Chapter 3

After that night, Adrian Thorne vanished from my world for thirty days straight.

But that was only my perspective. On the other side of the city, he was living loud enough to shatter glass.

For that entire month, he seemed determined to burn through every second of his remaining freedom on Serena. I became a digital voyeur, watching through the glass of Instagram as he walked her through a final, frantic bucket list. From the pristine slopes of Aspen to exclusive boutiques in Paris, every photo felt like a countdown ticking toward zero.

The final post was a spread of black-and-white photos, the kind usually reserved for the glossy pages of Vogue. They were titled their "Farewell Engagement."

Serena was draped in custom Vera Wang white tulle. The caption was a single line from Adrian: [Before duty swallows me whole, I wanted to see you in white one last time.]

The morning after that post went live, the silence was broken—not by Adrian, but by his personal attorney. Then, the line was transferred.

When Adrian finally spoke, his voice was jagged, sounding like he had just woken up from a brutal hangover.

"Elinor. Bring your ID. City Hall. Two o'clock."

It wasn't a request; it was a corporate directive. He hung up before I could refuse.

In the two years of our engagement, this was the first time Adrian had ever proactively brought up "making it legal."

I stared at the black screen of my phone. I typed out a refusal, my thumb hovering over 'send,' but then I deleted it.

The emerald brooch.

It was still in his penthouse safe. It was the last remnant of the Vance family legacy—my grandmother's heirloom. I couldn't die leaving it to fall into Serena's hands, or worse, have it discarded by Adrian like a forgotten trinket.

I went to City Hall.

The Clerk's Office wasn't the romantic setting of movies; it was cold, municipal, and radiated the indifference of an assembly line.

I stood in the wind for nearly an hour before the familiar silver Maybach pulled up to the curb.

When Adrian stepped out, he looked wrecked. Even from several feet away, the crisp winter air couldn't mask the scent clinging to his bespoke suit—a stale cocktail of aged whiskey and tobacco.

He only drank like that when he was trying to numb himself to reality.

He hadn't seen me in a month. When he pulled off his sunglasses and actually looked at me, he froze.

"What the hell is wrong with you? Why do you look like a skeleton?"

Thirty days of late-stage cancer had carved another twenty pounds off my frame. Wrapped in my oversized wool coat, I knew exactly what I looked like: a walking framework of bones, barely holding it together.

I didn't need his critique. I looked like a junkie found in an alleyway.

When I didn't answer, the disgust in his eyes deepened.

"Grandfather has been in the ICU for two days. He needs peace of mind, so we are getting this piece of paper signed today."

He snapped, adjusting his cuffs with jittery, impatient movements. "And you plan on meeting the clerk looking like you just walked out of a morgue? Don't let the last bit of the Thorne family dignity be ruined by that corpse-like face."

The moment the words left his mouth, he seemed to scorch himself on the deadness in my eyes. He looked away, an inexplicable unease making him frown. He loosened his tie violently, as if he were suffocating.

"I'm not here to marry you, Adrian. Give me my grandmother's brooch."

I extended my hand toward him at the bottom of the concrete steps. My palm trembled in the biting wind.

He narrowed his eyes, looking at me like I had just told a ludicrous joke.

Then, he let out a cold, sharp laugh—the arrogance of a man used to owning the room. He grabbed my wrist, his grip punishing, and began dragging me toward the security checkpoint.

"You think because the old man is in the ICU, you suddenly have leverage? Save the 'hard to get' act. It's nauseating."

"Sign the papers, become Mrs. Thorne, and I don't care about a damn brooch—I'll buy out the entire Cartier counter for you if that shuts you up."

He was spiraling, self-destructive and angry, his grip tight enough to almost crush my fragile wrist bones.

We were ushered to a window. The woman behind the glass, a middle-aged Black woman with kind eyes but a tired demeanor, went through the motions.

"Good afternoon. IDs, please. Raise your right hands to swear."

Adrian tossed his license onto the counter with disdain. As he raised his right hand, his suit sleeve slid down just an inch.

There, stark against the skin over his radial artery, was a tattoo. It was fresh, the skin still red and angry around the ink.

S.C. - My Anchor.

Serena Cross.

The clerk didn't check the initials against my name. Instead, she beamed, grateful for a break in the monotony.

"Oh, God bless. Put her name right on the pulse, did you? That is romantic. That means you're tied together, life and death, right?"

Adrian froze.

He jerked his arm down, yanking the sleeve back over the ink, his face draining of color before flushing with humiliated rage. He turned to look at me, expecting a fight, but found me standing there, numb and hollow.

My lack of reaction seemed to infuriate him more.

"Why are you staring into space? Or did you 'forget' your ID on purpose to pull a fast one on me?"

Looking at him—this wrecked, angry man—I just felt tired. Exhausted down to my marrow.

"Adrian, I told you. I'm not swearing anything. Just give me the brooch..."

I never finished the sentence.

Adrian's phone, vibrating against the formica counter, suddenly erupted.

He answered the FaceTime call instinctively.

The air in the quiet office was instantly shredded by a high-pitched, primal scream. The screen flashed chaos—a blur of motion and stark, terrifying red.

The camera shook violently before stabilizing on the terrified, distorted face of Serena's housekeeper. She was kneeling on a bathroom floor, the tiles awash in blood. In her shaking hand, she was clutching a sodden piece of paper.

"Mr. Thorne! Miss Cross… she slit her wrists! It's all written here—"

The housekeeper screamed into the camera, her voice sharp enough to draw blood.

"It's Elinor Vance! The note says… she drove her to this! It's Elinor who pushed her to die!"