The evening air was crisp, but the suffocating weight inside the apartment was what truly chilled Seraphine Mancini. She stood at the door, hand clutching the handle of her suitcase, her decision finally made. Every corner of this place reminded her of a love that had withered, promises broken one by one. She was ready to leave it all behind.
The phone buzzed insistently in the kitchen, its sound cutting through the heavy silence. Seraphine didn’t budge. No more distractions.
Just as her foot crossed the threshold, the front door burst open with a jarring slam. Luther Harword walked in, Cornelia trailing behind him like a second shadow. Cornelia’s laughter rang out, bright and deliberate, her smile radiant as though she carried the sun itself. Seraphine’s gaze flickered to Luther’s hand on Cornelia’s back, guiding her inside with a possessiveness that stung.
“Seraphine,” Luther said casually, as if everything were normal, as though the threads of their relationship hadn’t unraveled. “How about you cook something for us tonight? We could use a good homemade meal.”
The words sliced through her, a reminder of the countless times she’d tried to make things work, to bridge the growing chasm between them. Without turning, she replied flatly, “I’m not cooking tonight. Let’s just eat out.”
Luther stopped mid-step, visibly surprised. His lips twisted into a smirk, the kind that used to charm her but now only grated. “Not even for me?” he teased, inching closer.
Cornelia chimed in with an exaggerated pout, her tone syrupy sweet. “Oh, let’s go out, Luther! It’ll be so much more fun, don’t you think?” Her eyes darted to Seraphine, challenge glinting in their depths.
Seraphine met Cornelia’s gaze with icy calm. “Fine,” she said, the word edged with bitterness. “Let’s go.”
The hot pot restaurant was lively, its air thick with the aroma of spiced broth and sizzling meats. They were seated at a private table, but the tension among them was impossible to ignore. Cornelia placed herself between Seraphine and Luther, her laughter frequent, her touches on Luther’s arm subtle but deliberate.
Seraphine stayed silent, her thoughts tangled. She’d long since grown accustomed to Cornelia’s games, but tonight, the weight of it all pressed harder than ever.
As the meal unfolded, Cornelia reached for the ladle. Her movements, though graceful, were far too calculated. In one swift motion, she tilted the pot just enough to cause the steaming broth to spill. The hot liquid splashed onto both women.
Seraphine hissed in pain, her arm scalded, but Cornelia let out a dramatic cry, clutching her leg. “Oh no!” she wailed, her face a mask of exaggerated agony. “I didn’t mean to!”
Luther shot up, his attention snapping entirely to Cornelia. “Cornelia! Are you okay?” His voice was urgent, his hands hovering over her as though she might shatter.
Cornelia sniffled, her performance flawless. “I’m so clumsy! I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.” She cast a fleeting, dismissive glance at Seraphine, her guilt feigned.
Seraphine sat frozen, her hand gripping a napkin as she dabbed at the angry red burn on her arm. Her heart ached, not from the burn but from Luther’s utter disregard. He hadn’t even looked at her.
“Cornelia, let me help you.” Luther’s voice softened as he knelt beside her, brushing her hair back with a tenderness Seraphine hadn’t felt from him in months.
The scene before her was a dagger to the chest. Seraphine’s jaw tightened as she rose to her feet, the chair scraping loudly against the floor.
“I’m fine,” she said, her voice cold and distant. “I’ll take care of myself.”
Luther didn’t look up. He remained beside Cornelia, murmuring reassurances as if Seraphine wasn’t even there. The final thread of hope snapped.
Seraphine turned, her steps measured and deliberate as she left the restaurant. The door swung closed behind her, muting the laughter and murmurs inside.
How many years had passed since Luther Harword truly cared for her? Five? Perhaps longer. Once, Seraphine had believed their bond was unbreakable—unspoken yet deeply profound. A simple glance had been enough to communicate everything.
But perhaps her dependence had been the foundation of his arrogance. Secure in the belief that she would never leave, he had grown reckless, parading his indiscretions with Cornelia without fear of consequences. He forgot that she, too, was human—capable of pain, capable of walking away.
Seraphine stared at her phone, the screen littered with missed calls. With a decisive swipe, she blocked his number. Next, she opened her social media apps. Her finger hovered over the "delete" button on their chat history.
Her eyes flicked to his new profile picture. Gone was the whimsical cartoon she had drawn for him years ago. Now, a glossy, professional headshot stared back—a portrait of calculated detachment.
Her chest tightened. An old saying whispered in her mind: When a man who never changes his profile picture suddenly updates it, he has someone new.
Her trembling fingers pressed delete. A decade of shared memories vanished in an instant.
It was time to leave, and this time, there would be no coming back!
