“Neri…” Maeve tries.
“No,” she interrupts, brushing away the hand her friend tries to place on her shoulder. “Don’t treat me like some pathetic victim. I know exactly what I’ve gotten myself into.”
Callum crosses his arms over his chest, staring at her coldly.
“Then stop acting surprised every time she goes back to her husband.”
The comment is the last straw for Nerissa, and she grabs her coat from the back of the sofa.
“Don’t tell me how I feel ever again.”
Maeve takes a step toward her, concerned.
“Where are you going?”
“Anywhere I don’t have to listen to you reducing my relationship with Seraphina to a fucking class issue,” Nerissa replies bitterly.
“Because it is,” Callum says harshly, refusing to back down. “You still believe that love erases differences. But people like them protect their family name and their status above all else.”
Nerissa stands frozen by the door. For the first time since she arrived, exhaustion gives way to something more dangerous: a clear, silent sadness that chills her to the bone.
“You have no fucking idea what we’re going through,” she tells them before leaving.
Then she slams the door so hard that the pictures in the living room rattle.
On the other side of the door, silence suddenly settles between Maeve and Callum, who look at each other, not quite sure what to say.
As she walks down the building’s stairs with her phone clenched in her pocket and her heart turned to ashes, Nerissa realizes something she’s been avoiding for far too long: Seraphina Chapman may love her, but perhaps she’ll never love her more than she fears losing everything.
And that truth, cold and sharp, cuts deeper than any message ever could.
Chapter 13
“So, is it set? Next Saturday at seven. Bring that quinoa salad you make so well, and if you want, a bottle of that Ribera you have in the cellar. The Rashfords are coming too, and so is my sister with the kids. Nothing formal, you know, just a typical neighborhood barbecue.”
Seraphina forces a smile that Isobel can’t see and runs her free hand down her arm.
“Sure, we’ll be there,” she replies casually. As if Seraphina weren’t already thinking about how to put an end to it all. “You know how Elliot gets when there’s a grill involved. I’ll bring a couple of bottles, and thanks for offering to host it. Last time, the Thomas kids left my yard and house in a mess.”
“Oh, dear, you know we’d be delighted. And hey, if you feel like coming over early to help me out with something, you know the drill.”
“Perfect. See you then.”
Seraphina lets out a sigh and slips her phone into her small black purse. For a moment, she stands still beneath the yellowish streetlight, wondering how it’s possible that her life continues to unfold across two such opposing realities: barbecues, children laughing in the garden, dinners with Elliot—though lately they barely speak to each other—and now, this.The constant pull that keeps dragging her toward Nerissa as if the rest of the world were just a backdrop.
Finally, she pushes open the heavy glass door.
The concrete walls rise imposingly, covered with enormous black-and-white photographs. Ambient music vibrates beneath the elegant murmur of the guests. Artists, cultural journalists, private-sector investors, and far too many people dressed in black, feigning a sophistication that, at this moment, Seraphina finds exhausting as they cradle glasses of Chardonnay.
Seraphina regrets coming the moment she crosses the threshold. She knows she shouldn’t be there. She feels it in every fiber of her being as she hands her coat to the receptionist. She’s wearing a simple dark dress, no flashy jewelry, and her hair is pulled back into a bun that accentuates the delicacy of her features. She tries to go unnoticed and blend into the crowd, because the truth is, she hasn’t come to see Maeve Donnelly’s exhibition.
Nerissa is leaning against one of the columns, a glass in her hand and her black blazer open over a dark gray shirt. The spotlight highlights the firm angle of her jaw and that athletic bearing that has always drawn attention. She’s listening to an orthopedic surgeon, but her expression reveals a dangerous distance, a cold detachment that Seraphina recognizes instantly.
It’s the look Nerissa wears when she’s hurt.
Several days have passed since the message Seraphina sent her. Days of absolute silence that have carved deep wounds inside her.
Seraphina quickly looks away when the surgeon turns her head slightly and takes her time making her way through thecrowd of guests, feigning interest in the photographs, until she reaches the side hallway leading to the restrooms. The light there is dimmer and warmer, and the bustle of the exhibition is muffled behind the thick industrial walls.
