Seraphina's POV
Day One.
The penthouse is a tomb. Damien sleeps in his bedroom. I sleep in mine. We don't speak at breakfast. We don't speak at lunch. At dinner, he eats in his study while I eat alone in the kitchen, staring at food I can't taste.
My phone won't stop buzzing.
The tabloids got the photos from the gala. "Mrs. Ashford: Gold-Digger or Victim?" one headline screams. Another: "Ashford Wife Exposed: The Marriage That Started as a Transaction." My face is everywhere. My tears. My humiliation. Immortalized in photographs for the world to mock.
Old friends message asking if the rumors are true. I don't respond because what's the point? Yes, I married for money. Yes, my family needed saving. Yes, I'm exactly what Madison said I was.
Instead of answering, I watch my inbox fill with uninvitations. The charity gala I was supposed to co-chair? Someone else is taking over. The art auction I attended every year? My name is quietly removed from the guest list. Society has already decided I'm radioactive.
My father calls. I can hear the whiskey in his voice.
"You embarrassed this family," he slurs. "Everyone is laughing at us."
I want to scream that I saved this family. But there's no point defending myself.
Day Two.
Damien still hasn't spoken to me. We exist in separate spaces of the same apartment. When our paths cross in the hallway, he doesn't acknowledge me. His expression is blank. Professional. Like I'm a stranger he's never met.
But his eyes. His eyes never leave me.
Madison posts on Instagram: "Sometimes you have to tell the truth even when people don't want to hear it. Proud of myself for living authentically."
She has thousands of likes. Comments from influencers praising her bravery.
My stomach twists. She's winning. The world thinks she's a hero for humiliating me. She's built a narrative where I'm the villain and she's the victim of my lies.
I wonder if Damien has seen this. If he's reading the comments celebrating her. If he's watching her build her brand on my destroyed reputation.
I can't help wondering what he's doing about it.
Day Three.
The silence has become unbearable. I sit in the living room, mindlessly scrolling through my phone, watching my life collapse in real time. Every news outlet has the story now. Every gossip column is analyzing my marriage. Think pieces are being written about women who marry wealthy men. About desperation. About how beauty is a currency and I cashed mine in.
I hate them all. But I hate myself more.
The television is playing in the background. Some morning show discussing celebrity scandals. I'm not paying attention until the music changes. Until the tone shifts to breaking news.
The anchor's face becomes serious. "We're getting reports of a homicide in Manhattan's Upper East Side. A young woman found in her apartment with a single gunshot wound. We're waiting on official identification, but sources say—"
Madison's photo fills the screen.
Everything stops.
Madison Winters, age 22, found dead in her apartment this morning by her roommate. Single gunshot to the head. Police are investigating, but sources close to the investigation suggest this is the work of the Ghost—New York's most feared assassin.
The reporter keeps talking but I'm not hearing the words anymore. My hands are shaking. My breathing is shaky. Madison is dead. Not sick. Not injured. Dead.
A gunshot to the head. The Ghost's signature.
I should feel something. Horror. Grief. Shock. But what I feel instead is... nothing. Empty. And underneath the emptiness, something darker. Something that feels like relief.
Which makes me a monster.
A sound makes me turn.
Damien is standing in the doorway of his bedroom. Watching me. Watching the television. His expression is calm. Composed. Like he's just woken up from a pleasant sleep.
He's wearing a clean shirt. His hair is wet. He looks refreshed.
"Your stepsister is dead," he says quietly.
It's not a question. It's a statement of fact. Like he's telling me the weather.
I turn to look at him fully. Our eyes meet. And in that moment, I understand everything.
"I see that," I whisper.
"Do you?" He steps into the room. His movements are slow. Deliberate. "Because you don't look surprised, Seraphina. You look relieved."
He's right. I am relieved. And that terrifies me more than anything.
"Did you—" I start, but the words get stuck in my throat.
"Did I what?" His voice is soft. Almost gentle. "Have your stepsister killed?"
I can't answer. I can't ask. I can't do anything except stare at him and realize that I already know the truth. I've known it since he hung up that phone three nights ago. Since he looked at me in the darkness and I saw what he really is.
"Madison hurt you," he says simply. "She destroyed your reputation. She humiliated you in front of everyone you know." He moves closer. "I don't tolerate that, Seraphina."
"She's dead," I whisper. "You killed her."
"No." He stops in front of me. "I had her killed. There's a difference. One suggests I did the work myself. The other suggests I simply made a decision and let other people handle the logistics."
He's describing murder like it's a business decision. Like he ordered lunch instead of ordering a hit.
"We should call the police," I say, but there's no conviction in my voice.
"Why?" His expression doesn't change. "So they can arrest the Ghost? So they can start an investigation that goes nowhere because no one can prove anything?" He leans against the couch. "The NYPD has been chasing the Ghost for five years. They have zero leads. Zero suspects. They won't find anything because there's nothing to find."
"Because you're the Ghost," I say quietly.
"Yes." He says it like it's obvious. Like I'm finally catching up to what he's known all along.
I stand up. I need distance. I need to breathe. But my legs are weak and my mind is splintering.
Madison is dead. And her husband—my husband—killed her. Had her killed. Because she hurt me. Because she spoke against me.
"Why did you do this?" I ask.
"Because no one makes my wife cry and lives." His voice is absolutely final. "Because you're mine, Seraphina. Completely mine. And I protect what's mine."
And then he does something that breaks me completely.
He reaches out and wipes a tear from my cheek. His touch is gentle. Tender. Like he's comforting me over the death of my stepsister.
Like he's a good man doing what good men do.
"What happens now?" I whisper.
Damien's smile is dark and possessive. "Now, wife, you finally understand what you married into. And we find out if you can handle being the queen of monsters."
He walks away, leaving me alone with the television still showing Madison's picture. Dead. Gone. Erased.
And I'm standing in my husband's penthouse, realizing something that changes everything:
I'm not horrified that he killed her.
I'm terrified that I'm grateful he did.