"Saraphina, can't you see what's happening? Why are you so—so stupid?!"
Hazel's voice cracked like a whip, rising over the thumping music of the club as she stormed after her friend.
Outside, the air was cool and damp, full of the sharp scent of spilled drinks and city smoke. Saraphina didn't stop walking.
Her arms were wrapped around herself like a fragile shield, but her steps were quick, desperate—as if she could outpace the image burned into her mind: her boyfriend's, lips tangled with another woman's in the corner booth, shameless under flashing lights.
"Wait!" Hazel's footsteps pounded behind her. She reached forward and grabbed Saraphina's wrist, spinning her around.
Saraphina turned, blinking behind her round glasses. Her face was pale, her eyes wide but dry too stunned even to cry.
Hazel searched her face. "You saw that, right? Please don't tell me you didn't see what I saw. Saraphina, this isn't the first time! You know it's not! And now you've seen him again with your own eyes and you're still walking away?"
Saraphina's lips trembled. Her eyes dropped, as if looking down at her own reflection in the puddle near the curb. Her voice was soft, almost too soft to hear. "I saw it."
Hazel blinked, waiting.
"I saw everything," Saraphina whispered.
"But… look at me." She glanced down at her body, pulling at the hem of her cardigan. "I'm… big. I don't fit in places like that. In his world. The parties, the women… the dresses. Maybe he's just… having fun."
"What?" Hazel stepped back, her voice rising with disbelief. "Fun? Cheating on you is fun?"
Saraphina didn't answer. She just adjusted her glasses again, like she always did when she wanted to hide. But Hazel wasn't letting her hide tonight.
Hazel grabbed both her shoulders. "You're beautiful, Saraphina. You're enough. And he's trash for making you feel like you're not. What the hell are you even doing? Why are you still with him?"
Saraphina gave a faint smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I have to go home. I have to cook dinner for his mother. She likes the soup with lemon and chicken. If I don't get back on time, she won't sleep well."
Hazel stared, stunned. "You're serious?"
A taxi rolled to a stop beside them, its headlights washing over Saraphina's soft curls and tired eyes.
"You!" Hazel face burned. "He didn't even propose to you!"
She stepped back. "Goodnight, Hazel," she said quietly, pulling her wrist free. "I'll see you later."
Hazel stood frozen on the sidewalk, her hands balled into fists as Saraphina opened the taxi door.
"Wait—Saraphina, please don't let this be your life," she said, but her voice barely made it past the lump in her throat.
Saraphina didn't turn around. She just got into the taxi and closed the door.
The cab pulled away, taking with it the girl who had once dreamed of fairytale love leaving Hazel staring after her, helpless, furious, and heartbroken for the friend who couldn't see her own worth.
Saraphina stepped out of the elevator and walked down the long hallway. Her heels clicked softly on the polished tiles as she reached the door of the luxurious penthouse apartment. She paused for a second just one second before keying in the password.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Click.
The door swung open.
She barely had time to step in before a sharp voice rang through the living room.
"Why are you back so late? Do you know my mother can't sleep without drinking her soup?"
A pink slipper came flying through the air. Saraphina ducked just in time, and it hit the doorframe behind her with a soft thud.
Amelia, her boyfriend's younger sister, stood with her arms crossed, her perfectly shaped brows drawn together in a scowl.
Her silk robe shimmered under the warm chandelier light. Her lips curled with irritation, not even a hint of concern on her face.
Saraphina's eyes flicked to the living room, where her boyfriend's mother, Tessa Miller sat on the long velvet couch, her hand pressed to her forehead as if the world was ending.
The older woman slowly lifted her head. Her face was pinched, pale with age and drama.
"Why are you back so late? Do you want to starve me to death?" she snapped, squinting at Saraphina like she was some vile thing dragged in from the street. "This house runs on routine. And you keep breaking it. Do you want to kill me, you evil girl?"
Saraphina's mouth parted, but she quickly bowed her head. "I'm so sorry. I...I'll make dinner right away."
She didn't wait for another word.
With her shoulders hunched, she scurried toward the kitchen like a servant late to duty. She didn't even take off her shoes.
The sound of Amelia's voice followed her like smoke.
"Useless! Can't even keep time. All you do is mope around like a sad puppy."
Saraphina didn't respond.
The moment she stepped into the bright, cold kitchen, she leaned on the counter.
Her fingers gripped the marble so tightly her knuckles turned white. Her chest ached. Not just from the shouting—but from the emptiness that seemed to echo louder than any words.
She took a deep breath. Another. Then reached for the apron hanging by the fridge.
Her fingers moved automatically—chopping ginger, boiling water, cleaning chicken—but her mind was somewhere else. Still at that club. Still watching her boyfriend press his lips against another woman's.
A sudden, sharp pain tore through Saraphina's palm.
She gasped, her eyes darting to her hand. Blood welled up from a fresh cut on her skin the knife had slipped while she was chopping onions. Her breath caught, but she said nothing. Not a single word.
She quickly turned on the tap and rinsed the cut under cold water. The sting made her eyes water, but she bit her lip and held back the tears. After wrapping it with a clean piece of cloth, she went right back to cooking like nothing had happened.
Dinner had to be ready before they came out to complain.
When the food was done, she plated it carefully and carried it out.
When dinner was ready, she arranged the plates carefully and carried them out.
"Dinner is served," she said softly, setting the plates on the table.
" You took long enough," Christian's mother barely spared her a glance. She sat on one of the plush velvet dining chairs like a queen, wearing silk and pearls, though she'd once sold dried fish in the slums.
"This chicken is too dry," she muttered after one bite, pushing the plate slightly forward.
Amelia, Christian's younger sister, scrunched her nose. "And why is the rice clumpy? I told you I hate soft rice."
Saraphina stood by quietly, hands folded in front of her, her bandaged hand hidden under the other.
"I'm sorry," she said, her voice low.
She waited until they were done eating, then quietly cleared the table, washed every dish, wiped every surface, and swept the already-clean kitchen.
Only when everything sparkled did she dish her own food and retreat to the tiny box room tucked behind the pantry.
It used to be a storage space. Now it was hers.
Even in this massive penthouse with three luxurious bedrooms, Christian's mother and sister insisted she didn't need a room of her own. They each had one. Christian had one. She had... the store room.
A thin mattress on the floor. A single lightbulb. A broken wall clock and no windows.
But Saraphina didn't complain. She never had.
She believed things would change. Soon.
One day, she and Christian would share his room. Share a life.
Until then, she wanted to save herself for their wedding night. That had always been her dream.
She turned to the side, pulling the thin blanket over her body as she stared at the ceiling. The light from the hallway spilled under the door.
Her heart squeezed gently.
They had all lived in the slums once—crammed in a leaking, wooden shack that barely had room to stretch a leg. Rats, hunger, and heat were their constant neighbors.
So yes, this new apartment, however small, felt like luxury. She was proud of Christian for rising this far. He had taken a bold risk by turning down a regular job and choosing business after graduation.
Everyone—including his own mother and sister—thought he was being foolish.
They mocked him and fought him.
But she had stood by him. Believed in him. Pushed him forward when no one else would.
And now look.
She curled up under her worn blanket and smiled faintly at the thought. She was saving herself for their wedding night. It had always been her dream—to give herself to her husband. Only him.
And Christian… Christian had always promised forever.
She remembered the look in his eyes the night he bought this penthouse—how he had said, "This is just the beginning, Sara.One day, you'll be the lady of this house."
That promise had kept her going.
But lately, his mother and sister had become colder. Crueler. More demanding. And he? He'd become busier. More distracted.
Hazel's words echoed in her mind from earlier that week.
"You're still living with him, doing everything for his family, and he still hasn't proposed? Girl, what's he waiting for?"
Saraphina had laughed it off, brushing the question aside. "He's just waiting for the right moment," she had said.
But tonight… she wasn't sure.
She stared at the ceiling as the city lights flickered through the gap under the door. Her hand throbbed under the makeshift bandage. Her chest ached with a different kind of pain.
What if Hazel was right?
A few days later, rhe smell of warm vanilla and sweet muffins lingered in the air, wrapping Saraphina in a gentle sort of comfort as she wiped the last table, her sleeves rolled up to the elbows.
Her fingers moved in slow circles over the polished wood, but her mind wandered.
She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear just as her phone buzzed in her apron pocket.
It was Christian.
She wiped her hands on a towel and answered, her voice soft. "Hey…"
"Come outside," he said. His voice was low. Careful. Like it carried weight he hadn't yet unpacked.
She paused. "Outside? Are you… here?"
"I'm outside," he said again, breath just a little uneven. "Just come. Please."
The call ended.
Her fingers stiffened around the phone. Her heart fluttered—uncertain, too fast, too loud. It had been a while since Christian stopped here.
Hazel, wiping the counter, glanced over with mild curiosity. "Who was that?"
"Christian," Saraphina murmured, untying her apron with slightly shaking hands.
Hazel raised a brow. "What now? Grocery run? Laundry pick-up?"
Saraphina only smiled—nervously—and slipped through the door, her palms damp with anticipation.
The summer air hit her skin like a whisper.
She stepped onto the sidewalk.
And then—froze.
Her breath caught in her throat.
There he was.
Christian stood just a few steps away, dressed in a crisp white shirt with the sleeves pushed to his forearms, a bouquet of red roses clenched tightly in one hand.
His dark eyes found hers instantly, and for a moment, neither of them moved.
The late sun painted him gold. The breeze teased his curls. His smile trembled like it was holding back everything he wanted to say.
Behind him, parked neatly at the curb, was his SUV—adorned in soft pink and silver balloons that danced gently in the wind. A white sign leaned against the hood, its gold script shimmering in the light:
"WILL YOU MARRY ME?"
Her heart fluttered. Was he finally seeing her again?