Chapter 4

Seraphina Shaw POV

The next morning, the rain finally stopped.

Pallid sunlight stabbed through the slits in the curtains, devoid of any warmth.

I had sat on the sofa all night, never closing my eyes, never changing out of my clothes.

Julian didn't come home last night. He had sent a message, his tone as tender as ever: *"Seraphina, the merger deal is proving a bit tricky. I'll be working late at the office tonight and will come back to have breakfast with you tomorrow morning. Go to sleep early. Love you."*

Looking at that text, I replied with only one word: *"Okay."*

I knew he wasn't at the office. He was probably lying beside Clara Brooks right now, tainted with that faint scent of her perfume.

At seven in the morning, I stood up, my joints popping softly from holding the same posture for so long.

I walked straight toward the study.

The door was secured with an advanced fingerprint and passcode lock.

My fingerprint had never been registered. Standing before the keypad, watching the blue light illuminate the screen, I took a deep breath.

I tried entering Julian's birthday. Incorrect.

Old Mr. Vance's birthday. Incorrect.

I paused, my fingers trembling slightly as I punched in my own birthday.

*Beep—click.*

The door unlocked.

What a sickening mockery of devotion. He used my birthday as the passcode, yet hid the dagger of his betrayal right behind the door.

The study was furnished minimally. Several neat stacks of files sat atop the massive mahogany desk.

I began rummaging through them. I didn't even know what I was looking for—maybe Clara's pregnancy report, maybe photos of them from even earlier, or perhaps a terminal diagnosis that could explain all of this away. In the deepest corner of my heart, I had harbored even a fleeting, absurd delusion.

The papers on the desk were all ordinary commercial reports.

I pulled open the drawers beneath the desk. The first and second tiers were either empty or filled with miscellaneous items.

When I unlocked and pulled open the bottom drawer, I spotted a kraft paper envelope tucked beneath a heavy dictionary.

The envelope was unsealed.

I pulled out the document inside.

The title printed in bold black letters struck my eyes: *Divorce Agreement*.

My heart thudded violently, as if catching hold of a lifeline.

Could it be that Julian planned to divorce Clara? Could all his deceit have been an attempt to give me an explanation once he completely broke free of that business alliance?

I quickly flipped to the last page and looked at the signature lines.

Party A: Julian Vance.

Party B: Clara Brooks.

Under Party B, Clara Brooks had already signed her name.

The date read May 20th.

Yet beside Party A, under Julian Vance's name, there was only a tiny smudge of ink left by the tip of a fountain pen.

It was the beginning of a stroke—and then, the pen had halted, lifting away from the page.

Julian Vance had never signed it.

My eyes locked onto that stray ink dot, as if trying to bore a hole through it.

This agreement had been drafted six months ago. Clara had even signed it, agreeing to walk away with nothing.

All it would have taken was Julian putting his pen to paper, and that distorted marriage would have ended. He could have fulfilled his promise to me and become my true husband.

But he didn't.

He wouldn't sign.

He didn't want to divorce her.

That final wisp of illusion shattered before my eyes like a soap bubble.

It wasn't that he couldn't get a divorce, nor did he have some tragic dilemma—he simply didn't want to leave her!

He relished the tolerance and dignity Clara afforded him, yet craved my complete, unconditional dependence.

He locked this half-signed divorce agreement in the bottom drawer just like he locked away his ugly, arrogant heart—a heart that wanted to have it both ways.

"Haha... Hahahaha..."

Laughter ripped from my chest. I tilted my head back, laughing until tears streamed down my face, laughing until my whole body trembled, until I finally collapsed onto the freezing floor.

I felt as though I had spent the past seven years as a clown performing desperately in a circus.

I gave up my future for him. I developed a chronic stomach condition for him. I crawled through torrential rain like a dog for him.

And what about him? He sat high up in the audience, watching me move myself to tears, watching me sacrifice everything, only to turn to someone else and say, "Look at how much this fool loves me."

The laughter slowly subsided. Dead silence reclaimed the study once more.

I slipped the divorce agreement back into the kraft envelope, placed it into the drawer, and weighed it down beneath the heavy dictionary again.

I didn't tear it apart, nor did I confront Julian with it.

When an apple has rotted to its core, there is no need to ask why it's crawling with worms—you simply toss it into the trash.

I stood up and walked out of the study. The door shut behind me with a soft *click*, as if locking away the past seven years of my life for good.

Back in the living room, I picked up my phone and dialed a number buried at the very bottom of my contacts.

The call connected on the third ring.

"Hello? Seraphina?" A deep, gentle male voice came through the line, laced with stunned disbelief and delight. "Is it really you? You're finally willing to reach out to me."

It was Ethan Cole. A former university alumnus and close friend who had desperately tried to convince me not to throw my future away for a man with amnesia. Over the past few years, just to give Julian peace of mind, I had cut ties with nearly all my male friends.

"Ethan," my voice was so calm it startled even myself. "You mentioned before that you opened an architectural firm in Melbourne and needed a designer, right?"

On the other end, Ethan seemed to sense the strange tone in my voice. His smile faded, replaced by sudden gravity. "The position has always been kept for you. What happened? Did Julian Vance mistreat you?"

"Ethan, do me a favor.

I didn't answer his question. Instead, my gaze drifted past the floor-to-ceiling window toward the city's murky, overcast skyline. "Find me the best lawyer. I want every trace of my identity wiped clean. And draw up the paperwork for a legal name change."

A long silence fell over the other end of the line. Ethan knew me all too well. Beneath my gentle, soft-spoken exterior lay an unyielding resolve and ruthlessness far beyond what most could fathom. Once I made up my mind, there was no turning back.

"Seraphina, have you really thought this through?" Ethan's voice carried a trace of heartache. "Once you take this step, everything you have now—your degree, your honors, your network, even the very person known as Seraphina Shaw—will cease to exist."

"I've made up my mind." Glancing at the half-glass of oxidized, spoiled red wine on the table, a bleak smile pulled at the corner of my lips.

"I want to make sure he can never find me again."