During the following weeks, Seraphina Harrington blossomed outwardly into the sort of socialite the world adored—graceful, well-presented, delicate in speech, radiant under the soft lights of cocktail parties and charity luncheons. Cameras loved her. Social circles embraced her. And with her return to public life came the reawakening of an old narrative: that she and the youngest, most enigmatic chairman in the world were as close as ever, the same inseparable duo from their youth—before kidnappings, before trauma, before contracts and clipped wings.
People believed what they wanted to believe.
And Seraphina let them.
In front of others, she laughed easily, spoke glowingly of her "devoted husband," and allowed the illusion to settle like gold dust across their perception. To them, her life looked enviable. She was still the adored fiancée who had transformed into the untouchable wife of a man who had once followed her like a shadow, a man who had crossed oceans if she had so much as sighed that she missed him.
They remembered the old Adrian—soft-spoken, attentive, puppy‑eyed, a boy who clung to her not because he needed her, but because he adored her.
The new Adrian had become mythic in beauty and terrifying in distance, but that change had been written off by the world as maturation, leadership, the consequence of tragedy.
People didn't realize the magnitude of the shift.
They couldn't.
Because Seraphina hid it masterfully.
She played her role in public with such precision that not even the richest women in Gangnam could perceive the hollow lingering behind her smile. And why would they? As far as anyone could see, she and her husband were still a golden pair: the icy chairman and his elegantly warm wife.
But when the mansion doors closed behind her?
The truth revealed itself like a wound.
In the east wing, she existed quietly. Not imprisoned—not physically—but confined in practice. Guards monitored her outings. Therapists monitored her stability. And Adrian? He managed everything with the detachment of a strategist, not a spouse. He responded to her presence like one responds to reports on market fluctuations—acknowledgment without emotion.
And yet she still wanted to see him.
Still needed to see him.
Still waited for him.
That need humiliated her, but she couldn't fight it.
Even after everything.
Even after nearly losing herself.
Even after signing a contract that made her his wife in name but a ghost in every other aspect.
The first time she requested a meeting with him, she expected to be ignored. After all, she had no rights, no leverage. Her existence in his life depended entirely on his tolerance. She waited the entire afternoon like a schoolgirl waiting for a confession reply, then into the evening, tapping her fingers against her notebook, rehearsing what she might say, what she might not say, which words would cross a line he'd never forgive.
Hours passed.
Finally, a soft knock on her suite door.
"Madam, the Chairman will see you now."
Her breath stilled.
Her pulse jumped.
She smoothed the skirt of her dress, checked her reflection once, twice, three times.
She told herself not to expect warmth.
Not to expect familiarity.
Not to expect him.
But when she entered his private study—her entire being froze.
Because he had changed again.
Not in the catastrophic, soul-shattering way he had changed after the kidnapping.
But in the way that made beauty frightening.
Adrian Vale Harrington stood near the window, the moonlight cutting across his figure like a sculpture carved in silence. His shoulders had become even more sharply defined, the musculature beneath his black dress shirt sinuous and lithe, like someone whose body had been honed by a life lived under perpetual tension. His profile was ethereal in the same way a blade was beautiful—not because it was gentle, but because it could kill.
He didn't look at her when she entered.
He simply said, in that low, impeccably controlled voice of his:
"You asked to see me."
Not Hello.Not Sera.Not What's wrong?
Just a line, neutral and cold, the kind of phrasing he used when addressing a documentary interviewer or a foreign minister on a diplomatic call.
"Yes," she breathed out.
Her voice sounded thin, brittle.
He turned then, slowly.
And the shock of seeing his face full-on made her inhale without meaning to.
His beauty was no longer youthful.
It was lethal.
Chiseled. Austere. Otherworldly.
Like the world's cruelty had stripped away all softness and left only something immaculate and untouchable. The kind of face someone could stare at for hours and never reach the bottom of.
She didn't say it aloud.
She didn't dare.
But she thought it—
How can someone become even more… this? After everything?
He didn't notice her awe. Or perhaps he did and chose to ignore it.
"What did you want to discuss?" he asked.
Again, that tone.
The tone he used during press conferences where journalists attempted to pry into his psyche and he responded with clinical precision, revealing nothing.
She clasped her hands to keep them from trembling.
"I… wanted to ask about my schedule next week," she said.
His expression did not change.
She pushed on, forcing steadiness into her voice. "And about my visits to the city. I was wondering if it's still permitted for me to—"
He cut in, not unkindly, but without space for emotional depth.
"The permissions remain. Your outings are approved until further notice. You will have escorts with you at all times. Your therapy sessions must be attended twice a week. Nothing about that has changed."
She swallowed.
It felt like she was speaking to a CEO—not the man who once held her hand during thunderstorms because she hated the thunder.
"Right," she said, nodding mechanically. "Thank you. I only wanted to confirm."
A silence fell between them.
She tried again. "And—are you eating well? You look thinner than before."
He blinked once.
No warmth.
No gratitude.
Just factual acknowledgment.
"I've been busy," he said. "Work has been demanding."
Another pause.
She waited for him to ask about her.
He didn't.
She waited for him to ask how she'd been coping.
He didn't.
She waited for him to show even the smallest flicker of concern.
He didn't.
He simply regarded her with that elegant, distant composure that made her feel like a stranger who happened to be carrying his last name.
She forced a fragile smile.
"This is… better than nothing," she whispered, almost too softly.
He heard.
He always heard.
But he didn't react.
Not visibly.
Instead, he returned to his desk.
"If that's all, I need to finalize several contracts tonight."
Which meant: leave.
Which meant: don't search for more.
Which meant: don't try to bridge what he had already severed.
She bowed her head politely—like a guest, not a wife—and walked out of his study with her heart pounding painfully inside her chest.
The door closed behind her with the softest click.
Inside, Adrian did not let himself exhale.
Outside, Seraphina walked back toward the east wing with her guards trailing her, telling herself over and over—
At least he sees me.
At least he lets me speak to him.
At least he doesn't hate me.
It wasn't love.
It wasn't affection.
It wasn't even warmth.
But it was something.
And for a woman who had already been caged once—
Something was better than nothing.