Chapter 4

The Woman He Chose.

Took a few days before the next thing came. Should’ve known that was just the quiet part. Breath before somebody swings again.

Wasn’t Marcella this time. An email, sent to Dorian, cc’d to me like an afterthought, like I was supposed to just witness it instead of being part of it. From Leander. The subject line said Family Matter. Three paragraphs about legacy, appearances, the Whitmore account, whatever that was, and one line buried in the middle that made my chest go tight.

Perhaps it’s time to reconsider certain personal arrangements before they affect matters of real consequence.

Personal arrangements. Meaning me.

Dorian read it standing in the kitchen, coffee going cold in his hand, and his face did something I hadn’t seen yet. Not anger exactly. Colder.

“What’s the Whitmore account,” I asked.

“Investment group. My father’s been chasing them for two years.” Set the mug down too hard, coffee sloshing over the rim. “Old fashioned. Traditional. He thinks my marriage doesn’t project the right image for a deal like that.”

“So he wants you to do what. Divorce me for a client.”

“He’d never put it that directly.” Rubbed a hand down his face. “But yeah. Basically.”

I didn’t know what to say. Stood there in our kitchen, same one where he’d told me he loved me two nights after the wedding, noodles on the floor, voice cracking mid sentence, and thought about how fast all that could get erased by a man I’d met once and who talked about me like a line item on a spreadsheet.

“Not doing it,” Dorian said, like he could read exactly where my head had gone. “Just so that’s clear. Whatever he wants, whatever Whitmore needs, it’s not happening at your expense.”

“You don’t have to say that.”

“Don’t have to. Saying it anyway.”

Came around the counter, pulled me in. Let myself lean into it a second, even though some part of me, the part that’s had one foot out the door of every good thing for years, was already bracing.

Dinner happened two nights later. Leander’s idea this time, not Marcella’s, which somehow felt worse. Smaller group. Just the four of them and us, no gala crowd to hide behind.

Leander didn’t bother working up to it.

“I’ll be direct,” he said, halfway through the first course, not even looking at me, talking to Dorian like I wasn’t sitting three feet away. “The Whitmore deal requires a certain image. Stability. Predictability. The right pedigree. Your current situation complicates that.”

“My current situation,” Dorian repeated. Flat.

“Your wife.” Looked at me then, not unkind exactly, just business, the way you’d explain something to a junior associate. “No offense, Seren. You understand how this works. Appearances matter.”

“I understand appearances,” I said. “Not sure why mine are the problem.”

Marcella made a sound, half laugh, half scoff. “It’s not personal, darling.”

“Feels pretty personal.”

“Enough.” Dorian’s voice cut clean through the table, sharp enough Leander stopped mid bite. “Let me say this once so nobody has to bring it up again. I’m not divorcing my wife to grease a business deal. Not for Whitmore. Not for anybody.”

“Dorian”

“I mean it, Father. Walk away from Whitmore over this if you want. That’s your call. Not my problem to fix. Definitely not Seren’s.”

The table went quiet like somebody threw a sheet over it. Vianne watching with that same cataloguing look, filing it away. Cassian glanced at me half a second, something close to sympathy, gone before I could be sure it was real.

Leander set his fork down, slow, deliberate. “You’re making a mistake.”

“Maybe. Mine to make.”

Dinner wrapped up fast after that, coats grabbed quicker than they needed to be. In the car Dorian didn’t talk for a while, hands too tight on the wheel.

“Thank you,” I said eventually.

“Don’t thank me for that.” Glanced over. “Not a favor. Just true.”

“Still. Not everyone says it like that. To his face.”

“He needed to hear it in front of me.” Short laugh, no humor in it. “Guess we’re finding out fast what kind of family I married into. Or, married him into, I guess. The kind handing out ultimatums over a business deal.”

Didn’t say anything back. Watching streetlights go by, I thought about how strange it was, him defending me against people who’d fall over themselves the second they found out who I actually was. All this pressure, all this fighting, over a woman they figured had nothing to bring to the table, when I could’ve bought Whitmore outright and not blinked. Could’ve ended the whole argument with one sentence.

Didn’t say the sentence. Didn’t come close, sitting there with my hands doing the thing again.

When I got home, he pulled me into the kitchen before either of us even got our coats off, held my face in both hands like he needed proof I was really there, really still choosing to stay after a dinner like that.

“Need you to know something,” he said.

“Okay.”

“Whatever they throw at us. Whatever they find out, whatever my father decides to hand me next. None of it changes what I feel.” Thumb moving slowly along my cheekbone. “I chose you. Not up for negotiation. Not with anybody.”

Something cracked open in my chest, warm, a little painful, the way it does when somebody hands you the exact thing you’d been too scared to ask for out loud.

“You don’t know everything about me,” I said. Quieter than I meant.

“Know enough.” Kissed my forehead, then my mouth, soft at first, not soft for long. “Know the parts that matter.”

I wanted so badly to believe that. I wanted it enough I almost forgot, just for a second, how much was still sitting under the surface of every single conversation we’d ever had. Like a stone under still water. Looks calm till you know it’s there.

Later, once he was asleep, I got up, went to the bathroom, locked the door out of habit more than needed. Pulled the second phone out from the bottom of a bag I keep separate from everything else. Dialed a number I’ve had memorized since I was nineteen years old.

Ronan picked up the second ring. Always does. “Everything okay?”

“Somebody’s been digging,” I said, low, even with the door locked, even with Dorian three rooms over, dead asleep. “His mother. Ran a background check already. Came back clean. Don’t think that’s the last of it, though.”

“Define clean.”

“Fake trail held. School, old address, all of it. But she’s not the type to stop just because the first pass came back boring.”

Quiet a second on his end. Could practically hear him thinking. “Want me to reinforce it? Add a layer?”

“I want it airtight. Whatever it takes. Nobody finds a single thread running from Seren the accountant’s daughter to Arlisse. Not now. Not for a long time yet.”

“You know eventually”

“I know.” Cut him off before he could finish, because I already knew exactly where that sentence was going and wasn’t ready to hear it out loud, not standing in my own bathroom at one in the morning, husband asleep down the hall, a husband who’d just told me he chose me like it was the simplest thing in the world. “Not yet. Just buy me time. Please.”

Pause. “Okay. Handled by the end of week.”

“Thank you.”

Hung up. I stood there a second in the dark, phone still warm, caught my own reflection in the mirror over the sink. I didn’t love what I saw. Somebody getting real good at lying to the one person who mattered most and calling it protecting him, when some nights it just felt like protecting myself.

Slid back into bed, careful, quiet, and didn’t want to wake him. Shifted anyway, arm finding me in his sleep, pulling me in without ever opening his eyes.

Lay there a long time after, staring at the ceiling, thinking about how much longer I actually had before this came apart at the seams. Didn’t have an answer. Just Ronan’s voice, you know eventually, and Dorian breathing slow and easy right next to me, no idea at all what his wife had just spent ten minutes doing three rooms away.