The invitation had been pressed into her hand that morning, a satin-edged card engraved with gold leaf, the kind of thing that once would have sent Seraphina fluttering with excitement, already planning her dress, her makeup, her subtle performance of perfection. But now, as she stood at the threshold of the mirrored ballroom, the weight of the paper felt almost mocking—another reminder of the new life she had bargained her way into, one she had bled for, clawed for, cried for, and ultimately trapped herself in.
The chandeliers overhead glittered like frozen lightning, hundreds of crystal shards capturing the light and shattering it into dancing fragments. It was a room designed for excess, for performance, for the kind of glamour she used to wield like a weapon. And tonight, of course, she looked perfect. She had to. Her hair had been coaxed into soft waves; her dress was a pale, shimmering silver that clung to her like moonlight. The makeup was subtle, expensive, flawless. The shoes were ivory satin. She wore diamonds and pearls. She looked like a socialite, a young wife basking in luxury, a woman adored by the man who owned half the world.
None of which was true.
Behind her heels—just two steps back, unnoticeable to anyone except her—stood the invisible shadows assigned to her. Her security detail. Psychological specialists disguised as unobtrusive staff, dressed in tailored black suits that blended seamlessly into the décor of any high-end event. They existed in the periphery, silent but always watching, tracking her every shift in posture, every irregularity in breath. Her "escorts." Her guards. Her minders. Her cage with human faces.
Her cage with training manuals thicker than most novels, each page a guideline on preventing a volatile dependant from self-harm.
It was humiliating if she thought about it. So she tried not to.
The moment she stepped into the ballroom, whispers fluttered like moth wings. People smiled, nodded, pretended they hadn't been speculating about her absence from public life these past months. Pretended they hadn't heard about the Harrington heir's tragic transformation, or the rumors swirling about the young fiancée who had once been meant for a life of effortless luxury and now lived in a gilded, mysterious quietness.
Seraphina moved with practiced grace through their curiosity.
"Lady Harrington, you look stunning."
"So glad to see you out again."
"Your husband is well, I hope?"
She answered as though she had rehearsed each line—which, in truth, she had. Her voice was soft, warm, calculated in its friendliness.
"He's well, thank you."
"He's working so hard lately."
"Yes, we're doing wonderfully."
The lies tasted stale on her tongue, but she smiled as though she believed them. It had become one of her new talents—this gentle deception that maintained the façade of a stable marriage, of a loving couple, of a life not crumbling quietly beneath jewel-studded shoes.
People wanted the story they had been trained to expect: the phoenix-like heir rising from tragedy with the devoted childhood sweetheart who had always been by his side. A romance resurrected. A love renewed.
They didn't know that she was not allowed within the west wing of his estate unless summoned.
They didn't know she needed written approval and armed accompaniment to step outside her own home.
They didn't know that the contract she signed had stripped her of power so cleanly, so elegantly, she felt the absence like a limb sawed off in her sleep.
But she held her glass and smiled, letting herself be admired.
She told them she was fine.
She told them they were still close.
She told them she saw him often.
Every word a practiced fiction.
Across the room, a group of women she'd known since childhood waved her over—heiresses with bright eyes and sharp instincts, women who had always existed within the rarefied air of the ultra-wealthy. She walked toward them, her guards falling back by a calculated distance, always unobtrusive but never too far.
"Seraphina! Finally! We thought you'd become a ghost," one of the women exclaimed, tone light, eyes probing.
She forced a laugh. "You know how it is. Married life."
"And with a man like him," another sighed dramatically, fluttering her lashes. "Is it true he's become impossibly handsome? You're so lucky."
Lucky.
The word scraped against her ribs like a dull blade.
She remembered the way he had looked the last time she had seen him—sharp, exhausted, a creature carved out of endurance and severity rather than softness. His beauty was real, yes. Earth-shattering, even. But not lucky. Never lucky. Not when he looked as if every breath hurt him. Not when he kept the world—and her—at arm's length like a rabid dog.
"He's doing well," she said instead, the statement vague, noncommittal.
"Well?" One of them arched a brow. "Everyone's talking. He's become a force of nature."
A force of nature. A storm that walked, dressed in tailored black and invisible grief. She supposed that was true enough.
Someone offered her a drink. She accepted it only to have one of her guards quietly intervene, murmuring something to the server and replacing her glass with another—non-alcoholic, measured, safe. She caught the subtle exchange. The women around her didn't. That was how discreetly they operated.
She took a sip, a fragile anger simmering in her chest.
She used to be able to drink what she wanted. To eat what she wanted. To go wherever she wanted.
Now she had a guard approving her beverages.
And yet—if he hadn't found her, that night, bleeding on the cold bathroom tiles of the east wing—
She would have died.
Because she had been weak. Because she had been desperate. Because her life had started breaking apart faster than she could hold it together.
So she said nothing. She drank the safe drink. She smiled again.
"Oh, your husband!" one of the women gasped suddenly, looking at her phone. "He was just photographed leaving the Financial Consortium building. He looks incredible—Seraphina, how do you even function with a man like that at home?"
The phone was handed to her.
It was a news photo, taken just an hour earlier. Adrian Harrington stepping out of a skyscraper, his hair pushed back by the wind, his coat unbuttoned, the sharp lines of his suit emphasizing how drastically—almost inhumanly—his body had transformed. Sleek. Powerful. A panther disguised in tailored silk.
Her heart clenched without warning.
He looked so tired.
The comments below the image were full of awe, admiration, bewilderment.
The heir is unstoppable.
This is what loss does to a man.
He's become a myth.
No one knew how cold the myth was.
No one knew how much blood it cost him to breathe.
No one knew that the man in the picture wouldn't even look at her unless necessary, and when he did, it was with the detached politeness one used for strangers.
She handed the phone back.
"He's working a lot," was all she said.
But inside her chest, something twisted—pain, longing, humiliation, fear, all braided together in a knot she could neither untangle nor swallow.
A laugh pulled her attention back. Her friends were chatting again, drifting to gossip, business, fashion. The world continued around her as if nothing were wrong.
And she played along, because that was what she was trained to do—not by etiquette lessons, not by her parents, not by the elite circles of wealth, but by the rules of survival she had learned under his roof.
Her guards shifted subtly behind her, keeping the perimeter. To others, they were footmen. To her, they were chains.
She inhaled the heavy floral scent of the ballroom.
For a moment she imagined herself smashing every crystal glass in the room just so she could feel something other than this carefully controlled emptiness.
Then the music swelled.
The chandeliers gleamed.
The laughter sparkled.
And she continued to smile, as if nothing in her life were falling apart.
Because in this world—this high-gloss society dripping with silk and secrets—appearance was everything.
And Seraphina, no matter how clipped her wings had become, still knew how to wear the mask perfectly.
Even if she was dying behind it.