Chapter 10

       Seranna stepped into the room like the storm they never saw coming.

       Her white dress flowed around her with lethal grace, and the fur shawl draped over her shoulders shimmered under the lights like a silent threat. Every step of her heels was deliberate—measured, certain—striking the carpet with the weight of a woman who knew exactly who she was.

       Flashbulbs popped. Conversations stalled. Eyes followed her like gravity.

       They were waiting for the show—the wounded wife, the scandalous scene. But Seranna wasn’t here to play anyone’s tragedy.

       They’d forgotten.

       Forgotten her name. Forgotten her lineage. Forgotten that she was the first daughter of the Geraski family—a name that didn’t bow, didn’t beg, and sure as hell didn’t break.

       And if anyone thought she’d shatter tonight, they’d severely miscalculated.

       She spotted him easily—Isaak, standing with his latest mistake on his arm. The smug curl of his lips said he expected drama. Expected her to fall apart.

       She didn’t even blink.

       He walked toward her with the woman pressed to his side like a trophy, “I thought you’d show up with someone,” he said casually.

       Seranna’s eyes skimmed over them. She smiled faintly, the kind that cuts, “I did. Myself,”

       Isaak’s smirk faltered for a fraction. He recovered quickly, dragging a finger down the woman’s arm like he was trying to provoke her.

       Still, she didn’t move.

       Still, she didn’t flinch.

       “Still playing the part, Wifey?” he said, voice low, baiting. “Still pretending to be the unshakable one? Still faking that tough facade of yours?”

       She looked him dead in the eye.

        “I don’t pretend, Isaak. I endure. There’s a difference. But you wouldn’t know it—you’ve never had to carry anything but your own ego.”

       Isaak’s mouth twitched—something between a sneer and a grin—but his eyes had already begun to shift, subtly, calculatingly, like a man realizing too late he’d walked into a different game than the one he thought he was playing.

       Seranna held his gaze for one more breath, then flicked her eyes toward the woman clinging to his side. The girl—blond, uncertain, drowning in a dress that didn’t belong to her moment—shrank a little beneath the weight of Seranna’s attention. Not in fear. In recognition. She knew she was out of her depth.

       “Careful,” Seranna murmured, her voice silk over steel. “You’ll bruise her. And she’s not built to survive bruises,”

       The woman’s hand twitched against Isaak’s arm.

     Isaak laughed, but the sound was hollow now. He tried to push past it with arrogance, tried to reclaim the upper hand like he always had—but Seranna could see the crack just behind his eyes. It was small. But it was there.

       “You talk like you’re untouchable now,” he said. “But I remember the night you begged me to stay,”

       “I remember it too,” she said softly. “I remember begging someone who was already halfway out the door. That’s not weakness, Isaak. That’s loyalty. You taught me the difference,”

       His face faltered.

       The girl beside him took a small step back.

       Seranna let silence hang for a beat too long—long enough for those watching to lean in, to catch the sharp edge of her presence like glass underfoot. This wasn’t about drama. This was about memory. Power. The quiet kind—the kind that didn’t shout, didn’t rage. It simply was.

       She leaned in, close enough for Isaak to smell the winter air still clinging to her shawl.

       “You can keep trying to humiliate me,” she whispered. “But I’ve already survived you. There’s nothing left to take,” Then she stepped back, lifted her chin, and walked past him.

       Not hurried. Not triumphant. Just certain.

       And that certainty rippled through the room like thunder after lightning.

       A few heads turned. A few whispers began. But Seranna didn’t hear them. She didn’t need to. Her stride was enough to answer every question, silence every doubt.

       She didn’t need to win.

       She was the win.

       By the time she reached the far side of the hall, someone offered her a glass of champagne. She took it, sipping slow, the way a woman does when she knows every eye is still locked on her.

       From the corner of her eye, she caught Isaak watching. Still standing in the center of the room. Still holding someone else’s hand.

       But for the first time, she realized—

       He looked alone.

       The champagne was cold against her lips, crisp and dry, and somehow it tasted like freedom. Seranna held the glass with a relaxed elegance, her posture fluid, her expression unreadable. She didn’t smile—there was no need. The room already echoed with the statement her presence had made. Every glance cast her way felt like a silent confession: She’s still here. Still standing. Still Seranna.

       Across the hall, Isaak hadn’t moved.

       He stood frozen, the woman beside him now a faint shadow, no longer clinging but simply there, forgotten in his periphery. His gaze was locked on Seranna, as if trying to stitch together a version of her he could still understand. But she’d rewritten herself in ways he never bothered to imagine.

       She could feel his confusion from across the space, the weight of his regret beginning to curdle into realization. He had expected drama. Collapse. Fury. But Seranna had walked in wrapped in silence and history, and let her dignity speak for itself. It was louder than any scream she could’ve thrown at him.

       Someone approached her—another guest, likely one of those opportunistic social climbers who drifted from scandal to scandal in hopes of relevance—but Seranna gave them only a nod before moving toward the balcony. She needed air, but more than that, she needed space. Not to breathe. To be.

       The night wind caught the edge of her shawl as she stepped outside, the city stretched out below like something distant and irrelevant. For the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like she was trying to catch up to her life.

       She had finally arrived.

       And somewhere behind her, Isaak remained—still holding onto someone else, but finally understanding that he had long since lost the only thing that ever truly mattered.

       But deep down…

       Seranna couldn’t deny the quiet ache pressing against her ribs. Her heart wasn’t untouched by all of this—no matter how unshakable her stride, no matter how composed her voice. There it was, tucked beneath the layers of elegance and defiance: the ghost of something that had once been love. Something that had taken root when she wasn’t looking.

       And it still lingered.

       The sadness. The quiet betrayal. The ache of remembering how it felt to believe him.

       She didn’t want it there. She had outgrown it, buried it, burned it more times than she could count. But some part of her heart—however small—still remembered how to miss what should’ve been. And that, perhaps, was the cruelest part.

       Not that she still felt it.

       But that she’d once felt it at all.

       It settled in her chest like a stone—familiar, unwelcome, but undeniably there.

       Seranna could walk with grace, speak with power, smile like nothing touched her… but none of that erased the ache curling beneath her ribs. It wasn’t weakness. It wasn’t regret. It was the residue of something real—a love she hadn’t meant to grow, a trust she hadn’t realized she’d planted in soil already salted.

       The betrayal still pulsed beneath her skin, soft but steady. Not loud enough to crack her composure, but enough to remind her: she had believed him. She had once looked at Isaak and seen a future. And that future had looked back at her with false promises and a hand already reaching for someone else.

       The worst part wasn’t that she still felt something. It was that once, she had felt everything.

       Deep down, Seranna knew she’d lied—again.

       She’d lied when she said she wasn’t pretending. Lied when she told Isaak she’d endured, not performed. Because the truth was harsher, quieter, and far more fragile than she wanted to admit.

       Isaak had been right.

       She was still pretending.

       Pretending that the strength in her voice came easy. Pretending that the steady gaze and measured words weren’t carefully rehearsed armor. Pretending she was past it—past him—when some fractured part of her still shook beneath the surface.

       She wore her strength like silk and steel, but it wasn’t invincible.

       It was a performance.

       And tonight, just like before, she was still onstage.

       She swallowed, slow and controlled, lifting her chin as the sting settled behind her eyes and stayed there, unspilled. The love was no longer alive—but its ghost still passed through her, haunting in quiet flashes.

       But that ghost didn’t own her anymore.

       She did.

       And even with the ache, Seranna knew—she hadn’t lost tonight.

       She had simply remembered who she was without him.

***

      9 hours ago.

       “I’ve made up my mind,” Seranna said firmly, her voice calm but laced with steel. “I realized showing up with you would only make me look weaker in Isaak’s eyes. That’s what he wants. That’s why he sent those texts. He thinks I was only strong because he stood beside me. That I needed someone—anyone—to lean on now that he’s gone.”

       She paused, letting her words settle. Lorcan said nothing, but his gaze sharpened, focused on her, “He thinks when he walked out, he took my strength with him,” she added. “So I’m going to show him just how wrong he is,”

       Lorcan was quiet for a beat, then asked—unexpectedly, “When’s your final divorce hearing?”

       Seranna blinked, “What? Why?”

       “Because I need your help.”

       She studied him, wary but curious. The serious edge in his tone wasn’t something she could ignore. She took a slow sip of her coffee. The room quieted around them, tension simmering between the lines.

       Then she leaned forward slightly, “Alright. What kind of help?”

       Lorcan met her eyes, “After it’s finalized... have you ever thought about finding a new partner?” The question hung there, heavy and loaded. Seranna’s brows lifted slightly.

      He continued before she could speak, “Not a real one, I mean. Just... someone convincing enough to make Isaak believe you’ve completely moved on. Someone who helps prove you don’t need him—not even a little,”

       She tilted her head. “And this person would be you?”

       “The benefit would be mutual,” Lorcan replied simply. “My parents have been pressuring me lately about settling down. If we pretend to be in a relationship, it gets them off my back and helps you send a clear message to Isaak,”

       Seranna considered it for a long second. “So... until I find someone I actually want to marry, and you find someone you want to wife up?”

       “Exactly,” he nodded. “A partnership. Temporary, but useful,”

       A thin line in the corner of her lip curling slightly as she leaned back. “Huh. A fake relationship to break egos and shut up expectations.”

       Lorcan shrugged, “Strategic alliances work in business. Why not in personal wars?”

       Seranna didn’t answer right away. The offer hung in the air, deceptively casual, yet laced with implications neither of them dared to voice just yet. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she studied Lorcan—not just his words, but the steadiness behind them. He wasn’t smirking, wasn’t throwing out the idea with half-hearted charm or bravado. He meant it. And that made it all the more dangerous.

       Not because it was romantic. But because it wasn’t.

       Because it was cold, logical. Because it was built on necessity and performance—something she understood too well. Something Isaak had once mastered.

       She exhaled, slow, “You’re talking about manipulation,”

       “I’m talking about optics,” Lorcan replied smoothly. “You and I both know appearances matter. In your world. In mine. We let people think what they want to think. That you’ve moved on. That I’ve found someone who doesn’t make me look like a failure to commit. It’s efficient,”

       Efficient. The word sat in her chest like ice. Seranna wasn’t unfamiliar with calculated moves. She’d spent months smiling beside Isaak while her heart hollowed, months making choices based on strategy instead of want. But back then, it had been about survival. This? This felt like reclamation.

       “Let me guess,” she said slowly. “You’ve already thought this through,”

       “To a degree,” Lorcan admitted. “We’d need to appear together at a few events. Enough to make it public. Enough for Isaak to take the bait and for my parents to believe we’re serious,”

       Seranna tilted her head, still watching him, “And when people ask what changed? What brought us together?”

       He met her gaze evenly, “We’ll give them something simple. You found peace in new company. I found discipline in yours. The lie is easier when it has pieces of the truth,”

       That stopped her for a breath. Because beneath the carefully crafted offer, there was something almost kind about the way he phrased it. Not romantic. But respectful. She had known men who saw strength and tried to soften it. Lorcan seemed to recognize hers and saw utility, not threat.

       And yet…

       “You’re sure about this?” she asked, voice low. “Because once we do this, there’s no turning back. People will talk. They’ll make assumptions. If either of us slips, the story unravels,”

       “I don’t slip,” Lorcan said, matter-of-fact. “Not when I decide something matters,”

       She nodded once. It wasn’t agreement yet. Just acknowledgment.

       She stood from the table and walked to the window, watching the city blur behind the glass. Isaak would hear. Of course he would. The world they lived in was too small for secrets. But she wasn’t doing this for Isaak. Not entirely.

       She was doing it for the version of herself she’d nearly forgotten—the one who didn’t beg to be chosen, who didn’t bend her voice to match someone else’s comfort.

       “Fine,” she said, turning back to him. “But we draw lines. No overnight stays unless required by appearances. No sharing personal details that can’t be taken back. And if it starts affecting either of our real futures, we walk away,”

       Lorcan stood too, his expression unreadable, “Agreed.”

       “And we sign something,” she added. “So there’s no misunderstanding later,”

       “Smart,” He didn’t argue.

       She walked back to the table, picked up her bag, and looked at him directly, “If we’re going to build a lie that looks like the truth, then we do it cleanly. No mess. No blurred lines. I’ve already drowned once in something I thought was real. I won’t do it again, even for the sake of strategy,"

***