Chapter 17
The phone vibrates for the third time inside the inner pocket of Seraphina Chapman’s jacket as she walks down the long glass-enclosed hallway connecting the executive wing to the administration floor.
Since they returned from Chester, Nerissa has kept alive the momentum of an intimacy that now, following Adrian Beckett’s threats, has turned into a hand grenade with the pin pulled.
A missed call first thing in the morning, a text message Seraphina hasn’t dared to open, and now this. This damn persistence.
Seraphina pauses for a moment by the large window overlooking the Manchester skyline, forcing herself to steady a breath that threatens to escape her chest. Nerissa’s name glows on the screen with heartbreaking innocence.
Just a couple of days ago, that same persistence would have brought a secret smile to her lips; it would have evoked the vivid memory of Chester’s stone walls, the taste of wine shared under the flickering light of a candle, and the warmth of those fingers intertwined in public, without fear of tomorrow.
In that place, Seraphina came to believe that the CFO and the trapped wife could dissolve to make way for a free woman.
But Adrian’s presence, with those sharp photographs taken from the shadows, has buried that fantasy.
Now, every vibration of the phone is a reminder of the abyss that may await her if she doesn’t finally take control.
With a queasy stomach and icy fingers, Seraphina slides her index finger across the screen and rejects the call.
The gesture, mechanical and cowardly, leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.
She knows that, on the other end of the line, in some hallway of the trauma ward, Nerissa will interpret that rejection as the cyclical return of her coldness, as the umpteenth retreat of the married woman who gets scared after a night of surrender.
But that is the price she must pay to protect her.
She puts her phone away, adjusts the cuffs of her impeccable charcoal-gray suit, and resumes her walk toward the central reception desk.
She needs her corporate mask to be flawless this morning.
Her hair is pulled back into a low ponytail, and her makeup is impeccable.
Yet inside, panic is a living beast clawing at her ribs.
Her shoulders feel too stiff, and her gaze is fixed on the financial statements on the screen, though she is unable to process a single figure.
She knows that Adrian is lurking around the building, that the man is watching her every move, and that any mistake will send her plummeting into the void.
“I’ve called you three times,” a voice says behind her.
Seraphina’s pulse skips a beat. It’s Nerissa. Her voice, still imbued with the gentle warmth of Chester, echoes too close, shattering the safety perimeter Seraphina is desperately trying to erect.
Seraphina doesn’t look up immediately. She clutches the reports in her hands with a force that turns her knuckles white, forcing her eyes to scan lines of text she isn’t reading, buying the seconds she needs for a social mask to cover her features.
“I’m working, Dr. Ashcombe,” she replies, and her own voice sounds strange to her, devoid of any trace of the woman who moaned her name into the hotel pillow.
The use of her last name falls between them with the weight of a concrete slab. Nerissa takes a step forward, closing the distance, her eyes fixed on the elusive profile of the CFO.
“I need to talk to you for a moment, please.”
“Now is not the time,” Seraphina replies with cutting curtseyness.
“Not now?” Nerissa repeats, and there is a note of dangerous disbelief in her tone that begins to attract the discreet glances of the administrative staff. “What does this mean, Seraphina?”
Forced by the need to stop the scene in the middle of the hallway, Seraphina looks up.
When she meets Nerissa’s eyes, the pain is so sharp that she fears she will break right there.
For a split second, the chronic fear and utter helplessness of her situation seep through her pupils, but the corporate mask is efficient and slips back into place before the surgeon can fully decipher it.
“We’re running significantly behind on the audits of the trauma department’s surgical reports,” Seraphina explains, modulating her voice. “So, if you wish to discuss anything with me, please request a formal meeting through my assistant.”
Nerissa stands frozen, her blue surgical scrubs contrasting with the neatness of the executive environment. To her, the bustle of the floor seems to fade away, replaced by a silent, deep indignation.
“What the hell are you doing?” she asks in a whisper that trembles on her lips with humiliation.
Seraphina looks down again, seeking refuge in the paperwork.
“Doing my job, Dr. Ashcombe. Nothing more.”
“Don’t talk to me like that—it doesn’t suit you at all,” Nerissa insists, taking a step that invades the executive’s personal space.
“Then don’t corner me during work hours,” Seraphina snaps, glancing around her. The words come out coldly.
Nerissa flinches at the impact, but her wounded pride drives her to strike back, ignoring the risk of being overheard.
“Just a few days ago, you told me that what we had was the only real thing in your life,” she murmurs, and the crack in her voice is a searing reminder of what they shared in the secrecy of Chester.
“I’d appreciate it if you maintained your professionalism,” Seraphina cuts in, her tone now lower, and the word professionalism rings like a slap in the middle of the lobby.
Nerissa takes a deep breath, holding back a suffocating mix of rage and disappointment.
The tightness of Seraphina’s jaw confirms to her that there is an internal conflict, that this seems more like a desperate sacrifice than genuine indifference, but the lack of explanation transforms that pain into contempt.
“So here we go again…” Nerissa says bitterly. “Pretending I don’t exist every time you panic. Hiding behind your fucking last name.”
“I’m not going to argue about this here,” Seraphina states, and the slight tremor threatening the end of her sentence forces her to turn away. “I have an investment committee meeting in ten minutes.”
Nerissa lets out a dry laugh, devoid of any joy.
“Sure. The committee. The audits. Your real life, as always.”
Seraphina remains silent, a silence that ultimately blows up the last bridges between them. Nerissa waits for a flicker, a sidelong glance, a millimeter of weakness that would betray the CFO’s facade, but Seraphina remains stern, icy, entrenched in her position.
“You know what the worst part is?” Nerissa adds in a restrained voice, taking a step toward her so they can speak in whispers. “That while we were in Chester, I actually believed you were serious. That this could work.”
Seraphina swallows with difficulty, feeling an oppressive lump in her throat that threatens to choke her.
“Dr. Ashcombe…”
“No,” Nerissa interrupts, regaining her professional distance. “It’s already very clear to me.”
For the first time, Seraphina’s hands are visibly trembling.
She looks away toward the large window at the back, searching for an emergency exit from a reality that has become completely hostile to her.
Nerissa watches her for one last second, and in that gaze one can read the painful conclusion she has just reached: love doesn’t matter, Chester doesn’t matter; Seraphina will always choose the safety of her cage over the risk of a shared life.
“Understood,” says the surgeon with leaden resignation. “I won’t bother you during your work hours again.”
She turns and leaves, leaving Seraphina alone in the middle of the reception area.
*
Halfway down the main hallway, the elevator doors open.
Daphne Mercer emerges, carrying a medical record folder under her arm.
She’s wearing an impeccably tailored camel coat, her hair still slightly damp from the persistent afternoon rain, and that serene, public, and legitimate presence that always accompanies her.
As she passes Nerissa, Daphne immediately slows her pace, sensing the electric tension radiating from her shoulders.
“You look terrible today,” Daphne remarks with genuine concern, stopping beside her.
Nerissa tries to compose her features, though the transparency of her eyes betrays the storm raging inside her.
“It’s been a difficult morning,” she replies, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach her face.
Daphne studies her closely, gauging the situation with a delicacy that stands in stark contrast to the treatment Nerissa has just received. She doesn’t press her or demand explanations; she simply offers her a safe space.
“Have you gotten any sleep since you got back from the conference?” Daphne asks, resuming her pace alongside her.
Nerissa looks away toward the window, where raindrops slide slowly down the glass.
“I don’t want to talk about that right now, Daphne. Please.”
Daphne nods slowly, accepting the boundary without a single reproach. That was the reason their old relationship had been so comfortable, until they could no longer pretend: Daphne never invaded Nerissa’s silence, never sowed suspicion. She knew how to wait.
“You have surgery soon, right?” she asks, changing the subject with absolute ease and easing the tension.
“In fifteen minutes.”
“Then you should have something to eat first. I’m sure your stomach’s empty.”
Nerissa makes a gesture to refuse out of sheer habit, but Daphne beats her to it, stopping at one of the coffee machines.
“I know you too well,” Daphne adds with an affectionate smile. “When you’re under pressure or upset, you stop eating. And today you look exhausted.”