The penthouse was dark when Sebastian finally came home. It was past midnight.
Catherine was sitting in the living room, on one of the white armchairs, staring out at the city lights. She hadn't turned on a single lamp.
The front door opened, bringing with it the noise of the hallway and the scent of him. He walked in, tossing his keys on the console table. He flipped the light switch.
The sudden brightness was blinding. Catherine blinked, her eyes adjusting.
"Why are you sitting in the dark?" Sebastian asked, his tone irritable. He looked tired, but it was a satisfied kind of tired. The kind that comes after a long, productive day.
Catherine didn't move. "Why does she have my bracelet?"
Sebastian sighed. He walked to the bar, loosening his tie. "We're really doing this? Now?"
"Yes. Now."
He poured a drink. "It's a bracelet, Catherine. Half of New York owns one. It's a status symbol. It seemed appropriate for a VP."
"You gave it to me as an apology for missing our anniversary," Catherine said, her voice low. "You gave it to her as a welcome gift. On the same day. From the same order."
"It was convenient," Sebastian said, shrugging. "My assistant ordered them. It saved time."
"Am I just a line item on an expense report to you?" Catherine asked. "Is our marriage just logistics?"
Sebastian slammed the glass down on the counter. Liquid sloshed over the rim.
"You're being paranoid," he accused, turning to face her. "You're looking for reasons to be unhappy."
"She is your ex-girlfriend, Sebastian. She is working in your office. She is wearing your jewelry."
"She is qualified!" Sebastian shouted. "And she has no one else! Do you understand that? Her father died bankrupt. She has no family. She tried to end her life when I left her three years ago!"
The secret hung in the air between them.
Catherine stared at him. So that was it. The guilt anchor.
"She tried to kill herself?" Catherine whispered.
"Yes," Sebastian said, his voice dropping, thick with shame and responsibility. "Because I chose to marry you. I broke her, Catherine. I owe her safety. I owe her stability."
He gestured around the penthouse. "You have the ring. You have the house. You have the status. You have... everything. You are strong. She is broken."
"Be the bigger person, Catherine," he pleaded, though it sounded more like a command. "Stop competing with a woman who has nothing."
Catherine stood up. Her legs felt weak. The unfairness of it choked her.
I am broken too, she wanted to scream. My body is failing me. I am scared every time I look in the mirror.
But she couldn't say it. Not now. Not when he had just declared that Serena's fragility was the reason he prioritized her. If Catherine told him she was sick, she would just be another broken thing competing for his pity. And Serena had a head start on pity.
"I'm broken too," she whispered.
Sebastian didn't hear her. He was already looking at his phone, checking a text message.
"I'm sleeping in the guest room," he announced. "I have an early flight tomorrow. I don't want to argue all night."
He walked past her, his shoulder brushing against hers. He didn't even pause.
Catherine gripped the back of the sofa to stop herself from falling.
"The bigger person," she repeated to the empty room. She let out a laugh that sounded manic, sharp and jagged.
She walked to her design studio at the back of the apartment. It was her sanctuary. She turned on the drafting table light.
She grabbed her charcoal stick, but then paused. She needed this preserved. She needed it safe. She picked up her tablet instead, opening the digital sketching app. She began to draw furiously, the stylus scratching against the glass. She didn't draw a gown for a gala. She drew something dark, sharp, structural. A dress that looked like armor. A dress for a funeral.
She wrote The Mourning Collection at the top of the digital canvas. As she worked, the files automatically synced to the private family cloud server—the one Sebastian insisted they use for "security."
Her phone buzzed on the table.
She picked it up. A text from an unknown number.
She opened it. It was a photo. Grainy, old, scanned from a yearbook or a polaroid.
It was Sebastian and Serena, maybe ten years ago. They were at a college party. Sebastian was looking at Serena with an expression of raw, unguarded adoration. It was a look of total surrender.
Below the photo was a caption:
He never looked at you like that.
Catherine stared at the screen until it went black.
