Seraphina had not meant to confess anything.
Not to him.
Not to the therapists.
Not to the guards who watched her with careful, neutral expressions as though any sudden movement might shatter her into a thousand frantic pieces.
She simply needed to breathe.
And sometimes, thoughts were easier to breathe onto paper.
So she sat at her small writing desk—an antique walnut piece placed near the window overlooking the east garden—and smoothed out a sheet of stationary. The paper smelled faintly of cedar and lavender, the ink pen heavier than she expected, the kind of pen meant for handwritten contracts or corporate signatures. It was expensive. Too expensive for the messy tangle of emotions she spilled across its surface.
She began to write.
I feel trapped.
The first sentence carved itself out like a wound.
She hesitated, then wrote more.
I don't know what I want anymore. I don't know if I want to run or if I want to beg him to let me stay. I don't want to go back to my parents. I don't want to ask him for anything. I am ashamed to even want things.
Her handwriting was small and hurried.
I feel like a burden. Like every breath I take is another weight on his shoulders. Why did he stop me? Why did he marry me? Why does he do these things if he hates me? Why do I feel safer here than anywhere else? Why does that terrify me?
Ink smudged under her palm, a shaky tremor betraying her.
I wanted to go out today. I wanted to feel normal. But I don't even have a card. I don't even have the right to buy something for myself without asking him. I don't want to ask. I can't ask. I'm scared if I ask, he'll see how pathetic I am.
She exhaled shakily.
I don't want him to think I'm using him. I don't want him to think I'm still the girl who only cared about status. I don't even know who I am now.
She paused again.
Maybe it's better if I just stay here. It's not like I can survive anywhere else anymore.
A soft knock echoed at the door.
Seraphina jumped slightly, instinctively covering the paper with her arm.
"Madam," a maid's voice came gently, "tea is ready."
She stiffened. "You can leave it."
The maid curtsied and left without pushing further. But Seraphina didn't notice the way the woman's eyes had flickered toward the writing desk—or how the servant lingered a breath too long at the door, as if silently memorizing the atmosphere of the room.
Seraphina returned to the page.
He said marriage to me will give me nothing. I know that. I know I am nothing. I know I came back because I didn't want to lose him. I didn't even like him before. I don't know why losing him feels like losing everything now.
Her hand froze.
That sentence scared her.
As though exposing something too raw, too vulnerable. She tore the sheet from the pad and folded it once, twice, again, until it was a small paper square.
She did not notice the faint shadow under the door.
A servant, making sure she hadn't started crying again.
A servant doing their job.
A servant who would later knock on the private office in the west wing and quietly report every detail—including the fact that Mrs. Harrington had spent thirty minutes writing something down, looking distressed.
And the Chairman always listened.
Every update, no matter how small.
The Next Morning
Seraphina woke to the sound of footsteps outside her door. Routine. Guards switching shifts. The shuffle of breakfast trays being delivered. The soft clink of porcelain—more delicate than her mood.
But something different waited for her.
A small black velvet box sat neatly on her bedside table.
She stared at it for a long time, confusion tightening in her chest like a fist.
She reached for it carefully, as though it might explode.
Inside was a card.
A credit card.
Black. Unmarked. Weighty. Sleek.
Not the Harrington Infinite Card—the one she remembered from their engagement period, the single swipe of which could buy an island.
This one was different.
On the bottom corner, in minimalist lettering: RH-PRIVATE / RETAIL TIER.
She blinked.
Retail tier?
Retail…?
A folded slip of paper lay beneath the card, printed in immaculate serif font.
FOR PERSONAL PURCHASES ONLY.SPECIAL LIMITATIONS APPLY.NO CASH TRANSFER, INVESTMENT, OR ASSET ACCESS.ACTIVATED.
Her hands slowly lowered.
Cold spread through her veins.
He had seen her struggling.
He had seen—or been told—she wanted to go out.
He had seen she couldn't, because she had no card, no money, nothing.
He had seen she wrote something.
He didn't confront her.
He didn't ask her.
He didn't shame her.
He simply… responded.
Restrained.
Controlled.
Appropriate for someone unstable.
But a gesture nonetheless.
A gesture she hadn't expected.
A gesture she didn't know how to process.
She stared at the card again.
Retail-only.
No stocks.
No assets.
No transfers.
No financial power.
A child-safe version of the wealth she once treated like an accessory.
Something she could use to buy dresses or pastries or books.
Nothing more dangerous.
Nothing more influential.
She could buy soap, but not shares.
She could buy perfume, but not property.
A tier for someone who was allowed to live comfortably but not allowed to disrupt anything.
A tier for a wife who might hurt herself if given too much freedom.
Her chest ached quietly.
He didn't trust her.
Of course he didn't.
But he was trying.
In the only way he knew how.
She brought the card closer, running her thumb over its matte surface. It was customized—his wealth made even something basic feel impossibly heavy and tailored. But she knew the truth:
This card didn't even scratch the surface of his fortune.
He was the wealthiest man alive.
The richest chairman in history.
Giving her this was like tossing a single drop of water into a vast ocean.
She felt both grateful and humiliated.
Cared for and controlled.
Acknowledged and diminished.
Her throat tightened painfully.
"This doesn't matter to him," she whispered to herself. "It won't even leave a mark."
But it mattered to her.
It mattered because he had noticed.
It mattered because he had acted.
It mattered because she had not asked.
It mattered because even when she broke his life, he still… tried.
Or rather—
He tried because he was terrified of her dying.
Not out of love.
Not out of longing.
Not out of desire.
But because he couldn't handle another person's death on his conscience.
She clutched the card gently, as though afraid of bending it.
She didn't know whether to cry or laugh or throw the damned thing across the room.
In the end, she placed it carefully into her drawer.
A token of her confinement.
A token of his reluctant care.
A token of their strange, broken marriage.
And she whispered to herself, hollow:
"Even my freedom has limits carved by his hand…yet it is still more freedom than anyone else has ever given me."