Chapter 6 The Last Breakfast

Morning light filtered through the blinds of the guest room. Seraphina's ankle was a swollen, purple mess, but she wrapped it tightly in an ace bandage she found in the bathroom cabinet.

She limped into the kitchen. It was muscle memory. Even with a broken marriage and a broken body, the routine of being a "good wife" was hard to shake.

She couldn't stand to cook. Instead, she dragged a high stool to the stove and perched on it, taking the weight off her leg. She made pancakes and scrambled eggs, her movements awkward and pained, but efficient.

Harrison entered the kitchen at 7:30 AM sharp. He was dressed in a navy suit, impeccable as always. He saw the food on the table and the smell of coffee seemed to relax his shoulders.

He smiled. It was a smug, self-satisfied smile.

"I knew you'd calm down," he said, pulling out his chair. "You always do."

He sat down and took a sip of the coffee. He sighed in appreciation.

"The eggs look perfect. Let's forget about yesterday. I forgive you for the scene at the hospital."

He forgave *her*.

Seraphina sat opposite him, her leg propped up on a spare chair. She wasn't eating.

She reached into the pocket of her robe and pulled out a folded document. It wasn't a crisp legal filing from a high-rise firm; it was a printout she had made weeks ago at the library, filled out in her own neat handwriting, and hidden in her cookbook.

She slid it across the polished granite table.

Harrison paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. He looked at the paper, then at her.

"What is this?"

"Read it."

He put the fork down. He unfolded the paper.

He scanned the document. His eyes darted back and forth.

*Draft Separation Agreement.*

*Claimant: Seraphina Sterling.*

*Assets Requested: None.*

*Alimony Requested: None.*

Net zero. A clean break.

Harrison's face turned a deep, angry red. The veins in his neck stood out.

"You think this makes you noble?" he spat.

He looked up at her, shaking the papers. "Asking for nothing? It makes you look like a martyr. It's a tactic to make me look cheap in the press."

"It's not a tactic," Seraphina said calmly. "I don't want your money, Harrison. I just want out."

"You don't get to decide when this ends!"

He stood up so abruptly his chair fell over. He grabbed the papers in both hands.

*Riiip.*

He tore the document in half. Then in quarters. He threw the pieces into the air. They fluttered down like snow, landing in the scrambled eggs, in the coffee, on the floor.

"You are a Vanderbilt," he growled. "We don't divorce. And you certainly don't walk away from me until I say you can."

"I have the digital file," Seraphina said. Her voice was flat, dead. "And I sent it to my lawyer this morning."

Harrison stared at her. He wanted a reaction. He wanted tears, screaming, pleading. He wanted passion, even if it was negative. But she gave him nothing but a wall of ice.

He grabbed the edge of his plate.

"To hell with this!"

He flipped the plate.

The breakfast-eggs, bacon, toast-crashed onto the floor. Ceramic shattered. Food splattered across the pristine white tiles and onto Seraphina's bandaged foot.

"Clean this up," he barked.

He stormed out of the kitchen. A moment later, the front door slammed.

Seraphina looked down at the mess. Broken pottery. Wasted food.

She looked at the broom in the corner.

Then, she stepped over the pile of garbage, careful not to slip. She didn't pick up a single piece.

She went to the foyer closet, retrieved her small overnight bag, and walked out the front door, leaving the mess for the ants.