Chapter 13
“So, is it set? Next Saturday at seven. Bring that quinoa salad you make so well, and if you want, a bottle of that Ribera you have in the cellar. The Rashfords are coming too, and so is my sister with the kids. Nothing formal, you know, just a typical neighborhood barbecue.”
Seraphina forces a smile that Isobel can’t see and runs her free hand down her arm.
“Sure, we’ll be there,” she replies casually.
As if Seraphina weren’t already thinking about how to put an end to it all.
“You know how Elliot gets when there’s a grill involved.
I’ll bring a couple of bottles, and thanks for offering to host it.
Last time, the Thomas kids left my yard and house in a mess. ”
“Oh, dear, you know we’d be delighted. And hey, if you feel like coming over early to help me out with something, you know the drill.”
“Perfect. See you then.”
Seraphina lets out a sigh and slips her phone into her small black purse.
For a moment, she stands still beneath the yellowish streetlight, wondering how it’s possible that her life continues to unfold across two such opposing realities: barbecues, children laughing in the garden, dinners with Elliot—though lately they barely speak to each other—and now, this.
The constant pull that keeps dragging her toward Nerissa as if the rest of the world were just a backdrop.
Finally, she pushes open the heavy glass door.
The concrete walls rise imposingly, covered with enormous black-and-white photographs.
Ambient music vibrates beneath the elegant murmur of the guests.
Artists, cultural journalists, private-sector investors, and far too many people dressed in black, feigning a sophistication that, at this moment, Seraphina finds exhausting as they cradle glasses of Chardonnay.
Seraphina regrets coming the moment she crosses the threshold.
She knows she shouldn’t be there. She feels it in every fiber of her being as she hands her coat to the receptionist. She’s wearing a simple dark dress, no flashy jewelry, and her hair is pulled back into a bun that accentuates the delicacy of her features.
She tries to go unnoticed and blend into the crowd, because the truth is, she hasn’t come to see Maeve Donnelly’s exhibition.
Nerissa is leaning against one of the columns, a glass in her hand and her black blazer open over a dark gray shirt.
The spotlight highlights the firm angle of her jaw and that athletic bearing that has always drawn attention.
She’s listening to an orthopedic surgeon, but her expression reveals a dangerous distance, a cold detachment that Seraphina recognizes instantly.
It’s the look Nerissa wears when she’s hurt.
Several days have passed since the message Seraphina sent her. Days of absolute silence that have carved deep wounds inside her.
Seraphina quickly looks away when the surgeon turns her head slightly and takes her time making her way through the crowd of guests, feigning interest in the photographs, until she reaches the side hallway leading to the restrooms. The light there is dimmer and warmer, and the bustle of the exhibition is muffled behind the thick industrial walls.
She enters the women’s restroom and leans against the black stone sink, closing her eyes tightly. Seraphina takes a few deep breaths, as if she had suddenly lost her sense of direction.
She turns on the faucet and lets the cold water run over her trembling wrists, trying to calm her racing pulse.
Suddenly, the bathroom door swings open.
Maeve Donnelly appears in the mirror, her bohemian beauty masked by a sharp expression. She’s wearing a maroon suit, and her dark hair is pulled back in a careless bun.
Maeve closes the door with deliberate slowness.
“I didn’t know the board of directors was so interested in street photography, Mrs. Chapman,” she remarks with disdain.
Seraphina keeps her hands resting on the marble without turning around.
“Am I not allowed to be interested in art?” Seraphina replies.
“Lying doesn’t suit you at all. You knew Nerissa would be here.”
Maeve walks slowly over to stand beside her, facing the mirror.
“Whether I knew it or not is none of your business, Maeve.”
The photographer lets out a humorless smile.
“It’s my business because I’m the one who picks up the pieces of Nerissa every time you decide to play the perfect wife again.”
Seraphina presses her lips together and remains silent for a few seconds, feeling the weight of her own decisions on her shoulders.
“You don’t have a fucking clue what’s going on between us,” Seraphina snaps.
“Of course I do,” Maeve replies, crossing her arms. “Because I’m the one who knows how she comes home after suffering another rejection.
I know how she stopped eating when you decided not to fight for her.
I know how I’ve found her staring at her phone as if you were going to appear and save her life. ”
Seraphina swallows hard.
“I never meant to hurt her.”
“And yet you do it to her constantly,” Maeve asserts. “Manchester is full of rich women who are bored in their country homes and seek clandestine thrills to feel alive. But Nerissa isn’t entertainment for your fucking existential crises.”
Seraphina forces herself to hold her gaze as she opens her mouth, incredulous.
“What I feel for her isn’t a game.”
“Well, prove it,” Maeve insists, taking a step closer. “Because from the outside, it looks like you only love her when you can keep her hidden.”
Seraphina feels the heat of shame rising up her neck.
“It’s not that simple,” she whispers.
“Of course not. You have children. And a husband who seems to truly love you. A wonderful life built on status, stability, and money. I get it.” Maeve watches her, unflinching. “But Nerissa has a life, too. And you’re tearing hers apart while you expect her to settle for the crumbs.”
Seraphina looks away toward the mirror and, for a second, sees herself exactly as she feels: exhausted, scared, and terribly alone.
Maeve barely softens her expression.
“She’s head over heels in love with you. And it pisses me off how much you’re hurting her.”
“I’m in love with her, too,” Seraphina confesses.
But Maeve shakes her head.
“Then stop punishing her for it. If you’re not going to be brave, set her truly free. Don’t come looking for her again when your perfect home starts to suffocate you once more.”
The door opens again before Seraphina can answer, and Maeve pauses for a moment in the doorway.
“Because one day you’re going to break her so badly that not even you will be able to fix her.”
Maeve disappears, and Seraphina is left alone in front of the mirror, her heart pounding violently beneath her dress.
For a couple of minutes, she doesn’t move.
She thinks about leaving, about going home, about crawling into bed next to Elliot and pretending she can keep surviving in that life.
But then she thinks of Nerissa on the other side of those walls and realizes she hasn’t come to say goodbye. She’s come to fight for her love.
The gallery has a back area reserved for storage and exhibit setup, separated from the main bustle by a dark hallway lit only by small emergency lights.
Nerissa is alone, leaning against a brick wall, staring toward the back door. She holds an unlit cigarette between her fingers, though she doesn’t seem to have any intention of lighting it.
Seraphina stops a few steps away, her heart racing.
“Maeve told me you were here,” she says, though she still can’t bring herself to look at her.
“You didn’t reply to my message,” Seraphina adds.
Now she turns slowly. Nerissa’s brown eyes pierce her with an almost painful intensity, heavy with a deep, resigned weariness.
“What did you want me to say, Seraphina?” she asks coldly. “‘Let’s start over as if nothing happened’?”
“Don’t do that,” Seraphina pleads, taking a step toward her.
“Do what? Tell the truth for once?”
Seraphina feels her eyes welling up.
“It took a lot for me to write that message.”
Nerissa lets out a bitter laugh and sets her cigarette down on a nearby box.
“Right. I guess Elliot must have kissed you especially well that weekend for you to feel like writing that.”
The cruelty of the remark takes her breath away.
“You don’t know how I’m dealing with this,” she murmurs.
“No. The one who doesn’t know how I’m dealing with this is you,” Nerissa retorts, stepping away from the wall.
“You’re going back to a beautiful home, to your kids, to a husband you’re also tearing apart, by the way.
And I’m going back alone to an apartment where every corner reminds me of someone who doesn’t have the courage to stay with me for even a second. ”
Guilt threatens to tear her in two. Then Seraphina lowers her gaze.
“It’s never been as easy as simply choosing you.”
“I know. I never said that was the easy part, Seph,” Nerissa admits, moving a little closer. “But I’m tired of begging for love on the terms of your fear.”
Seraphina feels tears gathering in her eyes.
“I thought this was what you wanted. For me to fight for you.”
Nerissa’s expression shifts, revealing the pain that has always been there beneath the surface.
“I’ve fought for you for years,” she replies.
“I’ve waited for you. I’ve put up with endless nights in hotels, escapes before dawn.
I’ve endured watching you leave every time your conscience started screaming at you.
And yet I’ve never asked you to leave them.
Not Elliot. Not your children. Just to fight for what’s supposed to make you happier. ”
Seraphina feels a desperate need to touch her, to hold her, to ask forgiveness for everything she’s done. But Nerissa keeps her distance, as if she’s finally learned to protect herself.
“I love you,” Seraphina confesses.
“I know that too,” Nerissa replies, closing her eyes for a moment. “That’s precisely the problem. Because you love me, but never more than you love your fear.”
Nerissa steps in front of her, so close that Seraphina can feel the warmth of her breath.
“So tell me the truth, Director Chapman,” she whispers, pronouncing that surname as if it were an accusation. “Forget about Elliot, the clinic, and all that bullshit for a minute. Look me in the eye and tell me something honest for the first time in this whole story.”
Seraphina holds her breath.
“How far are you willing to go for me?” Nerissa continues, her voice trembling for the first time. “Are you willing to lose everything… or have you just come to ask me for one more night of anesthesia?”