Seraphina's POV
The news keeps replaying the footage. Security cameras from Madison's apartment building. A figure leaving at 3:47 AM. Just a shadow. But something about the way he moves makes my breath stop.
I know that walk. Those shoulders. That specific tilt of his head.
I've seen it a thousand times. In doorways. Across rooms. Every time Damien thinks I'm not looking. That specific way his body moves. Controlled. Lethal. Like a predator that's learned to hide its teeth.
The silhouette on the screen is Damien.
I rewind the footage. Watch it again. Again. Again. Each time, I'm more certain. He killed Madison. Not by having someone do it. He did it himself.
Damien walks into the living room. He's moving slower than usual, playing the part. But now I see through it. Now I understand that every moment of weakness was performance.
All lies.
"You were there," I say quietly. "In Madison's apartment. That's you on the camera."
He doesn't respond. Just watches me with those dark eyes.
"Show me," I whisper.
"Show you what?" His voice is soft. Dangerous.
"Show me who you really are."
The silence stretches between us. Then Damien's smile spreads across his face. Slow. Predatory. Like a hunter given permission to stop hiding.
He places his hands on the wheelchair armrests. For five years, I've watched him struggle with this movement.
Now he pushes himself up effortlessly.
My breath stops.
He's not weak. Not trembling. Not reaching for support. He simply stands—tall and powerful and absolutely lethal. The wheelchair sits empty behind him. A prop. A lie.
Damien Ashford stands before me like he's never been sick a day in his life.
"Oh my God," I whisper.
He steps toward me. I stumble backward. My back hits the wall. He cages me in with his arms, his body inches from mine.
Everything about him screams danger.
"Five years," he says, his voice low and rough. "Five years I've watched you tiptoe around me like I'm made of glass. Five years of you being careful not to break the dying man."
"You were dying," I breathe. "You told me—"
"I told you many things." His hand cups my jaw. His thumb brushes my cheek. "All of them lies."
"Why? Why pretend? Why the wheelchair?"
"Because asking you on a date wouldn't have worked. You would have said no. But this—a dying man who needed help—this was the perfect cage."
His hand slides to my throat. Not choking. Just claiming.
"I saw you six years ago at a gallery opening. You were serving champagne, and some drunk bastard grabbed you. You apologized to him. You smiled like you deserved it."
My entire body goes cold.
"That's when I decided," he says. "You were going to be mine. It just took me time to build the trap."
"What do you mean?" My voice is barely audible.
His smile is absolutely wicked. "Your father's gambling debts? I bought them. Your stepmother's medical bills? I made sure her insurance lapsed. Every financial crisis your family faced was me. I created a problem that only I could solve, and you walked straight into my web."
I'm shaking. Not with fear. Something darker.
"My entire life was your plan," I whisper.
"Yes." No apology. No shame.
"How long have you been watching me?"
"Since that night at the gallery." His hand tightens on my throat. "Every day for six years, Seraphina. I've been watching you. Learning you. I know what coffee you like. I know you have a scar on your left hip from falling off a bike when you were nine."
"That's not possible. You couldn't know—"
"I know because I've been in your space. I've listened to your calls. I've read your messages." He leans in, his breath hot against my ear. "I've been building my case for why you belong to me."
This isn't love. This is obsession. This is surveillance. This is a man who's spent six years collecting me like a possession.
I should be terrified.
And I am.
But underneath the terror is something else. Something that makes me understand why he's standing here, confessing, showing me the monster beneath the mask.
He doesn't believe I'll leave.
And he's right.
"What happens now?" I whisper.
Damien's smile could devour the world.
"Now you understand that you were never supposed to escape, wife. You were always supposed to be mine. And tonight, we're going to start making that official."
He releases my throat and steps back. I can breathe again, but I'm not sure I want to.
"Come with me," he says, extending his hand. "I want to show you exactly what you married into."
I stare at his hand. I know accepting it means crossing a line I can't uncross. It means choosing this darkness. Choosing him. Choosing to be the queen of monsters he promised.
And I reach for him anyway.