Discarded Ex: Claimed By The Boss

In the sterile hospital room, Seraphina sat wearing a mask, her fingers clenched tightly around Ethan's hand.

He was the boyfriend she had been with for four years, and they had just survived a horrific car accident together. Ethan had thrown himself in front of her, shielding her from the impact.

Seraphina, who had escaped with only minor injuries, was overwhelmed with guilt as she looked at Ethan lying unconscious after saving her, her eyes glistening with tears.

The steady beeping of the heart monitor was the only proof she had that Ethan was still alive. His eyelids fluttered slightly, and her breath instantly caught in her throat.

She immediately leaned closer, as if his face was the only thing left in her world. "Ethan?"

The deep blue eyes she had loved for four years slowly opened. When he looked at her, she froze.

The expression in Ethan's eyes was one Seraphina had never seen before-cold and distant. He blinked, his gaze sweeping over her face with a wary curiosity that made her stomach clench painfully.

"Ethan, it's me," she whispered, her voice trembling.

He frowned, a faint crease appearing between his brows. Suddenly, he pulled his hand from hers, and the loss of that touch hit her heart like a hammer. "Who are you?"

The three words hung in the air, sharp and heavy, like an icicle piercing straight through her heart. Before she could react, the door opened and Dr. Adrian Walsh walked in, looking at her sympathetically.

"Mr. Beaumont, it's good to see you're awake," Dr. Walsh said as he stepped to the bedside and shone a small flashlight into Ethan's eyes.

A few minutes later, Dr. Walsh turned to her with regret written across his face. "It appears the impact caused retrograde amnesia. He can't remember anything from before the accident. This may be temporary, or it may... never return. At this point, we simply don't know."

Every word felt like a nail being hammered into the unspoken words lodged in Seraphina's throat. Four years. Four years of a secret and passionate relationship, hidden from his powerful family and the ever-watchful media.

At that moment, Ethan's assistant, Mark Foster, walked in, his expression carefully neutral. He politely nodded to Seraphina before turning all of his attention to Ethan and immediately beginning to discuss stock prices and board meetings. She was completely ignored, left standing in the corner of the room like an insignificant decoration.

After Mark left, she refused to give up and sat by Ethan's bedside, her voice low and urgent as she recounted their shared memories: their first date at that tiny Italian restaurant in the West Village; the rainy Sunday they spent assembling an absurdly complicated piece of Swedish furniture together; the way he used to hold her gently at night.

He listened, but the impatience on his face became increasingly obvious, his lips pressed together and his jaw tightening. Finally, he interrupted her, irritation filling his voice.

"Miss, I don't know who you are, and honestly, these stories are giving me a headache. Please leave."

The word "Miss" hurt Seraphina more than a slap ever could. She stared at Ethan in disbelief. She had never seen his eyes look so cold, so completely devoid of emotion.

Her eyes burned with tears, but she forced herself not to let them fall. He was sick. This wasn't the real him.

"Okay," she whispered hoarsely. "You need to rest. I'll... I'll go get you some water."

She stood up numbly and stepped out of the room to catch her breath. In the hallway, she searched through her bag for her wallet, only to realize with frustration that she had left it on the sofa in his room.

She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself, then turned back. The heavy door was slightly ajar, and she gently pushed it open, afraid of disturbing him.

But he was awake, and he was on the phone. His voice had lost all traces of weakness and confusion, becoming sharp and clear.

"Baby, don't worry. Everything is going according to plan," he said, followed by a low, intimate chuckle she knew all too well. "The doctor is a family friend. He played his part perfectly."

Seraphina froze in the doorway, one hand still resting on the handle. Her heart pounded wildly, like a frantic bird trapped in a cage, slamming itself against her ribs.

A soft female voice came through the phone. It was Tiffany, one of the models she had seen with him at parties before. She giggled. "What about Seraphina? Did she believe it?"

Ethan let out a cold, dismissive laugh. "Of course she did. She bought it completely. She's probably standing in the hallway right now thinking her world has fallen apart. Honestly, it's the perfect excuse to finally get rid of her."

The sky hadn't fallen, but her world had shattered. The air in her lungs felt like shards of glass, cutting her from the inside out. Four years of her life-loving him, sacrificing her promising career as an architect, becoming his shadow and his secret support behind the scenes-had all been a lie. She wasn't the love of his life. She was a problem he needed to solve, a burden he needed a "perfect excuse" to discard.

She took a deep, ragged breath. Then another. Slowly, she forced her expression back under control and pushed the door fully open.

Ethan looked up sharply and immediately ended the call, putting on a confused expression as if nothing had happened.

To Seraphina, Ethan's performance was flawless.

Seraphina walked to his bedside, unable to meet his eyes for a moment as the tangled mess in her mind slowly condensed into a single, clear thought.

"Ethan," she said, her voice unnaturally calm. "We're breaking up."

He stared at her, his jaw nearly dropping. He had expected tears, pleading, hysteria. What he hadn't expected was a quiet and decisive ending like this. An emotion-annoyance, confusion-flashed across his face before he quickly concealed it. He didn't like this feeling of losing control.

He narrowed his eyes, trying to find a crack in her composure, but he found nothing.

"You should get some rest," she added, her voice as cold and still as a frozen lake. "I won't bother you again."

She turned away, her back straight and her steps steady as she walked out without looking back.

The door clicked shut behind her, and Ethan immediately grabbed his phone and sent a text to Mark: "Find out what she's up to. Keep an eye on her. I want to know what game she's playing."

He was convinced this was simply her latest strategy, an attempt to lure him back by pretending to let go.

In the hallway, Seraphina reached the corner before her legs finally gave out beneath her. She slid down the cold wall and sank to the floor, her body trembling uncontrollably. The pain was real and overwhelming, like a massive stone pressing against her chest and stealing her breath away. But she didn't cry. Betrayal had dragged her emotions into a vast whirlpool of suffering, and she had long since run out of tears.

Seraphina braced herself against the wall and struggled to her feet, every movement heavy and slow. She returned to her room at the end of the hallway-she had suffered a few minor cuts and bruises in the accident and needed to remain under observation for one night.

Nurse Emily was waiting for her, her face filled with sympathy."Oh, dear, you're back. They recovered your personal belongings from the car, but they didn't find your phone. Perhaps you can look for it yourself."

"If I can't find it, then forget it," Seraphina said, the words dry as dust in her mouth. Nothing mattered anymore. She just wanted to leave-leave this hospital, leave this place filled with lies."I'm checking out right now."

As she signed the discharge papers at the nurses' station, Mark Foster appeared beside her and handed her a sleek, elegantly wrapped box.

"Mr. Beaumont insisted that you have this," Mark said, his voice smooth and emotionless like a machine. "A new phone. He also transferred some money into an account for you as compensation."

Seraphina stared at the box. The latest iPhone looked like a final bribe. She remembered surviving on cheap sandwiches for an entire month, saving every penny just to buy him a vintage watch for his birthday. The memory left a bitter ache in her chest.

"I don't need it." she said flatly.

Mark gestured toward a small pile of shopping bags from luxury boutiques at his feet. "These are from Mr. Beaumont as well. A small token of his goodwill."

Her eyes swept over the logos-Chanel, Dior-brands she had only ever admired through display windows. It felt like a deliberate insult. He thought he could buy her silence, obedience, and departure with these things. He thought he could put a price tag on the four years she had given him.

"Take it all back," she said, her voice frighteningly calm. "I don't want any of it."

Mark looked genuinely surprised. Clearly, he had never seen a woman refuse gifts like these before. He opened his mouth to argue, but she had already turned away and walked toward the hospital exit without looking back.

Near the revolving doors, she stopped beside a trash can and cleaned out her handbag, throwing away old receipts and crumpled tissues. Her fingers brushed against something hard and sharp hidden in the lining of her bag, and she pulled it out.

It was her phone, but it was ruined beyond recognition. The screen had shattered into a spiderweb of cracks, the back panel was bent at an unnatural angle, and the metal casing had caved inward as if someone had deliberately stomped on it with a heavy boot. This wasn't damage from the accident. It was deliberate destruction.

The discovery hit her like a hammer to the chest. He hadn't just lied to her-he had gone out of his way to erase her existence, destroying every piece of evidence that proved she had once been part of his life. Photos, messages, late-night phone calls-everything had been destroyed.

Some foolish part of her subconscious had still believed this was all a terrible misunderstanding. Every absurd hope she had clung to shattered completely in that moment. He wasn't just a liar. He was cruel.

Without a moment's hesitation, she dropped the ruined device into the trash can. It landed with a dull thud, like a period at the end of a sentence, bringing everything to a close.

Back in his hospital room, Ethan listened as Mark reported over the phone. When he heard that Seraphina had refused everything, a slow, arrogant smile spread across his face.

"See? She's playing hard to get. She wants me to chase after her and beg for her back. It's all part of her game."

Everything was still under his control. Sooner or later, Seraphina would come back and beg for him. It was only a matter of time.

Seraphina stepped out onto the sidewalk and breathed in the fresh New York air.

She walked into a nearby convenience store and used the cash in her pocket to buy the cheapest prepaid phone and a new SIM card. Standing on the sidewalk, she activated the phone and entered only two numbers into the new contact list: Holly Miller, her best and only true friend; and Catherine Reynolds, her former boss.

The first thing she did was call a taxi.

"Upper East Side," she told the driver, giving him the address of the penthouse apartment she had once foolishly believed was home.

She wasn't going back to argue or beg. She was going back to reclaim what belonged to her. Not the gifts he had given her, not the life he had lived with her, but the pieces of herself she had left behind there-her sketchbooks, her design portfolio, and the blueprint for her own future.

The taxi sped through the city as familiar streets blurred past outside the window.

The lost and heartbroken look that had once filled her eyes had become sharp and resolute. She was no longer someone's secret lover. She was going to live for herself.

The taxi pulled up in front of the residential tower's gleaming glass façade. Seraphina paid the fare, stepped out, and stood for a moment on the familiar sidewalk. Once, walking into this building had given her a secret sense of belonging. Now, it felt like a cluttered graveyard, a place she needed to clean out.

The private elevator's scanner still recognized her fingerprint. Apparently, he hadn't gotten around to deleting her access yet. The elevator rose silently, carrying her directly to the foyer of the penthouse.

The first thing that hit her was a sweet floral perfume that didn't belong to her, lingering in the air.

In the living room, a silk robe that also wasn't hers had been carelessly draped over the armrest of the sofa she had personally chosen. She walked toward the master bedroom, her heart like a cold, heavy stone. On the nightstand where her photograph used to sit was a new silver frame, and the smiling woman inside it was Scarlett Finch, an up-and-coming socialite better known for her connections than her talent.

Her side of the walk-in closet had been emptied out, replaced by rows of brand-new, brightly colored designer dresses, their tags still attached. Every trace of her had been systematically erased and replaced.

The sound of the bathroom door opening made her turn around. Scarlett Finch stepped out, wrapped in one of Ethan's luxurious white towels, her hair still wet. She gasped theatrically in surprise, but her eyes glittered with triumph and provocation.

"Oh, Seraphina," she said, her voice dripping with false sympathy, "I never expected to see you here. Didn't Ethan tell you? This is Ethan's and my home now. I'm the mistress of this house now."

Ignoring the mockery, Seraphina asked, "Where are my things?"

Scarlett smiled, a subtle and cruel curve touching her lips, and pointed a perfectly manicured finger toward a storage cabinet at the end of the hallway. "Ethan said you wouldn't need those old things anymore, so I packed them away for you."

Seraphina walked to the cabinet and opened the door, involuntarily sucking in a breath. Her treasured architecture books, the portfolio filled with years of work, and even the small, worn wooden music box-the only connection she still had to her parents-had all been tossed into a dusty corner like garbage. Beside them sat several enormous brand-new Hermès boxes, their bright orange color glaring like trophies announcing that she had been replaced.

The last fragile piece of hope she hadn't even realized she was still holding onto finally shattered.

She said nothing. She simply knelt down and began sorting through the pile methodically. She took out her most important portfolio and the music box, clutching them tightly against her chest. The clothes, shoes, and personal belongings she left behind. They had been tainted, and she wanted nothing that had remained in this house.

As she carried a few of her belongings toward the door, Scarlett walked over from inside the house and blocked her path.

"You forgot this," Scarlett said, holding out a velvet jewelry box. "Your anniversary gift. Ethan wanted me to make sure you got it back."

Seraphina took the box and opened it. Inside lay the diamond necklace he had given her the year before. When he had fastened it around her neck, she had cried with happiness, believing it was a promise. Now, it looked like nothing more than a beautiful and expensive lie.

She walked over to the trash can and, without hesitation, dropped the necklace inside. It caught the afternoon sunlight for a brief moment before falling into the bin with a crisp metallic sound.

She turned back to the stunned Scarlett and said, "Tell Ethan this." Her voice was as cold and hard as the diamonds she had just thrown away. "I don't want his trash."

Scarlett's face twisted with anger. This wasn't the reaction she had wanted. She had expected tears, desperation, humiliation-not this cold, contemptuous defiance.

Seraphina brushed past her and left the apartment, the elevator doors closing on Scarlett's furious face.

The moment she was gone, Scarlett immediately grabbed her phone and called Ethan. With carefully manufactured sobs in her voice, she embellished the story, describing how Seraphina had barged in, thrown a hysterical tantrum, and destroyed the "beautiful gift" he had given her.

Listening to the story, Ethan leaned back against his hospital pillows and chuckled softly. "She's still fighting it," he told Mark, who stood nearby. "She still cares. Keep watching her. She won't last much longer."

Meanwhile, Seraphina stood on the noisy Manhattan sidewalk, clutching her portfolio and music box tightly to her chest. The sounds of the city swirled around her, yet she had never felt more alone. She had nothing but a new phone, a little cash, and the clothes on her back. She had nowhere to go.