The taxi pulled up in front of the residential tower's gleaming glass façade. Seraphina paid the fare, stepped out, and stood for a moment on the familiar sidewalk. Once, walking into this building had given her a secret sense of belonging. Now, it felt like a cluttered graveyard, a place she needed to clean out.
The private elevator's scanner still recognized her fingerprint. Apparently, he hadn't gotten around to deleting her access yet. The elevator rose silently, carrying her directly to the foyer of the penthouse.
The first thing that hit her was a sweet floral perfume that didn't belong to her, lingering in the air.
In the living room, a silk robe that also wasn't hers had been carelessly draped over the armrest of the sofa she had personally chosen. She walked toward the master bedroom, her heart like a cold, heavy stone. On the nightstand where her photograph used to sit was a new silver frame, and the smiling woman inside it was Scarlett Finch, an up-and-coming socialite better known for her connections than her talent.
Her side of the walk-in closet had been emptied out, replaced by rows of brand-new, brightly colored designer dresses, their tags still attached. Every trace of her had been systematically erased and replaced.
The sound of the bathroom door opening made her turn around. Scarlett Finch stepped out, wrapped in one of Ethan's luxurious white towels, her hair still wet. She gasped theatrically in surprise, but her eyes glittered with triumph and provocation.
"Oh, Seraphina," she said, her voice dripping with false sympathy, "I never expected to see you here. Didn't Ethan tell you? This is Ethan's and my home now. I'm the mistress of this house now."
Ignoring the mockery, Seraphina asked, "Where are my things?"
Scarlett smiled, a subtle and cruel curve touching her lips, and pointed a perfectly manicured finger toward a storage cabinet at the end of the hallway. "Ethan said you wouldn't need those old things anymore, so I packed them away for you."
Seraphina walked to the cabinet and opened the door, involuntarily sucking in a breath. Her treasured architecture books, the portfolio filled with years of work, and even the small, worn wooden music box—the only connection she still had to her parents—had all been tossed into a dusty corner like garbage. Beside them sat several enormous brand-new Hermès boxes, their bright orange color glaring like trophies announcing that she had been replaced.
The last fragile piece of hope she hadn't even realized she was still holding onto finally shattered.
She said nothing. She simply knelt down and began sorting through the pile methodically. She took out her most important portfolio and the music box, clutching them tightly against her chest. The clothes, shoes, and personal belongings she left behind. They had been tainted, and she wanted nothing that had remained in this house.
As she carried a few of her belongings toward the door, Scarlett walked over from inside the house and blocked her path.
"You forgot this," Scarlett said, holding out a velvet jewelry box. "Your anniversary gift. Ethan wanted me to make sure you got it back."
Seraphina took the box and opened it. Inside lay the diamond necklace he had given her the year before. When he had fastened it around her neck, she had cried with happiness, believing it was a promise. Now, it looked like nothing more than a beautiful and expensive lie.
She walked over to the trash can and, without hesitation, dropped the necklace inside. It caught the afternoon sunlight for a brief moment before falling into the bin with a crisp metallic sound.
She turned back to the stunned Scarlett and said, "Tell Ethan this." Her voice was as cold and hard as the diamonds she had just thrown away. "I don't want his trash."
Scarlett's face twisted with anger. This wasn't the reaction she had wanted. She had expected tears, desperation, humiliation—not this cold, contemptuous defiance.
Seraphina brushed past her and left the apartment, the elevator doors closing on Scarlett's furious face.
The moment she was gone, Scarlett immediately grabbed her phone and called Ethan. With carefully manufactured sobs in her voice, she embellished the story, describing how Seraphina had barged in, thrown a hysterical tantrum, and destroyed the "beautiful gift" he had given her.
Listening to the story, Ethan leaned back against his hospital pillows and chuckled softly. "She's still fighting it," he told Mark, who stood nearby. "She still cares. Keep watching her. She won't last much longer."
Meanwhile, Seraphina stood on the noisy Manhattan sidewalk, clutching her portfolio and music box tightly to her chest. The sounds of the city swirled around her, yet she had never felt more alone. She had nothing but a new phone, a little cash, and the clothes on her back. She had nowhere to go.
