POV: Seraphina Wynver
The loudest rooms are said to be the quietest.
That night was the quietest I had ever experienced at home.
Behind me, the door clicked shut, yet the noise persisted. Like something that wasn't ready to let go, it echoed slowly and dragged. The temperature was lower than it should have been. The kind of cold that begins in your bones, where instinct resides, rather than the kind that comes from the weather.
I should've been at Delmare, Ardinelle's glittering rooftop restaurant, sipping red wine under soft fairy lights. Our table was booked weeks in advance, our fifth wedding anniversary. The last time Cassian and I had dinner there, he kissed my hand and told me he'd never stop choosing me.
But tonight, he didn't show.
No text. No call.
Just… nothing.
I waited for seventy-four minutes at that table. I observed couples grinning, exchanging toasts, and sharing morsels of risotto. I sat there wearing a crimson silk dress that he had personally chosen for me, the kind that clings to your body like a lover. The server continued to look at me with the confused, pitying look that I had been all too accustomed to over the years. After a while, I asked for the check without touching the food.
Now that I was home, I was still dressed for a celebration that never took place, and I entered a quiet so dense that it made me question my sanity.
There were no lights on. It was too quiet. Above the big hall, the chandelier flickered dullly once before dying once more. Slipping out of my heels, I stepped onto the marble, half expecting to hear movement, half expecting to hear laughing.
But there was only quiet.
And perfume.
My perfume.
Citrine Noir, a scent so rare Cassian had it imported from Saria for my birthday. Orange blossom, black amber, and a secret note that always lingered longer than anything else in a room. But I hadn't worn it tonight.
Why was it hanging in the hallway now?
I moved forward, slow and measured. Past the framed paintings I'd picked. Past the vase we bought in Florence. Past the antique mirror where I once watched Cassian wrap his arms around me from behind, whispering, "This house is only a home with you in it."
I used to believe him.
Tonight, the house felt like a stranger.
The scent was stronger now. Leading me like a trail. Toward the back hallway. Toward the guest room he converted into a study last year. The one I wasn't supposed to enter.
He called it his "war room."
It was never locked. But I'd never dared.
Something pressed against my ribs. I couldn't tell if it was fear or fury.
Then I heard it.
A laugh.
Low. Playful. Feminine.
Too familiar.
No.
It couldn't be.
I picked up speed. My fingers curled into the silk of my dress as I turned the corner and stepped toward the slightly ajar door.
The light inside was warm. The kind that always made Cassian's skin glow.
And then I saw her.
Zirelle Avan.
My best friend since university.
On her knees.
Between his legs.
Smiling up at him like she owned him.
She was wearing my robe. The ivory silk one embroidered with my initials. A wedding gift from my mother. It slipped halfway down her shoulder, exposing skin she had no business revealing in this house.
Cassian leaned back on the desk, shirt open, whiskey in hand. He wasn't touching her, not in that moment. But his eyes… God, his eyes.
They didn't flinch when he saw me.
Neither did hers.
Zirelle turned her head casually, like someone mildly annoyed at an interruption.
"Oh," she said, almost sweetly. "You're back early."
I couldn't move.
I couldn't breathe.
My throat went dry, the silk collar of my dress suddenly suffocating.
Cassian took a slow sip of whiskey. "You didn't say you were coming home."
"I was at Delmare," I said. My voice cracked. "Waiting."
He blinked. "Right."
Right?
Zirelle stood and adjusted the robe with no shame, no panic. Just… confidence. The kind that only comes from knowing you've already won.
"We were going to tell you," she said.
"When?" I asked, dead calm. "After dessert?"
Cassian exhaled, annoyed. "This isn't how I wanted you to find out."
"You mean you didn't want me to find out," I corrected.
His gaze darkened, but he said nothing.
And Zirelle?
She had the audacity to look tender. "Sera, I know this hurts. But it just… happened."
I laughed. It wasn't a real laugh. More like a tremor cracking through my chest.
"It just happened?" I echoed. "Was that before or after you wore my perfume, drank my wine, and fucked my husband in my house?"
Neither of them spoke.
I waited. One heartbeat. Two.
Then Zirelle smiled, the same smile she used when she pitied people.
"You're strong," she said, stepping toward the hallway. "You always were."
And with that, she disappeared down the corridor.
Cassian didn't follow her.
He just looked at me and said, "We should talk when you're calm."
And then he walked out.
Just like that.
I don't remember walking to the bedroom.
I don't remember shutting the door.
I only remember staring at the mirror and not recognizing the woman in the reflection.
She looked expensive. Polished. Immaculate.
But her eyes…
Her eyes were dead.
I sat on the edge of the bed, gripping the mattress like it was the only real thing left. All the pieces started clicking together.
The business trips he'd taken solo.
The perfume bottle I couldn't find last month.
The way Zirelle started canceling plans.
The time she accidentally texted me "on my way" at 11PM and claimed it was for someone else.
The red lace thong I found in our laundry that wasn't mine.
I hadn't wanted to believe it.
Because once you see it, you can't unsee it.
Eventually, I stood.
Took off the dress.
Hung it gently in the wardrobe, not because it deserved respect, but because I did.
Then I opened the drawer by my side of the bed.
Pulled out the journal, I'd been keeping journals for years. A habit from childhood. Thoughts. Dreams. Regrets. But lately, it had become a place where I documented the inconsistencies I didn't want to admit were real.
I flipped to the last page.
The page I once reserved for our "next chapter."
I stared at the empty space for a moment.
Then I wrote:
I died tonight. But not quietly.
I won't scream. I won't cry.
I'll burn. And when I rise, I won't be Seraphina Wynver anymore.
I'll be the thing they never saw coming.
The night air hit me like truth.
Sharp. Cold. Honest.
I didn't know where I was going yet, but I knew what I was becoming.
Not a widow.
Not a divorcee.
Not a broken woman.
I was becoming the storm.
And they would learn…
You don't bury a woman like me and expect her not to come back swinging.