someone's devoted wife while being no one's anything.
I close my eyes and remember that day. I was twenty years old, desperate, and broken. My mother had been dead for twelve years. My father had replaced her with Patricia, a woman whose kindness only extended to her own daughter. The debts were suffocating us. Medical bills for Patricia's lupus. Gambling debts for my father. College fees for Madison, who treated me like I was born to serve her.
Then the offer came. Marry Damien Ashford. He's dying. Maybe six months. Maybe a year. After that, I'd be his widow. Rich. Free. Able to save everyone.
I was stupid enough to sign.
Now I'm twenty-five, and my dying husband still hasn't died.
I stand and slip into my white heels. My reflection watches me go. She looks terrified. She has every right to be.
The penthouse is silent as I make my way to Damien's room. Our room. Separate rooms. Always separate, even though we're married on paper and in front of every camera in Manhattan.
I knock. No answer. I knock again.
"Come," he says from inside.
I push open the heavy oak door. Damien is sitting in his wheelchair, already dressed in a black tuxedo. He looks devastatingly handsome. That's the problem. He's not supposed to look like that. Dying men aren't supposed to look powerful. Weak men aren't supposed to make my stomach tighten when they look at me.
"You're ready early," I say carefully.
He doesn't answer right away. His dark eyes move across my face like he's reading something written on my skin. Something intimate. Something I don't want him to see. His jaw works. A muscle in his neck tightens.
"You look beautiful," he says quietly.
My skin prickles. Damien never compliments me. In five years, he's barely spoken to me unless cameras are around. We exchange maybe ten words a day. Polite words. Empty words. Words from strangers who happen to share a home and a last name.
"Thank you," I say, stepping back. "We should leave soon. The cars are waiting."
He nods slowly. But those eyes. God, those eyes don't stop watching me like I'm prey and he's very, very hungry.
"Seraphina," he says, my name heavy on his tongue.
"Yes?"
"Has your family been treating you well?"
It's a strange question. We've been married five years, and he's never asked about my family. I've never told him how my father gambles away his allowance every week. How my stepmother demands money for treatments that never seem to help. How Madison posts pictures of my jewelry online and then asks to borrow them.
"Fine," I lie. "Everyone is fine."
Damien's expression hardens. Subtle. So subtle I almost miss it. But I catch it. I always catch the small cracks in his mask.
"Good," he says. "Because if anyone ever hurt you, Seraphina, I would know. And I would handle it."
The words are gentle. But something underneath them feels dangerous. Like a threat wrapped in velvet.
"That's not necessary," I say, my voice smaller than I intend.
He finally looks away from me. Instead, he looks at the television remote on his wheelchair armrest. His hand clenches it so hard his knuckles go white.
"Let's go play our parts," he says quietly. "The world is waiting for Mrs. Ashford."
I leave without responding. I'm halfway down the hallway when I hear something that stops me cold.
The sound of his wheelchair moving.
Nothing strange about that. Nothing suspicious. Except his wheelchair never sounds like that. It's always a smooth glide. Electric. Silent.
This sound is different. It's faster. Sharper. Like he's using more force than he needs to. Like he's angry and the wheelchair is bearing the brunt of it.
I don't turn around. I keep walking toward the elevator.
But my heart is pounding.
Because in the five years of this marriage, I've noticed things. Small things. Details that don't add up. His hands are too strong for someone with a degenerative disease. He never trembles. His legs show no signs of deterioration when he thinks I'm not looking. Last month, I saw him tighten his tuxedo pants like they fit differently. Like his body was changing.
I've pushed those thoughts away every time they surface. It's easier to believe the lie. Easier to countdown the days until freedom. Easier to pretend my marriage is what everyone thinks it is.
But standing in this hallway, listening to that sound, I feel something shift. Something dangerous. Something that makes me feel less like a widow-in-waiting and more like prey that's been tracked for a very long time.
The elevator doors open. Damien wheels out, his wheelchair moving with perfect control again. Silent. Smooth. Like nothing happened.
He looks at me. And smiles.
It's not a kind smile.
"Shall we?" he says.
I step into the elevator beside him. As the doors close, I catch our reflection in the mirrored walls. A beautiful blonde woman in white. A man in a wheelchair in black. The tragic love story everyone believes in.
Except something in his eyes tells me the story is very different from what the world thinks.
And I'm terrified that I'm finally about to find out what he's really been hiding.
The elevator descends toward the gala. Toward cameras. Toward my family. Toward a night that will change everything.
Toward the truth that's been waiting in the darkness for five very long years.