The morning sun hit the marble floors of the East Wing with a brilliance that felt mocking. Seraphina woke up with a jolt, her hand instinctively reaching for her head.
The wig was gone, her natural chestnut hair spilled across the silk pillowcase like a dark stain.
She wasn't in her cramped, paint-splattered studio anymore. She was in a cage. A very expensive, very cold cage.
She spent the first hour of her marriage frantically searching for her charcoal pencils and sketchbook. When she finally found them tucked into the bottom of a suitcase, her hands stopped trembling.
She sat by the window and began to draw a single, dying lily from her bridal bouquet.
Under her touch, the wilted petals took on a tragic beauty—sharp, detailed, and honest.
"Madam! Madam, you must hurry!"
Maya, the young maid, burst into the room without knocking. Her face was ashen.
"What is it? Is Alexander—"
"No, Madam! It's the Dowager! Mrs. Lydia Thorne is downstairs in the sunroom. She... she is demanding to know why the new bride isn't there to serve her tea."
Seraphina's blood turned to ice. Lydia Thorne. Alexander's mother was a woman whose reputation for cruelty was only matched by her son's reputation for ruthlessness.
"I'll be down in ten minutes," Seraphina said, her voice tight.
The transformation was a frantic, soul-crushing process. She pinned her dark hair back until it hurt, pulled the platinum-blonde wig into place, and applied the heavy, crimson lipstick that Selene always wore.
By the time she stood in the sunroom, she looked like a socialite. But inside, she felt like a fraud.
Lydia Thorne sat by the window, draped in a Chanel suit that probably cost more than Seraphina's college tuition.
She didn't look up as Seraphina entered. She was busy inspecting a silver teaspoon for spots.
"You're late, Selene," Lydia said, her voice like the snap of a whip.
"I expected marriage to teach you punctuality, if not grace."
"I apologize, Mother. It was a long night," Seraphina said, pitching her voice into that breathy, spoiled lilt.
Lydia finally looked up. Her eyes were identical to Alexander's—grey, sharp, and capable of seeing through stone. She narrowed them as she looked at Seraphina.
"You look... different," Lydia remarked, her gaze lingering on Seraphina's jawline.
"Did you have more work done in Switzerland? Your face looks softer. Less... artificial."
Seraphina felt a bead of sweat itch beneath the wig. "Just a new skincare routine."
"Hmph. Sit. Pour the tea."
Seraphina moved toward the silver service.
This was the first trap. Selene Vance couldn't pour tea to save her life; she usually complained until a servant did it. But Seraphina had spent years taking care of her sick grandfather. Her movements were steady, elegant, and precise.
She poured the Earl Grey without a single splash, sliding the saucer toward Lydia with a soft clink.
Lydia's eyebrows shot up. "Since when did you develop the hands of a waitress? Last month, you knocked a glass of Bollinger over Alexander's lap at the opera."
"I'm trying to be a better wife for your son," Seraphina lied, her heart pounding.
"A better wife? Or a more convincing liar?"
Lydia leaned forward, her perfume—something sharp and floral—filling the space between them.
"I know why my son married you, Selene. He needed the Vance land. But don't think for a second that makes you a Thorne. You are a guest in this house. A temporary one."
Lydia took a slow sip of the tea, her eyes never leaving Seraphina's.
"Tell me," Lydia said casually.
"Have you heard from Julianna since the... incident in Paris? She's been dreadfully quiet on the group chat."
Seraphina froze. Her mind raced. Julianna. Was she a cousin? A best friend? A rival?
She remembered her father saying Alexander didn't have many friends, but Selene had hundreds.
'If I say yes, I might be walking into a lie. If I say no, I might look suspicious.'
"I haven't spoken to her," Seraphina said carefully.
"I've been focusing on the wedding."
Lydia's lips curled into a cold, triumphant smile.
"That's interesting. Considering Julianna died in a skiing accident three years ago. I suppose the 'focusing' has affected your memory."
The air left Seraphina's lungs. It was a trap. A deliberate, calculated trap.
"I... I meant I haven't been in touch with her family," Seraphina stammered, her face flushing.
"Enough," Lydia snapped, slamming the teacup down.
"You aren't even good at this. You—"
"That's enough, Mother."
The voice came from the doorway. Alexander stood there, his sleeves rolled up, looking like he had just come from his home gym. His presence was so dominant that even Lydia seemed to shrink slightly.
He walked over to the table and placed a hand on Seraphina's shoulder. His touch was heavy, his fingers digging slightly into the silk of her robe. It wasn't an affectionate gesture; it was a mark of ownership.
"Alexander, I was just testing your bride's wit," Lydia said, her tone softening into something almost pleasant.
"She seems to have lost her memory along with her vanity."
"My wife's memory is my concern, not yours," Alexander said, his voice low and dangerous.
"And in this house, she doesn't answer to anyone but me. Is that understood?"
Lydia stood up, smoothing her skirt. She looked at Alexander, then back at Seraphina with a look of pure venom.
"You've always had a weakness for broken things, Alexander. Just be careful this one doesn't break you."
She swept out of the room, the scent of her perfume lingering like a warning.
The moment she was gone, Alexander released Seraphina's shoulder. The warmth vanished instantly.
"You're a terrible liar," he said, looking down at her.
"She trapped me," Seraphina whispered, looking at her hands.
"I didn't know."
Alexander leaned down, his face inches from hers. He reached out and tucked a stray blonde strand of the wig behind her ear. His eyes were dark, searching her face with that same terrifying intensity from the night before.
"My mother is a shark. If she smells blood, she'll tear you apart," he said.
He reached out and grabbed her hand, his thumb rubbing over her wedding ring. "Why are you doing this, Selene? The woman I knew would have thrown the teapot at her.
You... you just sat there and took it."
"Maybe I'm tired of fighting," she said softly.
Alexander's gaze dropped to her lips. For a second, the room felt too small. He looked like he wanted to scream at her, and like he wanted to kiss her.
Suddenly, he spotted the sketchbook she had left on the side table. Before she could stop him, he picked it up.
"Wait! Don't—"
He flipped it open to the drawing of the wilted lily. He stared at it for a long time, his expression unreadable.
"You didn't draw this," he said, his voice flat.
"Selene Vance failed art history twice. She can't even draw a straight line."
He looked from the sketch to Seraphina, his eyes narrowing until they were like silver blades.
"Who are you?" he demanded, his voice a low growl.
"And what have you done with my wife?"