Seraphina needed to clear her head. The mansion was suffocating.
She told the staff she was going into the city to check on her "apartment." A lie. She didn't have an apartment in New York. She had a crumbling duplex in Philly and a daughter waiting for surgery.
But she couldn't leave the grounds. Not really. She had no car, and taking a train would take too long.
She found herself wandering to the old east wing. It was dusty, unused.
She found the dance studio.
It was exactly as she had left it. The barre, the mirrors, the piano in the corner.
She locked the door. She needed to move. To burn off the anxiety.
She stripped down to her underwear—a mismatched, cheap set. She didn't have dance clothes.
She turned on the old sound system. A haunting cello melody filled the room.
She began to move. Her body remembered the training she had abandoned for motherhood and survival. She spun, extended, leaped.
As she pivoted, her back faced the large mirrors.
The scars were visible.
Jagged, pink and white lines of keloid tissue that ran from her left shoulder blade down to her hip. The brand of the fire escape. The mark of the night June was born.
She closed her eyes, losing herself in the pain and the music.
The door handle rattled.
Seraphina froze. She had locked it.
But this was Julian's house. He had the master key.
The door swung open.
Julian stood there. He had been looking for her to discuss the dinner seating chart. He expected to find her sulking.
He didn't expect this.
He saw the woman in the center of the room. He saw the grace of her line.
And then he saw her back.
His eyes widened. The file in his hand slipped, hitting the floor with a thwack.
"What..." Julian stepped into the room, his voice losing its edge. "What is that?"
Seraphina spun around, her arms flying up to cover her chest, backing away until she hit the barre.
"Get out!" she screamed.
Julian didn't leave. He walked toward her, his eyes fixed on the angry, twisted skin peeking out from behind her arm.
"Who did that to you?" he demanded. His tone wasn't angry anymore. It was shocked. Horrified. "Is that why you look like a starved animal? Did someone hurt you?"
"It's none of your business," Seraphina hissed, grabbing her shirt from the floor and frantically pulling it on. The fabric covered the scars, but the image was burned into his retina.
"That looks like a burn," Julian said, stopping a few feet away. "A severe one. You didn't have that when you left."
"A lot of things happened after I left, Julian," she said, her voice trembling. "Things you didn't want to know about. Remember?"
He flinched. He had said that. I don't want to know.
But seeing the physical evidence of her suffering... it cracked something in his chest.
"Seraphina," he reached out a hand.
"Don't touch me," she warned, stepping back. "You forfeited the right to care about my scars three years ago."
She grabbed her jeans and bolted past him, running out of the room before he could see the tears threatening to fall.
Julian stood in the empty studio, the music still playing. He looked at the mirror where her reflection had been.
For the first time in three years, the ice in his veins felt like it was melting. And it burned.
