CHAPTER 32 — THE FINAL FACE-OFF
Seraphina
The air in the visiting block smells like bleach and metal.
It's too clean. Too sharp. Like something is being erased.
I stay standing.
The chairs are bolted to the floor. Hard plastic. Meant for people who have already lost.
I don't feel like sitting.
The steel door opens.
Marcus walks in.
For a moment, I almost don't recognize him.
The orange uniform hangs loose on his body. His shoulders are smaller. His face looks tired in a way I have never seen before. His hair is unwashed. His eyes move quickly, trying to find control in a place where he has none.
But the pride is still there.
Thin.
Cracked.
Still there.
He picks up the phone. His hand shakes slightly. He presses the other hand against the glass.
I don't reach for mine.
"Seraphina," he says. His voice is rough. "Thank God. You have to fix this. Julian set me up. He used the wedding planning to get access to everything. He twisted things. He turned you against me."
He leans closer to the glass.
"You know me. You know I would never hurt you."
I step closer.
Close enough that he can see my face clearly.
"I remember the hospital floor, Marcus."
His expression changes.
Just a flicker.
"What?" he says quickly. "What hospital? What are you talking about?"
"The tiles were white," I say calmly. "Small. Cold. I remember how they felt against my cheek."
He stares at me.
"You've never been in a hospital like that," he says. "You're confused. This place is getting to you."
"I remember the smell," I continue. "Strong cleaner. Wax. I remember the light above me. And I remember your shoes."
His breathing changes.
"They were polished," I say. "Dark leather. I remember the sound they made when you walked away."
Silence.
He stares at me like I have stepped out of something he doesn't understand.
"Seraphina," he says slowly, "you're not making sense."
But his voice is not steady anymore.
"You were already looking at private clinics," I say quietly. "You were thinking about how an accident would look. You said it would be tragic. Unavoidable."
His fingers tighten around the phone.
"I never said that."
"You said honeymoon accidents are common," I reply. "Especially overseas."
His face drains of color.
That conversation happened in his office.
Behind a closed door.
No one else there.
He never wrote it down.
He never told anyone.
"How do you know that?" he whispers.
I don't answer.
Instead, I say softly, "You kept a knife in the bedside drawer. Silver handle. You said it was for protection."
His hand drops from the glass.
His eyes widen.
"You've never seen my bedroom," he says.
I tilt my head slightly.
"You moved it after you started planning," I say. "You were afraid someone would find it."
He takes a step back.
Now he looks at me like I am something he cannot control.
"You're sick," he says, but it sounds weak. "Julian told you this. He hacked something. He's messing with you."
I shake my head slowly.
"No one told me."
"Then how?" he demands. His voice rises. "How do you know things I never said out loud?"
I step closer to the glass.
"So you admit you thought them."
He freezes.
That silence says everything.
"You planned my death," I say. My voice is steady. "You calculated it. You even practiced the story you would tell."
His breathing becomes uneven.
"You're insane," he says, but there's fear behind it now. "You need help."
"Maybe," I say softly. "But you're the one in here."
His jaw tightens.
For the first time, he looks unsure.
Not angry.
Not defensive.
Afraid.
"You can't prove any of that," he says.
"I don't need to," I reply.
We stare at each other.
The space between us feels heavy.
"I remember everything," I say.
That's all.
Not how.
Not why.
Just that.
He searches my face for a crack. For doubt. For confusion.
There is none.
"You're not right," he says again, but his voice breaks at the edge.
I straighten.
"You always thought I was behind you," I say. "You never realized I was watching."
His lips part slightly.
He presses his hand back against the glass.
"Seraphina," he says, and now there is no pride left. "Don't leave me here. You know I need you. You know I built everything for us."
"You built it for yourself."
His fist slams against the glass.
The sound echoes down the hall.
Guards look over.
"You can't walk away," he says loudly. "You don't even know what you're saying. You sound crazy."
I hold his gaze.
"Maybe I do."
And then I turn.
Behind me, he starts shouting.
"How do you know? Seraphina! How do you know?"
I don't answer.
My heels move steadily across the floor.
Click.
Click.
Click.
The sound follows me down the hallway.
—
Julian
I'm waiting outside the visiting room.
When the door opens, she steps out.
She looks pale, but not shaken.
More like something inside her has settled.
He's still yelling behind the door.
I can hear fragments.
"How—"
"She's insane—"
"Tell me how—"
I step toward her.
"What happened?" I ask quietly.
She looks at me.
"He wanted to know how I knew," she says.
"Knew what?"
She hesitates just a second.
"Things he never told anyone."
I frown slightly. "Like what?"
She gives a small shake of her head.
"Just… things."
That's not like her.
She's usually clear. Direct.
But right now, she looks distant. Not confused. Just far away.
"He sounded angry," I say.
"He was scared," she answers.
That makes me pause.
"Scared of what?"
"Of losing control."
We walk down the hallway together.
"He said you sounded crazy," I tell her gently.
A faint smile touches her lips.
"Good," she says.
I study her face.
"You didn't threaten him, did you?"
"No."
"Then what did you do?"
"I reminded him."
"Of what?"
She looks straight ahead.
"That some things don't disappear."
I don't understand what she means.
But I don't push.
When we reach the exit doors, sunlight spills across the floor.
She pauses for just a second before stepping into it.
Behind us, Marcus is still shouting.
Out here, his voice sounds smaller.
Like it belongs to someone already forgotten.
I take her hand.
"It's over," I say.
She looks at me.
"Yes," she replies softly.
But there's something in her eyes I can't quite read.
Not madness.
Not fear.
Something older.
Something certain.
And for the first time since all of this began—
I realize Marcus isn't afraid of prison.
He's afraid of her.