Serafina

I’m halfway down the hallway, heels clicking against marble like a metronome counting down to my freedom, when I hear it.

“Serafina! Stop!”

Fuck.

Of course he followed me. Of course Matteo Verrelli can’t let me have one moment of dignity without turning it into another episode of his personal soap opera.

I keep walking. Faster now, because engaging with him feels like volunteering for emotional waterboarding.

“I said stop!”

Something yanks me backward. Hard. He’s grabbed my purse like we’re in some kind of twisted tug-of-war, and I’m the rope.

“Let go of my bag, you psychopath.”

“We need to talk.”

“No, we really don’t.” I yank back, but he’s stronger and apparently more desperate than I anticipated.

“I’m not granting you the divorce.”

I stop pulling and stare at him. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard me. I’m not signing the papers.”

“That’s not how divorce works, Matteo. This isn’t 1950. You don’t get to just refuse and keep me like a pet.”

“You’re my wife.”

“I’m your mistake.” The words come out sharper than I intended, but honestly? Good. “And I’m correcting it.”

“Come home. We can work this out.”

Home. Like that mausoleum of psychological warfare was ever home to anyone but the people torturing me.

“Work what out? Your inability to treat me like a human being? Your complete disregard for basic decency? Or maybe we should work on your commitment issues since you were fucking someone else for seven months.”

His face goes red. Progress.

“That’s different—”

“Oh, it’s different now? How convenient.”

“Yes, do not cause a scene.”

And there’s Bianca, appearing like a bad rash that refuses to clear up. She’s got that particular expression she wears when she thinks she’s being helpful but is actually making everything infinitely worse.

“A scene?” I turn on her, and the laugh that comes out of me could probably power a small generator. “Your brother just physically restrained me in a public hallway, but I’m causing a scene?”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m being divorced. There’s a difference.”

“Serafina, please,” Matteo tries again, and there’s something almost pathetic in his voice now. “Just come home. We can figure this out.”

“There’s nothing to figure out. You made your choice. You chose Anastasia, you chose to humiliate me, you chose to treat me like disposable garbage. Now I’m choosing to leave.”

“I made a mistake.”

“You made a lifestyle.”

I try to walk away again, but he grabs my purse—again—and this time he yanks too hard.

The bag goes flying.

Everything spills across the marble floor like my life exploding in slow motion. Lipstick, phone, keys, wallet, and—

Oh, shit.

The ultrasound picture slides across the polished stone, that grainy black-and-white image of possibility and complication coming to rest right at Matteo’s feet.

Time stops.

Matteo stares down at the photo like it’s written in a language he doesn’t understand. His face goes through about seventeen different expressions in the span of three seconds.

Bianca leans over his shoulder, and I watch her eyes widen as she processes what she’s seeing.

“You’re pregnant?”