CHAPTER 4
1227 Words
SERAPHINA’S POV
I woke up to a ceiling I didn’t recognize.
Cold, grey concrete and recessed lighting. I blinked against the harsh morning sun streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. For three seconds, my brain was blessedly blank. Then, the memories of last night hit me like a physical blow. The altar. The
reception. The postnuptial agreement.
I was now Mrs. Killian Vane.
I pushed the heavy duvet off and sat up. I was wearing a black silk slip I’d found in the closet last night after finally tearing off the suffocating wedding dress. I rubbed my eyes, fighting the lingering headache, and stood up.
I walked out of the bedroom and into the adjoining private sitting area. I stopped dead in my tracks.
Standing in the corner of the room, completely out of place against the stark, modern furniture, was a battered black carbon-fiber case.
My breath caught in my throat. I crossed the room and popped the metal latches. I pulled the case open.
It was my cello. I ran my thumb over the deep scratch near the bridge—a scar from when I dropped it when I was twelve.
A cold chill washed over me. Killian didn't just figure out my identity at the reception. He hadn’t just noticed my calluses last night. He had my cello moved from the basement of my father's house in Connecticut all the way to this Manhattan penthouse. He had known about me before the wedding.
I closed the case, my hands shaking, and headed downstairs.
The lower level of the penthouse was alive with quiet, efficient activity. I walked into the massive kitchen. Killian was already sitting at the head of a long glass dining table, dressed in a sharp charcoal suit, reading an iPad. He didn't look up when I walked in.
An older woman in a crisp grey uniform was setting down a plate of sliced fruit. She looked up at me, her eyes narrowing slightly.
"Good morning, madam," she said. Her tone was polite, but her eyes were searching my face.
"Good morning," I said, my voice flat and raspy from sleep. I sat down at the opposite end of the ridiculously long table.
The housekeeper poured a cup of black coffee and set it in front of me.
"Thank you," I said softly. "This smells wonderful."
The woman froze. The silver coffee pot hovered in the air for a second too long. She stared at me, completely thrown.
"You're... welcome, madam," the housekeeper stammered, quickly retreating to the kitchen.
Killian finally looked up from his screen. A slow, dark smirk spread across his face.
"Careful," he murmured, his voice carrying easily across the distance between us. "Isabella doesn't acknowledge the help."
"I'm not going to treat people like garbage just to sell your lie," I shot back, wrapping my hands around the warm mug. "And speaking of lies. I saw the cello upstairs."
Killian took a sip of his espresso. "Did you?"
"You had it moved. You've known who I was this whole time. How long have you been watching me?"
"Long enough to know you prefer Earl Grey tea to coffee, yet you just accepted that cup without a word of complaint," he replied smoothly. "And long enough to know your father is a fool for hiding his only useful asset in the basement."
Before I could demand a real answer, the private elevator chimed. The polished steel doors slid open, and three women stepped out, pushing heavy rolling racks of clothing.
"What is this?" I asked, standing up.
"Your new wardrobe," Killian said, returning his attention to his iPad. "Isabella's style was loud, cheap, and desperate for attention. You are my wife now. You will dress like it. The styling team will get you sorted."
"I have my own clothes."
"Go with the stylists, Seraphina. We have a charity gala on Thursday."
For the next two hours, I was prodded, measured, and dressed. I stood in the middle of the massive walk-in closet while the stylists pinned hems and adjusted necklines. They brought out racks of tailored trousers, silk blouses, cashmere coats, and elegant evening gowns in muted tones of black, cream, and deep emerald.
They didn't ask for my opinion. They just followed the strict notes on the clipboards they brought with them. Killian’s notes. I felt like a porcelain doll, entirely stripped of my own agency. I was being packaged.
By the time they finally left, my head was pounding for real. I needed a break. I needed a glass of water, and I needed five minutes of absolute silence.
I walked down the quiet, carpeted hallway, passing several closed doors. One of them, made of heavy dark oak, was left slightly ajar.
I paused. I pushed it open just an inch.
It was his study. It was the only room in the house that actually looked lived-in. Books lined the walls. Blueprints and financial ledgers were scattered across a massive mahogany desk.
Killian was sitting behind the desk. He didn't know I was there.
He had taken his jacket off, and his tie was loosened. He was rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, his eyes squeezed shut. He looked exhausted. For a split second, I didn't see the ruthless billionaire who had bought my life. I saw a man carrying the crushing weight of a massive empire on his shoulders.
I knew that weight. I had carried my father's failing company for five years, keeping the books balanced by a thread while he gambled the profits away.
I took a breath, and my foot shifted, scraping softly against the floorboard.
Killian’s eyes snapped open. His head whipped toward the door.
I froze. I should have looked away. I should have backed out and closed the door. But I couldn't.
Our eyes locked.
The air in the room suddenly felt too thick to breathe. He stared at me, really looked at me, and a strange, heavy heat flared in the space between us. It was a jolt of raw chemistry that hit me so hard my stomach actually flipped.
The silence stretched, pulling tight like a wire about to snap.
Then, the shrill ring of his private desk phone shattered the quiet.
Killian blinked, the mask slamming instantly back into place. The cold shark returned. He picked up the receiver, his eyes never leaving mine.
"Yes," he answered crisply.
He listened for a few seconds. The muscle in his jaw flexed.
"Are you sure?" he asked. He leaned back in his leather chair. "Keep eyes on her. Don't approach yet."
He hung up the phone.
I stepped fully into the room, crossing my arms defensively to hide the sudden racing of my heart. "What was that?"
Killian rested his elbows on the desk, pressing his fingertips together. A slow, dark smile curved his lips.
"That was my security team," he said softly. "It seems a blonde woman matching your sister's exact description was just spotted trying to board a private charter out of Teterboro Airport."
My blood ran cold. "Isabella."
"Yes," Killian murmured, his dark eyes glittering with dangerous amusement. He tilted his head, watching me like a hawk. "So tell me, wife. Should we bring her back to face the music? Or are you enjoying the throne too much to give it up?"
- Writer
