DORIAN
“Do I look sick to you, dear loving husband?” She shot at me, almost immediately.
“Should I be honest?”
“Not. Funny. Leave me alone.”
“Hmm. Russell didn’t check in? Don’t you have that um… clearance with Vogue?”
She didn’t say anything in reply. I didn’t blame her regardless.
I couldn’t imagine what stress was going through her head.
I didn’t ask her what she saw.
Neither did I ask if she read all of it again or just enough to know she’d never look at me the same way again.
Because the way she was holding that folder told me everything.
She was still sitting on the couch. Same position, same cold look of stillness that didn’t feel passive—it felt exact.
She didn’t look up at me, she didn’t move away either.
Which, honestly, was worse.
Because Serafina always moved when
