Seraphina's POV
The elevator doors slide open and the noise hits. Music. Laughter. Champagne glasses clinking. Hundreds of Manhattan's richest people pretending to care about sick children.
This is my life now. This exact moment, repeating forever.
I push Damien's wheelchair into the ballroom. His hand rests on the armrest, and I notice—because I always notice now—how tense his muscles are. His jaw is locked tight like he's grinding his teeth.
"Smile," he whispers. Not cruel. Just instructional.
I smile. The perfect, practiced smile that says I'm a devoted wife to a tragic man. The smile that makes society women sigh. The smile that makes me want to scream.
"Mrs. Ashford!" someone calls. I turn, already knowing what they want. A photo. A compliment about my dress. A chance to ask about Damien's "condition" like it's gossip, not my life.
I navigate the crowd easily. Five years of practice. Push the wheelchair. Nod. Laugh at jokes. Deflect questions about children. Pretend my marriage is real.
Then I see my family.
Patricia is cornering society women near the silent auction. My stepmother is wearing designer clothes I paid for, and she's lying about me.
"My daughter Seraphina is so generous," Patricia gushes. "She married for love, you know."
The women nod sympathetically. None of them know the truth. None of them know she negotiated this marriage like I was livestock.
I look away and spot my father at the poker table. Three drinks deep, laughing too loud, making bets he can't cover. Next week, I'll get the bill.
But it's Madison who makes my stomach turn.
She's standing near the bar, phone in hand, taking selfies with the gala in the background. Her dress is expensive—I bought it last month when she said she had nothing to wear. She's posting pictures online, tagging herself as "At the exclusive Ashford Gala with my sister Mrs. Ashford."
Using me. As always.
Madison catches my eye and smirks. There's something nasty in that expression. Something that says she's planning something. Something that makes her look like a predator who's finally found the moment to strike.
I tense. Something is wrong. I can feel it like static electricity before a storm.
"Relax," Damien says quietly from his wheelchair. "Your sister is nothing to worry about."
How does he know? I didn't say anything.
"I'm fine," I lie.
"You're not." His hand grips the armrest harder. "I can feel you tightening."
A man approaches us. Thomas Ashford, a distant cousin. He smiles and shakes Damien's hand, then turns to me.
"Seraphina, you look stunning as always. May I have a dance later?"
It's a harmless question. A polite social custom. But Damien's hand on his wheelchair armrest goes white. His entire body goes rigid. I can literally feel the rage radiating off him like heat.
"No," Damien says quietly. "She won't."
Thomas laughs nervously. "Just being friendly—"
"I know what you were being." Damien's voice doesn't change. It stays soft. Almost gentle. But something underneath it is lethal. "Stay friendly from a distance."
Thomas leaves immediately. I've never seen anyone move that fast away from a dying man in a wheelchair.
"That was rude," I whisper, but my heart is racing.
"That was a warning." Damien's dark eyes turn to me. "I don't share what's mine, Seraphina."
What's yours? I'm not a possession. I'm a person. But the way he says it—like it's a promise and a threat simultaneously—makes my legs weak.
More men approach throughout the night. A lawyer. A gallery owner. A journalist. Each time, Damien's response is the same. Soft voice. Deadly meaning. Total possession.
And I notice something else. His hands never shake. His posture never wavers. If anything, he looks stronger than he did at home. Less sick. More dangerous.
"Are you sure you're feeling well?" I ask during a quiet moment.
"Never better," he says. And he smiles that smile again. The one that isn't kind. "Being here with you makes me feel alive."
Patricia takes the stage. She taps the microphone. "I'd like to say a few words about my family—"
No. Patricia never makes speeches.
Madison slides past me. Her phone is nowhere to be seen. Her expression has shifted from smirk to something colder. Something planned.
She walks toward the stage. Toward the microphone. Patricia steps aside, confused, and hands it to her.
My blood goes cold.
"Actually," Madison says, her voice carrying across the entire ballroom. Everyone stops talking. Everyone turns to look. "I have something to say about my sister."
No. No, this isn't happening. This is—
She looks directly at me. And smiles.
"Everyone knows my sister married Damien Ashford out of love, right?" Madison's voice is sweet as poison. "But I think it's time people knew the real story."
Damien's hand finds mine. He squeezes it. Not to comfort me. To claim me. To mark me as his before the world hears whatever Madison is about to say.
I look at him. His expression is completely calm. Completely composed. But his eyes—his eyes are pure ice and rage.
"What are you doing?" I whisper.
He doesn't answer. He just watches Madison like a predator watches prey.
"My sister is a gold-digger," Madison announces to the silent ballroom. "She married a dying man for money. Our family needed cash. So Sera sold herself. And you know what? She'll do it again when Damien dies and she's rich."
The ballroom explodes. Cameras flash. People gasp. Patricia's face goes white. My father looks up from his poker game, confused, then furious.
And I—I feel my entire life crack open.
Everything I've been hiding. Everything I've been ashamed of. The sacrifice I thought was noble exposed as exactly what it was: desperation. Greed. Weakness.
I can't breathe. I can't think. All I can do is stand there while Madison destroys me in front of everyone who matters.
I look at Damien. I expect to see disappointment. Disgust. The look of a man whose wife has just been publicly humiliated.
Instead, I see something far more terrifying.
I see satisfaction.
His hand is still gripping mine, and his fingers tighten. His jaw works like he's holding something back. Something violent. Something that wants to break free and destroy everything in this room.
"We're leaving," he says quietly.
"I can't—I need to—"
"Now, Seraphina."
The way he says my name makes every nerve ending in my body scream.
He releases my hand and rolls his wheelchair toward the exit. Everyone parts for him instinctively. Even in crisis, they fear him.
I follow because I have no choice. Because staying means facing the wreckage of my life. Because running with the monster seems safer than staying with the truth.
But as we walk toward the elevator, I see something that stops my heart.
Damien isn't looking at Madison with anger.
He's looking at her like she's already dead.
And I suddenly understand: this night isn't over. This is just the beginning of something terrible. Something that will change everything.
Something that will prove my husband isn't the dying man everyone thinks he is.