SERAFINA
The elevator doors slide open with a whisper, revealing Lorenzo's penthouse—*our* penthouse now, I suppose, though the thought sits wrong in my chest like a stone I can't swallow.
I step inside, my wedding dress rustling against the marble floor. Black silk, not white. I'd insisted on that, at least. One small rebellion in a day full of surrenders.
The space is exactly what I expected. Cold. Modern. Impersonal. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city, glass and steel stretching toward a sky gone dark. Everything has sharp angles and muted colors—gray, black, chrome. There's no warmth here. No life. It's a carefully constructed fortress, just like the man who owns it.
*Just like me*, a voice whispers in the back of my mind. I silence it.
Lorenzo moves past me without a word
