Chapter 52: The Taste of Poison
The evening had started quietly.
Serene had spent the afternoon painting—the view from the window, rendered in soft greys and whites, capturing Edinburgh in its winter stillness. The porridge from breakfast had warmed something in her chest, and for the first time in weeks, she'd felt almost... peaceful.
Ethan had called at six.
"Business dinner," he'd said, his voice rushed. "A potential deal. Important. I'll be late. Don't wait up."
She'd signed "be careful" before remembering he couldn't see her through the phone. The line had already gone dead.
---
She ate alone.
A simple meal—bread, cheese, an apple—sitting at the small table by the window, watching the city darken. The apartment felt different when he wasn't there. Larger. Emptier. More like a cage than a home.
She washed her dishes, changed into her nightclothes, and settled into the armchair by the fire with a book. Waiting, though she told herself she wasn't.
Hours passed.
The fire burned low. The book grew heavy in her hands. Her eyes drifted closed.
She woke to noise at the door.
---
The clock read half past midnight.
Serene sat up, disoriented, as the door swung open and two figures stumbled through.
Ethan first—swaying, barely upright, his arm slung heavily around the shoulders of a woman Serene had never seen. Tall. Blonde. Impeccably dressed in a sharp suit and heels that clicked against the floor. Beautiful in the cold, polished way of women who knew their worth.
"That's it," the woman was saying, her voice clipped and annoyed. "Almost there. Just a few more steps."
Ethan mumbled something unintelligible, his head lolling.
They made it to the couch. The woman deposited him onto it with more force than necessary, and he sprawled across the cushions, eyes closed, breathing heavy.
The woman straightened, smoothing her suit, and finally noticed Serene.
Her eyes traveled over Serene—the plain nightclothes, the bare feet, the honey-brown eyes wide with confusion—and something flickered in their depths.
Contempt.
Jealousy.
Triumph.
---
"You must be the wife." Her voice was silk over steel. "I'm Veronica. Ethan's secretary."
Serene rose slowly, reaching for her notepad.
"Don't bother." Veronica waved a manicured hand. "I know you can't speak. Ethan's mentioned it." The way she said it—mentioned—made it sound like a deformity, a weakness, a joke.
Veronica moved closer, examining the apartment with the casual ownership of someone who belonged. Her eyes lingered on the paintings, the books, the small touches of Serene's presence.
"Interesting," she murmured. "I wouldn't have thought you'd have hobbies."
Serene's hands clenched at her sides, but she kept her face blank.
"The deal went well," Veronica continued, circling back to Ethan's prone form. "A new smartphone company—cutting edge technology. Ethan had to close it at any cost." She paused, her red lips curving into a smile. "Any cost."
She leaned down, adjusting Ethan's collar with familiar hands. Her fingers lingered.
"He's quite remarkable, isn't he? So driven. So passionate." Her eyes flicked to Serene. "So wasted on someone who can't even appreciate him."
---
Serene saw it then.
The smudge on Ethan's collar. Faint but unmistakable.
Lipstick. The same deep red as Veronica's mouth.
Her heart stopped.
Veronica followed her gaze and smiled—slow, satisfied, cruel.
"Oh, that." She touched her own lips almost absently. "The celebration got a bit... enthusiastic. But you understand, I'm sure. Business is business."
She straightened, smoothing her skirt.
"Well, I should go. He'll be fine in the morning. A bit of a headache, perhaps, but fine." She paused at the door, looking back. "Do take care of him. Though I suppose that's all you're good for, isn't it? Taking care of things. Being quiet. Being invisible."
The door closed behind her.
Serene stood frozen in the middle of the room, the silence pressing in, Veronica's words echoing in her mind.
---
She looked at Ethan.
Sprawled on the couch. Unconscious. His shirt wrinkled, his collar smudged with that telltale red.
Lipstick.
On his collar.
From Veronica.
From a woman who was beautiful and accomplished and capable of speech—everything Serene wasn't.
Everything Ava was.
The memory hit her like a physical blow.
The fitting. The dressing room. Ethan's arms around her from behind, his lips on her neck—and then, moments later, Ava emerging with smudged lipstick, fresh from his kiss.
He'd gone straight from her to Ava that day.
Straight from holding her to kissing his fiancée.
And now—
Now he was here, drunk, with another woman's lipstick on his collar, sprawled on the couch where he'd held her just nights ago.
---
Why?
The question burned through her chest, hot and acidic.
Why did he marry her? Why trap her here, steal her from Clive, drag her to Scotland, hold her through the night, eat her porridge like it was sacred—if he was just going to do this?
Was it jealousy? Was that all she was to him—a possession to keep, a prize to claim, a way to win some imagined competition with Clive?
He'd always preferred women like Ava. Beautiful. Accomplished. Whole. Women who could speak, who could laugh, who could match his wit and charm and social grace.
And Veronica was the same. Polished. Perfect. Everything Serene wasn't.
So why marry the mute?
Why trap the broken one?
Why pretend to care?
---
Her hands shook as she wrote in her journal, words spilling out like poison from a wound.
He came home with another woman's lipstick on his collar.
Her name is Veronica. His secretary. Beautiful. Confident. Cruel.
She looked at me like I was nothing—less than nothing. Like I was a joke, a mistake, a burden he was stuck with.
And maybe she's right.
Maybe that's all I am.
Why did he marry me? Why trap me here, hold me, pretend to care—if he's just going to do this?
Was it jealousy? Was it just about keeping me from Clive?
Did he ever actually want me?
Or am I just... convenient? A possession to be claimed and then ignored?
Why?
The question echoed in her mind, endless and devastating.
Why did he marry her? Not for love—that was clear. Not for companionship—he had Margarets for that. Not for anything she could give him.
Just because he was jealous.
Just because Clive had seen her.
Just because he couldn't bear the thought of her being happy with someone else.
She was a possession to him. A trophy. A way to win some unspoken competition with a man who had actually loved her.
And now—now that Clive was gone, now that she was trapped here with nothing but memories and grief—he was free to return to the women he actually wanted.
She rose and walked to the bedroom.
Closed the door.
Leaned against it.
Slid down to the floor.
The tears came then—silent, endless, washing away the last fragments of hope she'd been foolish enough to nurture.
He didn't love her.
He'd never loved her.
He'd loved Ava. He'd loved Veronica. He'd loved a dozen beautiful, whole women who could give him everything she couldn't.
She was just... convenient.
A possession.
A victory in some private war.
She curled into herself, arms wrapped around her knees, and let the darkness take her.
---
In the drawing room, Ethan lay unconscious, dreaming of nothing, unaware that the fragile trust he'd spent weeks building had just crumbled to ash.
And in the bedroom, Serene Frost—Serene Leo—wrote her final words of the night:
I was stupid to hope.
I was foolish to trust.
I was wrong to think he could ever love someone like me.
Some people are born to be loved.
Some people are born to be happy.
I was born to be left behind.
Always.
---