Because beneath all that anger, something far worse still exists: the sickening need to move closer, to kiss her until she stops looking at her like that.
Chapter 7
Sunday afternoon settles over the Chapman residence with a calm that feels almost offensive. The Manchester sky finally offers a bright respite, bathing the garden in golden light and the fresh scent of wet grass. Music drifts from the outdoor speakers, mingling with the occasional laughter of neighbors and the rhythmic sizzle of the barbecue. Elliot tends the grill with a beer in hand and a surprisingly domestic patience for a man accustomed to negotiating millions in front of boards of directors.
Everything seems perfect. The long table, draped in light-colored tablecloths, glistens in the afternoon sun. Crystal glasses catch the light and scatter it in sparkling flashes. Ivy runs across the lawn with grass-stained sneakers, chasing a ball far too big for her little legs. Oliver, seated on the edge of the terrace, watches the scene with the quiet composure that has always characterized him despite his age. The whole picture could have come straight out of an advertisement for family happiness.
And yet, Seraphina Chapman feels as though she’s drowning inside.
“Phina, honey, can you bring out another tray?” Elliot calls from the grill, raising his voice just enough to be heard over the crackle of the meat. “Stefan has apparently decided he’s going to eat everything.”
Laughter ripples through the garden. Seraphina flashes an automatic smile, the kind that comes effortlessly to her now.
“That explains why he’s so quiet,” she replies as she gathers several empty plates.
Stefan, stretched out in one of the deck chairs, raises his glass with theatrical indignation.
“I’m being deeply insulted in a house that isn’t even mine,” their neighbor protests humorously.
“And yet you keep coming back,” Elliot replies, turning a rack of ribs.
The conversation flows easily through jokes as Seraphina heads toward the outdoor kitchen. Inside, emotional exhaustion weighs on her with every breath. Since the argument with Nerissa in the medical records hallway, she hasn’t been able to regain her footing. Nerissa’s words still sting beneath her ribs:
“At least she dared to hold my hand in public.”
She knows exactly why it hurts.
Because Nerissa has loved other women openly, freely, and honestly.
And she, in contrast, has done nothing but confine their story to secret rooms and hurried escapes.
Guilt weighs heavily on her as she watches Ivy run toward her.
“Mom, look at the drawing I made!” the little girl exclaims, panting, her cheeks flushed from the warmth. Strands of hair cling to her damp forehead.
Ivy drops a crumpled sheet of paper into her lap and climbs halfway onto the chair, seeking closeness. Seraphina looks down at the drawing.
There they are—the four of them—beneath a huge sun, with a disproportionately large house and crooked smiles sketched in marker.
A perfect family.
A sharp ache blooms in the center of her chest.
“It’s beautiful, sweetheart,” Seraphina murmurs, slowly stroking her daughter’s hair while forcing a smile that already aches in her cheeks.
“Dad helped me, but he’s terrible at drawing dogs,” Ivy adds seriously.
“That’s objectively true,” Seraphina confirms, and the girl bursts into delighted laughter.
Ivy launches into a rambling story about how Elliot had mistaken a horse for a dog while drawing. Seraphina nods, trying to genuinely listen, but her phone vibrates in her pocket and her entire body immediately tenses.
It’s a brutal reflex.
Hope rises into her throat before she can stop it.
Nerissa.
It has to be her.
