“Please… set everything up again. I want it done as soon as possible. And I’m coming home. I mean it.”
My mother didn’t respond at first. The line went silent except for the faint jingle of her bracelet and the soft rustling of silk — familiar sounds that suddenly felt like echoes from a life far away from mine.
“What are you talking about, Kiera?” she whispered sharply, surprise cracking through her perfectly controlled voice. “You chased after Rowan Cross for a decade. Ten years. You insisted you loved him so much you refused the marriage I had arranged. And now suddenly you want me to revive that match you fought me over?”
“I was wrong,” I managed, my throat tightening until it hurt. I lowered myself onto the bed because my knees didn’t feel strong enough to hold me anymore. “I just want out, Mom. Please. Ask the man you chose for me before to come pick me up. Give me a week. That’s all I’m asking.”
“That soon?” Her tone shifted, softening into concern — the way she had spoken to me when I sobbed on her lap after Rowan ignored me during prom night. “Sweetheart, what happened? Did you argue? What about your divorce papers? Did he finally sign them?”
A hollow laugh scraped out of me. “There’s no need for any divorce. It turns out… I was never married in the first place.”
Before she could lecture me or drown me with sympathy, I ended the call. I didn’t want to hear any of it. I needed the silence more than anything.
But when I turned around, ice flooded my veins.
Rowan was leaning against the doorway, arms folded tightly, his expression dark and unreadable.
His shadow stretched across the room like a warning. “What the hell was that, Seraphine?”
My stomach dropped. Seraphine. Sometimes he couldn’t even bother to say my name right.
“Who were you talking to? And what do you mean you were never married?” He stepped toward me, irritation sharpening every word. “Is this another stunt? Are you upset because I said no to that pointless anniversary trip you wouldn’t shut up about?”
I opened my mouth, but air failed me.
He moved closer, lowering his voice, coating it with fake tenderness that made my skin prickle. “Didn’t I explain? We can’t go right now. Your friend is still unconscious. Her brother can barely move. You need to look after them, and so do I. When Seraphine recovers, we’ll travel. I promised you, didn’t I? We’ll go see the northern lights. That’ll make you happy, right?”
Every word felt like a rope tightening around my throat — gentle, warm, suffocating.
Only now did I understand: Seraphine had always been the invisible wall between us.
Even before her fall.
Even before the coma.
Back in high school, I thought she was helping me get closer to him — delivering my love letters, handing him my gifts, giving me advice.
But she was the one he called late at night.
She was the one he searched for in a crowd.
She was the one he smiled at when he thought I wasn’t looking.
My best friend.
My silent betrayal.
I must have zoned out because Rowan’s voice snapped like a whip. “What now? What’s going on in that head of yours? Are you insulting me with your silence? Speak up!”
My vision blurred as tears overflowed, hot and uncontrollable. I didn’t bother wiping them.
His expression softened instantly, the same pathetic boyish panic he used to manipulate me. “Hey, hey… I’m sorry, baby. I shouldn’t have raised my voice. You know I hate it when you cry—makes my chest hurt. Come here.”
He wrapped his arms around me, his fingers sliding behind my neck in that familiar way, guiding me toward a kiss.
His lips touched mine.
But there was no spark. No warmth.
Only revulsion.
There was a time when that kiss could undo me. When I would’ve forgiven him for anything just to feel wanted.
But now?
Now I finally understood the price of loving him.
I pulled away, keeping my voice flat. “My stomach hurts.”
He blinked, surprised. Then he gently brushed a tear from my cheek. “A stomachache? That’s it? Why didn’t you say so right away? I’ll call the driver. We’re going to the hospital.”
He dialed someone immediately, barking orders, pacing like he was dealing with a crisis. I stood by the doorway like a shadow watching him pretend to care.
The car ride was quiet. He held my hand, tracing lazy circles that made my skin crawl. For a moment, I almost let myself believe the lie — that he was worried about me. That he could choose me for once.
Then his phone buzzed.
He checked the screen, and in an instant, it was like I had never existed.
“What? Seraphine is conscious?” His whole face ignited with joy — a joy I had never seen directed at me. “Turn around! Take us back immediately. I have to be there when she wakes. She’s going to want to see me first.”
I stared at him. “And me? I don’t matter? I told you I’m sick, Rowan.”
He shot me a look of pure annoyance, like I was an inconvenience in his way. “You’re fine. It’s just a stomachache. Stop exaggerating. Driver, pull over.”
The car eased to a stop on the roadside.
Rowan stepped out, grabbed my arm, and practically shoved me onto the pavement. The sky opened up with cold raindrops that slid down my neck.
“Here,” he said, tossing his black credit card onto the wet ground like he was throwing scraps to a stray dog. “Call a taxi and go to the hospital yourself. Don’t make this bigger than it is.”
“Rowan—”
“Stay put,” he barked, then slammed the door shut.
The car sped off into the night, racing back to Seraphine — the woman he never stopped loving.
I stood on the shoulder of the road, rain soaking through my coat, heavy and icy. My hair clung to my face, and my hands trembled against my chest.
The cold seeped into me until I couldn’t tell if I was shivering from the weather or from heartbreak.
I whispered into the storm, voice shaking, “Just one more week. One more week… and I’ll finally be free.”
