So Close to You

Chapter 1

Rain falls on Manchester. The drops turn the enormous window of the Whitmore Hotel into a liquid, undulating surface where the city’s golden lights distort into shimmering flashes.

Inside, the atmosphere exudes a studied perfection: black marble reflecting figures like dark mirrors, floral arrangements of almost offensive luxury, and waiters moving stealthily, carrying trays of champagne while conversations remain at a polite murmur.

That night, the British private healthcare sector is hosting one of its most prominent charity galas of the year.

And Seraphina Chapman smiles as if the world belonged to her by right.

She does so because she has spent her entire life training for this moment.

“Dr. Hughes,” she greets him, shaking hands with a man in his sixties. Her tone is warm but measured. “My father told me about the new clinic in Birmingham. It seems to be a great success.”

The doctor smiles instantly, visibly pleased that she remembers that detail.

“Your father always exaggerates, as is his habit. Though I must admit the numbers are promising.”

Seraphina maintains her perfect composure. She holds her champagne glass delicately as she listens to talk of investments, partnerships, and growth projections. She feels the dress digging into her ribs, and the weight of the fabric—and the entire evening—begins to feel suffocating.

At her side, Elliot Chapman interjects with the impeccable ease of someone born to shine at events like this.

“Hale Medical always backs solid projects,” he says, placing a possessive hand on Seraphina’s back. “And Dr. Hughes knows exactly how to showcase excellence.”

The three of them laugh with the superficial camaraderie that characterizes evenings like these. Everyone always laughs with Elliot. His charm seems infallible.

Seraphina turns her head to look at him.

The black tuxedo fits him like a glove; his blond hair is slicked back, and his smile retains that calculated blend of warmth and superiority that makes people lower their guard before they’ve even met him.

They make the perfect couple. All of Manchester thinks so.

She believed it too once, or perhaps she simply repeated the idea until she stopped questioning it.

“I’m going to say hello to the Bennetts,” Elliot murmurs, leaning toward her discreetly. “Will you come with me?”

“In a moment,” Seraphina replies.

He nods without showing the slightest sign of annoyance. They never get annoyed. They never argue in public. They never make mistakes. In recent years, their relationship has functioned like the best business arrangement: stable, proper, and hollow where it matters most.

As Elliot walks away among the guests, Seraphina takes a deep breath. The room feels too warm, too crowded with people, pomposity, and noise. The constant buzz of conversation presses against her temples.

“Lady Chapman.”

She turns with automatic courtesy toward an elderly woman covered in diamonds.

“Helen,” she replies, flashing her perfect, rehearsed smile once more.

As she listens to remarks about foundations and future social engagements, her gaze wanders through the room almost by instinct. Dark suits, haute couture dresses, manufactured smiles. Nothing ever changes in that closed, predictable world.

Until everything changes.

The image of Nerissa Ashcombe appears across the room, and the air leaves her lungs in one sudden rush.

It’s been six months since the last time they were alone together.

Six months since what happened in Edinburgh.

Since that hotel room where they said goodbye, after Seraphina had nearly shattered the perfect world she had built for herself.

She still remembers with painful clarity the look on Nerissa’s face as she abruptly turned away, closing the door behind her, fleeing from a story that would forever be etched into her skin.

That night, Seraphina thought of Elliot, of her children sleeping at home, of the Chapman name, of the scandal that continuing their relationship—if that’s what they had—would cause.

The next day, unable to face the consequences, Seraphina requested a change in the clinics’ liaison committees so she wouldn’t have to cross paths with Nerissa’s trauma department, imposing a cold and radical professional distance.

Nerissa, her pride wounded and tired of all the half-measures, accepted the silence.

Yes, she accepted the silence with a dignity that still torments her.

Those six months have become a wasteland for both of them.

Seraphina has tried to convince herself that her marriage is enough, that Elliot is a good man, and that family stability must take precedence over any impulse. According to rumors, Nerissa has tried to move on with Daphne Mercer. But it hasn’t worked.

And now she’s there, on the other side of the room, as if time had stood still and, at the same time, dragged on for an eternity.

Nerissa is chatting at the bar with a man Seraphina doesn’t recognize.

She’s wearing a black tailored suit with clean lines that hug her tall, athletic frame, which moves with an almost dangerous confidence.

Her dark hair falls in soft waves over her shoulders, and the vivid red of her lips contrasts with her fair skin in a way Seraphina remembers all too clearly.

“Forget about her,” she tells herself.

But then Nerissa looks up, and their eyes meet.

The entire room seems to fade away. Nerissa looks at her exactly as she did before: as if she could see through the perfect facade and glimpse everything Seraphina hides. As if she still had the right to do so.

She bids the man farewell with a slight nod and begins walking toward her. Each step is deliberate, slow, aware of the effect it has on the other woman. When she stops in front of Seraphina, the familiar scent envelops her completely.

“Seraphina,” Nerissa says. Her deep, calm voice remains a weapon capable of unsettling her simply by speaking her name.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” Seraphina manages to reply, struggling to maintain her composure.

Nerissa raises an eyebrow ironically.

“That explains the look on your face when you saw me.”

Seraphina takes a small sip of champagne just to steady her hands, which are beginning to tremble.

“But you know Manchester is a small city for certain people,” Nerissa adds, a delightful smile playing at the corners of her lips.

Seraphina holds her gaze. The noise of the room gradually returns, but it’s distant, muffled.

“You look different,” she blurts out before she can stop herself.

“You don’t,” Nerissa replies.

Those two words hurt deeply. Because Seraphina knows exactly what Nerissa sees: the light-colored dress that hugs her body, the inherited diamond necklace, the impeccable posture, and, in the background, Elliot playing the role of the perfect husband. The ideal life. The perfect cage.

“You still hate these kinds of events,” Nerissa murmurs, her gaze sweeping across the room.

“I don’t hate them,” Seraphina replies, holding back a stronger reaction. She feels a tight knot in her stomach.

Nerissa tilts her head, studying her intently.

“Of course you do.”

A waiter walks past them, and Seraphina takes the opportunity to place her empty glass on his tray, suppressing the absurd urge to run away.

“How long are you going to stay in town?” she asks, hating the slight tremor that betrays her voice.

“I don’t know yet,” Nerissa replies, and the ambiguity of the phrase hangs between them like a threat.

Nerissa takes an almost imperceptible step forward.

“We can pretend to be friendly all night if you want,” she whispers. “We’re pretty good at it.”

A wave of heat rises up Seraphina’s neck, and she clenches her jaw tightly.

“Don’t start.”

“Start what?” Nerissa asks with feigned innocence, though her eyes say the exact opposite.

Tension stretches between them. Seraphina glances across the room: Elliot is still talking with several investors, oblivious to everything.

No one seems to be paying them any attention, but she senses the danger with absolute clarity.

She’s always felt it with Nerissa. Because between them, it’s never been just desire.

Nerissa knows her darkest corners: the rage building inside her, her weariness with this world.

But also the constant fear of letting everyone down and the desperate need to escape a life that, on paper, should be enough.

“I need some fresh air,” Seraphina murmurs.

Nerissa looks at her for a second longer and then nods.

The private balcony of the west wing is almost deserted.

Rain taps gently against the glass roof as Manchester stretches out below, transformed into a tapestry of damp lights and glittering streets.

As soon as they step outside, the cold air makes the bare skin on Seraphina’s shoulders prickle.

She leans against the railing, trying to regain a sense of calm that slips through her fingers.

She hears Nerissa stop behind her, too close.

“You’re still doing the same thing,” Nerissa says after a few seconds.

“Doing what?” Seraphina asks without turning around, though she already knows the answer.

“Running away before things get real.”

Seraphina closes her eyes, and the memories come flooding back.

“I didn’t come here to argue,” she whispers.

“No.” Nerissa’s voice softens. “We never come here to argue.”

The silence fills with memories. Years of clandestine meetings, hotel rooms, airports, deleted messages, and goodbyes that were never truly final. Everything that should never have existed and yet always finds a way to return.

Seraphina slowly turns toward her.

“You left…” she dares to accuse.

Nerissa lets out a short laugh.

“You were the one who reorganized half the clinic to avoid running into me.”

Guilt pierces Seraphina’s chest.

“I needed some space.”

“No,” Nerissa replies, staring at her. “You needed to punish me for something that actually terrified you.”