reborn rich

The brass handle of the double oak doors felt like ice against Seraphina's palm. It was the only cold thing in the hallway; the rest of the thirty-fourth floor of Vance Innovations was suffocatingly warm, humming with the invisible, frantic energy of a billion-dollar tech empire. But right here, standing outside her husband's office, the air was still. Dead still.

She shouldn't be here. It was Tuesday. Tuesday was usually for volunteering at the library or organizing the archives—busy work Ethan allowed her to do. For three years, Seraphina had played the role of the decorative, silent wife. It was a role she had chosen, a necessary camouflage. After the explosion in Mali five years ago that had nearly broken her body and mind, she had needed a place to disappear. Ethan Vance, with his mundane ambition and safe life, had been that hiding place. But she was healed now. The Phoenix was waking up.

But she had forgotten her phone charger. A trivial, stupid reason to end a marriage.

Her hand tightened on the metal. She was about to push down when she heard it.

A laugh.

It wasn't Ethan's laugh. His was a practiced, sharp bark that he used in boardrooms to signal dominance. This sound was low, throaty, and feminine. It was a sound that vibrated through the heavy wood and settled straight into the pit of Seraphina's stomach, turning the coffee she'd had for breakfast into acid.

She knew that laugh. Susanna Thorne. Her "best friend." The woman who had helped her pick out her wedding dress three years ago. The woman who was currently the Chief Marketing Officer of this company.

Seraphina didn't knock. She didn't announce herself. The time for politeness had evaporated the moment that laugh hit her ears.

She pushed the handle down. The mechanism clicked-a sharp, mechanical judgment-and the door swung open.

The scene inside wasn't just a betrayal; it was a cliché. A cheap, tawdry scene from a movie she would have turned off for being too predictable.

Ethan was on the leather sofa, his tie loosened, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar. Susanna was straddling him, her skirt hiked up high on her thighs, her head thrown back. They were a tangle of limbs and ambition.

The door hitting the stopper made a sound like a gunshot.

Susanna scrambled off him, not with shame, but with annoyance. She smoothed her skirt down, her fingers brushing against the fabric with a casualness that made Seraphina's vision blur. Ethan sat up. He didn't look guilty. He didn't look horrified.

He looked irritated. Like she was a waitress who had brought him the wrong order.

"Seraphina," Ethan said. He adjusted his tie, his movements jerky but precise. "You don't knock?"

The audacity of it took the air out of the room. He wasn't scrambling for an excuse. He was reprimanding her for her manners.

Seraphina stood in the doorway. She felt a strange sensation in her chest, as if her heart had stopped beating and was simply vibrating against her ribs. She looked at Susanna. Susanna's lipstick was smeared-a bright, violent red that matched the shade she had convinced Seraphina was "too bold" for a wife to wear.

"We need to talk," Seraphina said. Her voice surprised her. It wasn't shaking. It was flat. Dead.

Susanna smirked. It was a micro-expression, there and gone in a second, but Seraphina saw it. It was the look of someone who had won a game the other player didn't even know had started.

"Honey," Susanna said, her voice dripping with fake concern. "This looks bad, I know. But Ethan and I were just... discussing strategy."

"Strategy," Seraphina repeated. She walked into the room. The carpet was thick, swallowing the sound of her cheap flats. "Is that what we're calling it now?"

Ethan stood up. He walked behind his massive mahogany desk, putting the furniture between them like a shield. He felt safer there. Powerful. "Don't be dramatic, Seraphina. You're hysterical. Go home. We'll talk later."

He waved his hand, a dismissal. As if she were a dog he could shoo away from the dinner table.

Seraphina reached into her tote bag. It was an old canvas bag, one she'd had since before she was a Vance. Ethan hated it. He said it made her look poor.

She pulled out a thick manila envelope. She had been carrying it for days, debating, hesitating. It contained the rough draft of a petition she had printed at the library.