Chapter 4 Anniversary
Serena's POV
I answered on the third ring.
"There's a package at the door." Elliot's voice came through flat, business-like, the tone he used for assistants and delivery confirmations. Behind him I heard something else — bass-heavy music, the ambient roar of a crowded room, glasses clinking. A bar. He was calling me from a bar.
Then Camille's voice cut through, closer than the noise, aimed directly at him: "Honey, who's calling?" Casual. Comfortable. The voice of someone who already knew she belonged next to him in that booth.
Then Elliot made a sound. Low, distracted, not quite a word — the kind of sound you made when someone had your full attention and the phone in your hand had become an afterthought. The music swelled for a moment, louder, like someone had moved closer to the speaker.
He was with her. Right there. While I was still on the line.
Something detonated in my chest. Not clean anger — something uglier, more animal. My grip on the phone tightened until my knuckles ached. Every instinct I had screamed at me to say something, do something, reach through the line and drag him back by force.
He's mine. He's supposed to be mine.
The thought came fast and vicious before I could stop it, and I hated myself for it immediately — hated that I still wanted to fight for a man who couldn't even keep his mouth shut while I was on the other end.
But I didn't say a word.
"Got it," I said. My voice came out steady, almost pleasant. I ended the call before he could say anything else.
The delivery guy looked apologetic when I opened the door, like he knew he was part of something that had gone wrong. I signed for the box without looking at him and brought it inside.
The packaging was pristine — cream-colored, expensive, tied with silk ribbon the color of steel. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, was a necklace. Aquamarine stones set in white gold, cold and flawless, the kind of piece that belonged in a vault or on someone's throat at a gala. The card tucked underneath had two words in his handwriting: Happy Anniversary.
I held it up to the light and watched the stones catch and throw back nothing warm. He'd remembered. He'd planned ahead, ordered something custom, probably weeks ago. Picked a color he thought I'd like.
He has no idea who I am.
The necklace was expensive and thoughtful and completely wrong. He remembered every detail — my dress size, my schedule, the exact day we got married — and none of it added up to knowing me. It was diligence. Obligation. The kind of care you gave things you were responsible for.
Not love.
My phone buzzed. Harold's name appeared on the screen, a few lines of genuine warmth tucked into a text message: Happy anniversary to you both. Hope you're having a wonderful evening together.
At least someone remembered. I typed back something gracious and warm, thanked him for thinking of us, wished him a good night. Performed the version of myself that still had a marriage worth celebrating. Set the phone face-down on the cushion beside me.
The apartment smelled faintly of burned fabric and scorched thread — the cotton bag, the stitching I'd spent weeks on, all of it reduced to ash in the ceramic dish on the coffee table. I hadn't opened a window. Some part of me had wanted to sit with it.
That was a mistake.
The smell hit the back of my throat without warning, and then the grief that had been sitting heavy in my chest all evening found a new way out. My stomach lurched. I dropped the necklace on the cushion and made it to the bathroom with about two seconds to spare, knees hitting the tile hard, one hand braced against the wall.
When it was over I stayed there, forehead pressed to the cool porcelain, eyes closed. The pregnancy report was still folded in my coat pocket in the hallway. I hadn't touched it since yesterday. Hadn't been able to figure out what you were supposed to do with news like that when everything underneath it had already come apart.
This is what you get. A necklace from a stranger and a bathroom floor.
I made it to the bed still wearing the dress I'd put on hours ago. The lights were still on. The divorce papers sat on the nightstand exactly where I'd left them this morning, unsigned, patient in the way that paperwork always was.
It's gone now. All of it. Ash and smoke.
The tears came slow and steady, leaking out without permission until the pillowcase was damp under my cheek. I didn't have the energy to move. My body felt like it had already given everything it had and was running on the last of something that didn't have a name.
At some point the crying stopped. I didn't notice when. My eyes stayed closed, the lamp burned on, and the heaviness just pulled me under.
The knocking dragged me back.
Loud, insistent, the kind that didn't stop. I opened my eyes to harsh lamplight and a dry mouth and no sense of how much time had passed. The sound came again — someone at the door, not going away.
I peeled myself off the bed and made it to the hallway. My dress was wrinkled beyond saving, my face felt tight and swollen, and whoever was out there needed to stop immediately.
I yanked the door open.
Reid Calloway — Elliot's Beta, his executive assistant at Ashford Capital, the person who had apparently been elected to deal with this tonight. He had one arm slung around Elliot's shoulders, taking most of his weight.
Elliot's tie was gone, shirt half-unbuttoned, and the whiskey was coming off him in waves alongside something floral and unmistakable. His head hung forward, hair falling into his face. When he shifted under Reid's grip I saw it — two, three dark marks along the side of his neck, bruised purple against pale skin, and a smear of lipstick along his jaw that hadn't quite made it off.
My stomach turned. A different kind of nausea this time.
"Sorry," Reid said. He didn't look sorry. He looked like a man who'd been managing a situation he hadn't signed up for and was running on his last reserve of patience. "He put away half the bar and Camille couldn't get him on his feet. He kept saying your name, so." He shifted Elliot's weight slightly, jaw tight. "Here we are."
Elliot lifted his head and tried to focus on my face. His mouth moved, shaping something that might've been my name. It didn't quite make it.
I stepped back and let them in.
He came back. Marked up and reeking of her, barely able to stand, but the name he kept saying was mine.
I still didn't know what to do with that.
