Chapter 1 No.1

The rain in Manhattan didn't wash things clean. It just made the grime slicker.

Serena Vance stepped out of the yellow cab, her heel sinking immediately into a puddle of gray slush. The water seeped through the cheap leather of her shoe, soaking her sock, freezing her skin. She didn't flinch. She was used to the cold.

She clutched the velvet cake box to her chest like a shield. It was custom-made. Red velvet. Julian's favorite. Or at least, the favorite of the man he used to be before he became her husband.

She looked up at the imposing black facade of 'Obsidian,' the private members-only club on the Upper East Side. The building looked like a fortress designed to keep people like her out.

She adjusted her coat. It was a size too big, bought to hide the weight she had gained over the last two years. The metabolic disorder had turned her body into a prison of soft flesh and water retention. Her face, once merely plain, was now puffy, marred by a stubborn rash along her jawline that no amount of drugstore foundation could cover.

"Name?" The doorman didn't look at her face. He looked at her shoes.

"Mrs. Sterling," Serena said. Her voice trembled slightly. It always did when she used that name. It felt like she was stealing it.

The doorman paused. He looked at his list, then at her. His lip curled. It was a subtle movement, a micro-aggression she had become an expert at cataloging. He knew who she was. Everyone knew who she was. The Vance mistake. The embarrassment.

"Mr. Sterling is in the VIP suite," the doorman said, his tone flat. "He left instructions not to be disturbed."

"It's our anniversary," Serena said. The words hung in the wet air, pathetic and small. "I... I have a delivery."

She lifted the box slightly.

The doorman sighed, a puff of white breath in the cold air. He unhooked the velvet rope. He didn't open the door for her.

Serena pushed through the heavy oak doors. The noise of the rain vanished, replaced by the low thrum of jazz and the scent of aged leather and expensive cigars. She walked down the dimly lit corridor. Her wet coat dripped onto the plush Persian runner. Drip. Drip. Drip. A trail of evidence that she didn't belong.

She reached the end of the hall. The door to the VIP suite was solid mahogany. She raised her hand to knock, but her knuckles hovered inches from the wood.

Laughter. Loud, raucous, male laughter.

"Come on, Jules," a voice boomed. It was Oliver, Julian's college friend. "You can't tell me you're going home to that creature tonight. It's barely midnight."

Serena froze. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a painful, irregular rhythm.

"I have to make an appearance," Julian's voice cut through the noise. It was cold. Detached. The voice he used when he spoke to his lawyers. "It's the third anniversary. The contract stipulates I have to be physically present in the marital residence on significant dates to keep the trust fund disbursements active."

"The things you do for money," Oliver laughed. "I've seen her, man. She looks like she ate the old Serena. And that skin... is it contagious?"

Serena felt the bile rise in her throat. She squeezed her eyes shut.

"It doesn't matter what she looks like," Julian said. The indifference in his tone was worse than the mockery. "She is a signature on a piece of paper. Nothing more. The only woman in this city I respect is Elena. She knows her place. She doesn't demand things she doesn't deserve."

"To Elena!" someone toasted. Glasses clinked.

Serena looked down at the cake box. Her fingers were white, gripping the cardboard so hard it had begun to buckle.

She had spent three days planning this. She had baked it herself because the bakeries were too intimidating. She thought maybe, just maybe, if she showed him she remembered the small things, he might look at her with something other than disgust.

But he didn't even see her. To him, she wasn't a wife. She wasn't even a person. She was a clause in a grandfather's will.

A sharp, physical pain sliced through her chest. It wasn't heartbreak. Heartbreak was poetic. This was a severance. It was the feeling of a limb being hacked off without anesthesia.

She bent down. Her knees cracked. She placed the cake box gently on the floor outside the door.

She didn't knock.

She stood up. She looked at the door one last time. She didn't cry. The tears were stuck somewhere deep in her chest, frozen solid.

She turned around. Her movements were robotic. Left foot. Right foot.

She walked back down the hallway. The doorman was watching her, a smirk playing on his lips. He expected her to be kicked out. He expected a scene.

Serena walked past him without blinking. She pushed the heavy doors open and stepped back into the rain.

The cold water hit her face, mixing with the heat of her shame. She didn't hail a cab. She walked. She walked until her feet were numb. She walked until the Obsidian Club was just a black smear in the distance.

She pulled her phone from her pocket. Her fingers were shaking, but her mind was crystal clear.

She dialed a number.

"Sterling Family Legal Counsel," a tired voice answered.

"This is Serena," she said. Her voice didn't tremble this time. "Draft the papers."

"Mrs. Sterling? It's 11 PM. Draft what papers?"

"The divorce papers," she said. "I want them ready by morning."

She hung up before he could argue.

She returned to the penthouse. It was dark. It smelled of lemon polish and emptiness. Julian rarely slept here. He kept a separate apartment in the city, one she wasn't allowed to visit.

She walked into the master bedroom. The bed was made, the sheets crisp and untouched. She walked to the wall safe. She punched in the code-Julian's birthday. He was that narcissistic.

Inside sat the velvet box containing the diamond necklace he had given her on their wedding day. He had called it a "prop for the photos." She had never worn it since.

She took it out. She placed it on the nightstand.

She twisted the gold band on her left ring finger. It was tight. Her fingers were swollen from the medication she had been secretly taking, the medication that wasn't working. She yanked it. Skin tore. A drop of blood smeared on the gold as it came free.

She placed the ring next to the necklace.

She went to the closet. She pulled out a single, battered suitcase. The one she had brought from the Vance estate three years ago.

She packed her old clothes. The cheap cotton shirts. The worn-out jeans. She left the silk, the cashmere, the designer labels Julian's assistant had bought for her public appearances.

She walked to the vanity mirror. She looked at herself.

Pale. Bloated. Eyes red-rimmed. A scar running down her left cheek, inflamed and angry.

"You are ugly," she whispered to her reflection. "You are weak."

She picked up a heavy bottle of perfume-Chanel No. 5, a gift from Julian's mother that Serena hated.

She hurled it.

CRASH.

The mirror shattered. Shards of glass exploded outward, raining down on the marble counter. The spiderweb cracks distorted her reflection, breaking her face into a thousand jagged pieces.

Good.

She grabbed a piece of stationary. She wrote two lines.

The trust fund is yours. My life is mine.

She placed the house key on top of the note.

She zipped the suitcase. It was light. Three years of marriage, and she had nothing to show for it but a light suitcase and a heavy heart.

She pulled out a second phone. A burner. She had kept it charged for three years, hidden in the back of her sock drawer.

She dialed a number that hadn't been called in a decade.

It rang once.

"Hello?" An elderly, British voice.

Serena closed her eyes. "Godfather," she whispered. "I'm ready to come home."