Chapter 7
Sunday afternoon settles over the Chapman residence with a calm that feels almost offensive.
The Manchester sky finally offers a bright respite, bathing the garden in golden light and the fresh scent of wet grass.
Music drifts from the outdoor speakers, mingling with the occasional laughter of neighbors and the rhythmic sizzle of the barbecue.
Elliot tends the grill with a beer in hand and a surprisingly domestic patience for a man accustomed to negotiating millions in front of boards of directors.
Everything seems perfect. The long table, draped in light-colored tablecloths, glistens in the afternoon sun.
Crystal glasses catch the light and scatter it in sparkling flashes.
Ivy runs across the lawn with grass-stained sneakers, chasing a ball far too big for her little legs.
Oliver, seated on the edge of the terrace, watches the scene with the quiet composure that has always characterized him despite his age.
The whole picture could have come straight out of an advertisement for family happiness.
And yet, Seraphina Chapman feels as though she’s drowning inside.
“Phina, honey, can you bring out another tray?” Elliot calls from the grill, raising his voice just enough to be heard over the crackle of the meat. “Stefan has apparently decided he’s going to eat everything.”
Laughter ripples through the garden. Seraphina flashes an automatic smile, the kind that comes effortlessly to her now.
“That explains why he’s so quiet,” she replies as she gathers several empty plates.
Stefan, stretched out in one of the deck chairs, raises his glass with theatrical indignation.
“I’m being deeply insulted in a house that isn’t even mine,” their neighbor protests humorously.
“And yet you keep coming back,” Elliot replies, turning a rack of ribs.
The conversation flows easily through jokes as Seraphina heads toward the outdoor kitchen.
Inside, emotional exhaustion weighs on her with every breath.
Since the argument with Nerissa in the medical records hallway, she hasn’t been able to regain her footing.
Nerissa’s words still sting beneath her ribs:
“At least she dared to hold my hand in public.”
She knows exactly why it hurts.
Because Nerissa has loved other women openly, freely, and honestly.
And she, in contrast, has done nothing but confine their story to secret rooms and hurried escapes.
Guilt weighs heavily on her as she watches Ivy run toward her.
“Mom, look at the drawing I made!” the little girl exclaims, panting, her cheeks flushed from the warmth. Strands of hair cling to her damp forehead.
Ivy drops a crumpled sheet of paper into her lap and climbs halfway onto the chair, seeking closeness. Seraphina looks down at the drawing.
There they are—the four of them—beneath a huge sun, with a disproportionately large house and crooked smiles sketched in marker.
A perfect family.
A sharp ache blooms in the center of her chest.
“It’s beautiful, sweetheart,” Seraphina murmurs, slowly stroking her daughter’s hair while forcing a smile that already aches in her cheeks.
“Dad helped me, but he’s terrible at drawing dogs,” Ivy adds seriously.
“That’s objectively true,” Seraphina confirms, and the girl bursts into delighted laughter.
Ivy launches into a rambling story about how Elliot had mistaken a horse for a dog while drawing. Seraphina nods, trying to genuinely listen, but her phone vibrates in her pocket and her entire body immediately tenses.
It’s a brutal reflex.
Hope rises into her throat before she can stop it.
Nerissa.
It has to be her.
Or maybe not.
The need to check burns beneath her skin.
God, she hates that dependence, that adolescent anxiety she can’t control.
She discreetly turns away from the garden and pulls out her phone for just a second.
A work email.
Nothing else.
No sign of Nerissa.
The emptiness that follows is equally ridiculous and devastating.
When she looks up, she finds Oliver watching her.
The boy stands on the terrace holding a can of soda, studying her with a seriousness that sends a chill through her.
Oliver has always noticed too much.
“Is something wrong at work, Mom?” he asks.
Seraphina slips her phone away too quickly.
“No, sweetheart. Just... a pending issue with the clinics.”
Oliver’s gaze briefly drops to the pocket where she has just hidden the phone.
Normally he would smile.
This time, he only looks at her.
Seraphina has the unbearable sensation of being scrutinized by someone incapable of accepting the lies she’s feeding him.
“It’s just that sometimes you look at your phone like you’re scared,” the boy whispers before turning away and heading back into the garden.
The effect of those words is devastating.
Seraphina remains frozen beside the counter, her hands ice-cold.
It isn’t Elliot who’s beginning to notice the cracks.
It’s her own children.
That realization sends a wave of genuine panic through her.
She leans against the marble countertop for several seconds, trying to breathe normally while the voices from the garden drift in, muffled by distance.
Elliot is laughing with Stefan.
Ivy is chasing the ball.
Life goes on, seemingly perfect.
And she is destroying it from within.
The afternoon drags on until it slowly gives way to evening.
The warm garden lights replace the sun, and the temperature drops.
Guests begin saying their goodbyes with hugs.
Seraphina keeps smiling until the very last moment, the very last farewell, and when the front door finally closes behind them and the house falls silent, exhaustion crashes over her.
“I’ll take Ivy upstairs,” Elliot says as he gathers the glasses. “She’s half asleep.”
“Thanks,” she replies.
He gives her a warm smile before disappearing upstairs with the little girl curled against his shoulder.
Seraphina watches them from the kitchen and feels an unbearable mixture of tenderness and guilt.
That should be enough.
That life.
That man.
Those children.
Anyone would give anything to have what she has.
So why does that emptiness still remain, devouring everything inside her heart?
She heads upstairs twenty minutes later, after making sure Oliver is in bed as well.
The house is quiet.
The master bedroom is dimly lit, illuminated only by the warm glow of the bedside lamps.
Seraphina steps into the en suite bathroom and begins removing her makeup in front of the mirror.
She studies her reflection for several seconds.
Perfectly groomed.
Elegant.
Deeply unhappy.
The memory of Nerissa returns uninvited, along with the pressure of her fingers around her wrist.
“You don’t own me.”
She squeezes her eyes shut.
She can’t keep living like this.
But she doesn’t know how to stop.
A few moments later, Elliot appears in the mirror, still unbuttoning his shirt. His hair is slightly tousled, and he carries the relaxed expression of someone who believes the day has been a success.
He steps up behind her.
His warm hands settle naturally on his wife’s waist.
Once, that gesture made her feel safe.
Now her entire body instinctively tenses.
Elliot presses a kiss to her neck.
“The kids fell asleep right away,” he murmurs against her skin.
Seraphina tries to steady her breathing.
“They were exhausted,” she replies.
“It’s been a while since we’ve had such a nice Sunday, Phina,” he adds affectionately, and the words break her heart. “I’ve missed you this week.”
Elliot’s hands move a few inches higher along her waist, searching for closeness, affection, connection.
Nothing aggressive.
Nothing demanding.
But her body betrays her before she can decide how to respond.
Elliot notices immediately.
He has always been too good at reading her.
“I’m exhausted, Elliot. Really. Between the barbecue, the neighbors, and everything at the clinic... my head is spinning.”
He remains still behind her for a few seconds.
Then he slowly lets go.
The silence that follows is thick and painful.
When Seraphina raises her eyes to the mirror, she finds him watching her from several steps away.
Elliot’s expression has changed.
He no longer looks relaxed.
He looks hurt.
And that realization sends a brutal wave of guilt through her.
“Your head doesn’t hurt,” he says quietly, without anger. “It’s much worse than that. You’ve been like this for months.”
She looks away toward the sink.
“I’m just tired.”
“No,” Elliot replies. “You’re distant.”
The words tighten Seraphina’s throat.
“That’s not fair,” she protests weakly.
“No?” He moves a little closer, though he keeps a respectful distance, as if afraid of pressuring her.
“You’re here. You have dinner with me, you take the kids to school—we talk about budgets and vacations.
.. but you’re not really present. It’s like there’s a glass wall between us, and I’m stuck on the other side. ”
Seraphina’s chest aches.
She can’t deny it.
Elliot is right.
“I feel like I’m losing you,” he continues, devastation carefully contained in every word. “And I don’t even know what’s pulling you away from me.”
Seraphina stares at her own hands, unable to meet his gaze.
Neither of them speaks for several seconds.
They both wait, aware that a terrible truth hangs in the air, and neither is ready to say it aloud.
“Elliot...” she begins, but she doesn’t know how to continue.
Any answer would be a lie.
And the truth would destroy everything.
He runs a hand over his face.
For the first time in a long while, he doesn’t look like the impeccable lawyer who commands boardrooms.
He’s just an exhausted man trying to understand why the woman he loves is slipping away from him inch by inch.
“If I’ve done something, I need you to tell me.”
Seraphina feels tears gathering behind her eyelids.
“You haven’t done anything.”
And that is precisely the tragedy.
Elliot nods slowly, though the answer clearly isn’t enough for him.
“Then I don’t know how to help you.”
The sincerity of that sentence finally breaks something inside her.
Because she doesn’t know how to help herself anymore, either.
As Elliot stands before her with his heart completely open and sadness written plainly across his face, Seraphina has a horrible thought:
She wishes her phone would vibrate.
She wishes it were Nerissa.
And the moment she recognizes that thought, she realizes with genuine terror that she may already have crossed a line that cannot be uncrossed.
“I’ll do better from now on. I promise,” Seraphina lies.
Because lately, that’s the only thing she knows how to do.