A/N: Wanted to clear this up before you start the story. Selena and Aretha are the same person. She changes her name from Selena to Aretha later on in the book. Thank you!
𝑺𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒂
“Mrs. Berfield, I must say you look quite stunning tonight.” The umpteenth business partner Daniel has introduced me to tonight says, shooting me a smirk but he may as well be talking to my cleavage just like most men here had done.
Today is supposed to be one of the happiest days of my life, but the lecherous stares from men and judgmental glares from their female companions are making it difficult to enjoy the moment. The atmosphere in the extravagant events hall is filled with joy and anticipation as both the Winthrop and Berfield families gather to celebrate multiple milestones—my husband's 30th birthday, his induction as CEO of his family business, and my personal favorite surprise for him: the news of my pregnancy.
After three long years of marriage and struggling to conceive, I’m thrilled to finally give Daniel the heir he’s always wanted, hoping it will bring him happiness and mend the strain in our marriage. Although I’m aware of his infidelity, I hold onto the hope that this news will bring us closer. Yet, standing beside him and feeling the waves of anger and displeasure rolling off of him, alongside the unwanted attention from others, makes it hard to hold onto that optimism.
“Stunning?” The woman accompanying the man who'd spoken just now scoffs, not trying to tone down her voice or hide her disdain for me. “More like a cheap whore flaunting her assets for some attention.”
I wince at her harsh words, regret flooding me as Daniel's grip on my waist tightens painfully—one of the consequences of allowing my foster sister, Stella, to choose my outfit. She’d insisted my usual plain-Jane style wouldn’t suffice for the wife of Berfield Finance’s new CEO and convinced me to wear one of her revealing, flashy hand-me-downs. While I should have refused, seeing my husband's jaw drop as I descended the stairs back at home made it seem worth it.
For the first time in ages, I'd felt truly seen by him, his desire evident as he admired me throughout our drive to the venue. At that moment, it'd been exhilarating to finally hold Daniel's attention after overhearing him label me as ‘boring’ to his friends before. But now, under the scrutinizing stares of others, the thrill has turned to discomfort, making me regret my decision.
“If you would please excuse us, Mr. and Mrs. Roy. Do enjoy the party in the meantime.” Daniel says to the couple before dragging us away, his grip on my waist growing more painful, it's sure to leave a mark. My husband strides across the huge rented hall, tossing quick responses to greetings from the guests, his pace quick and hard to keep up with in my heels as he guides us to a secluded corridor.
Gripping my hand, he yanks me forward roughly until I’m standing before him, trying to regain my breathing after the unexpected workout he’d just put me through. I gauge Daniel’s expression as he levels me with a harsh glare, making me swallow nervously.
“Did you purposely dress like a whore to seduce every man in this room tonight?” He spits at me, his words like a punch to my guts. Instinctively, I shrink back from him, raising my hands to try to cover my exposed shoulders and chest as a wave of self-consciousness overwhelms my senses.
“I-I— Daniel, that’s not—”
“And why wear something so flamboyant? Do you think you’re a model like Stella? As my wife, you should be blending into the background and not trying to outshine me on my special day. What fucking stunts are you trying to pull, Selena?” he seethes.
“None! Daniel, none at all. Please, it w-wasn't my intention to outshine you tonight. I-I—It was just Stella who—”
“—tried to warn you.” A new voice cuts in and I turn towards it to see my foster sister in question approaching us.
Her words make me frown in confusion. “What?”
Stella shrugs nonchalantly, coming to stand beside Daniel. “Don’t pretend as if I didn't try to warn you about your choice of outfit, Selena. I told you that not only is it overly provocative for a married woman like yourself but also that wearing the same dress I’d worn to the premiere of a popular movie would surely cause PR problems for Danny and his family.”
My eyes instantly widened as I finally realized why the dress had looked so familiar when she brought it out. Stella had worn the vibrant stained glass dress to the premiere of the hit movie starring a popular actor, Jared Molloy. My sister who had coerced me into wearing this dress was now putting the blame on me and doing it right to my face.
She returns my look of disbelief with a completely innocent expression yet the dark emotion swirling in her eyes is one I’ve neither seen before nor can I decipher, but it's potent enough to send a shiver down my spine.
I open my mouth to speak up but before I can, an outburst from my husband draws my attention to him. Daniel looks livid with his face flushed bright red and I cautiously move another step away from him, still attempting to pacify him. “Honey, that’s not—”
“You’re wearing the same god-damned dress Stella wore to a movie premiere?! Are you trying to ruin the Berfield family name, Selena? Next thing you know, the media is making assumptions about the business secretly going bankrupt if you can't even afford to buy a new fucking outfit for your own husband's birthday rather than recycle something of your sister's. Fucking hell, Selena!”
I flinch in fear and embarrassment when I realize what Stella had tricked me into doing and how I'd played right into her trap like a fool. I struggle not to smack myself across the face but Daniel’s next words succeed in doing just that.
“Tell me, Selena, is this your way of getting some attention from the public? If so, I can’t believe I married someone so fucking selfish and stupid.”
Tears well up in my eyes as I shoot Stella a betrayed look, earning a triumphant smirk from her, before quickly returning my focus to my husband, trying to explain myself and hoping he hears me out but we’re once again interrupted by the presence of another person—Melinda, my foster mother.
Blind hope blooms within me as I turn to her for help in this matter but before I can even manage to speak, she shoots me a death glare, traversing her gaze up and down my body with a disgusted expression on her face, and my stomach bottoms out ominously.
“What have you done, Selena?” Melinda says, her voice heavy with rage and contempt.
“M-Mother. I promise it’s not like that. Stella—”
I'm abruptly cut off by a sharp, painful slap across the face, making my head whip to the side due to the force of it. The sound rings out loudly in the corridor and a surprised gasp follows after but I'm in no mood for Stella’s theatrics as I turn my stiff neck back to face my foster mother, overwhelmed by the shock of what she’d just done to me.
My loved ones had just turned against me because of something as trivial as my outfit.
I palm my cheek in hopes of suppressing the sting there but regardless, the tears that filled my eyes due to Stella’s lies, Daniel’s insults and now, the hit from Melinda, still overflow and begin trailing down my face. Blinking repeatedly, I try to speak, to defend myself but I can only manage to let out a whimper.
I watch as Stella grips her mother’s arm, feigning concern for me when she's the one behind this in the first place. “Mother, you shouldn’t have done that. That’s too much punishment for her simple mistake. Selena hadn’t meant to wear something like this. Perhaps she’d done it to impress Danny since it’s his birthday tod—”
“I could care less about what the whore chooses to wear!” Melinda yells, making me flinch at her choice of words while Stella gasps again. “How dare she attempt to tarnish the reputations of the Winthrop and Berfield families by committing adultery?!”
Once again, I’m filled with shock and confusion by my foster mother’s words yet I’m too frozen by the sequence of events to refute their accusations.
Melinda takes a threatening step forward, most likely intending to hit me once more but she is quickly stopped by my husband and Stella who are more interested in hearing what she has to say than my safety.
“What, Mother? What do you mean?” Stella asks and Daniel echoes the question.
“Yes, Melinda. What do you mean by ‘adultery’?”
Breaking out of their hold, Mother walks to the entrance of the corridor leading back to the party and gestures outside. “Come, see for yourselves.”
Without delay, Stella and Daniel move toward the entrance and I follow shortly after them, curiosity winning out but I make sure to give some space so as not to get slapped in the face again by Mother. The first thing I notice when I look out to the hall is that the party seems to have slowed to a halt, the gentle background music now replaced with quiet murmurs as everyone in the room is now focused on something at the front.
Confused by what is going on, I follow everyone’s gaze to the front and my heart drops quite literally to my feet when I take in the huge projector that’d initially been showing a slideshow of my husband, the celebrant, but is now showcasing something totally different for everyone to see.
It’s a slideshow of my own pictures, but not just any picture of me—risque and incriminating ones featuring me in bed with an unfamiliar man who, although his face has been blurred out, it is quite evident in his hair color and body features that he isn’t my husband.
A violent shudder rakes through my body yet only one thought crosses my mind repeatedly: why are such pictures of me being displayed? And completely fake photos at that.
“How could you resort to such a thing, Selena?!” Mother yells first, pulling me out of the safety and seclusion of the corridor, to the center of the hall. Her outburst makes head turn and before I know it, I’ve got the attention of the entire room on me and much more, courtesy of the people who have already taken out their phones to begin filming the scene.“Mother, I—”I'm cut off by another slap from Melinda, one I'd been avoiding and is twice as painful that I have to bite down on my lower lip to prevent crying out. “How dare you shame our family like this?! Is this how you repay us for taking you in when you had nothing?! It's ingrates like you that discourage benevolent people like the Winthrops from taking in orphans to help them secure a brighter future! How could you do this to us?!”She swings her hand again to hit me but is quickly held back by my foster brother, Tyler, who shoots me a death glare and a smirk that appears almost victorious as he tries to calm his mother. Bu
The first sound I hear as I regain consciousness is the steady, rhythmic beeping of a machine beside my head. A pained moan escapes me as I open my eyes, only to close them back when a harsh, bright light overhead greets me like an abrupt slap to the face. I wince, lifting my hand to shield my eyes but the tug of an IV in my wrist stops me. Giving it a moment, I blink my eyes open again, adjusting to the light while the pungent scent of antiseptic fills my nostrils, mingling with a metallic tang in the back of my throat as I notice the various machines connected to me. My brows furrow in confusion and just as I reach the conclusion that I'm currently at the hospital, I hear a familiar voice speak up beside me. “Selena, you're finally awake.”I turn to see my best friend, Yemaya, watching me, her chocolate brown eyes glistening with concern and unshed tears. She moves closer, taking my free hand and squeezing it in hers. “You have no idea how terrified I was, sweetheart. I thought I'd
I'm grateful for the numbness that envelops me as I step into the mansion I’d regarded as home since childhood—a place I had believed was a sanctuary of love and family. However, now, with the veil of illusion lifted, I see it for what it truly is: a den of betrayal. But despite everything, I refuse to believe my husband, Daniel, is involved in their treachery, which is what I'm here to confirm. Yemaya informed me that he'd been staying at the Winthrop mansion while I was hospitalized, and though she strongly opposed my decision to visit, she'd driven me here and was waiting outside, ready to barge in if I wasn't out within ten minutes. Her unwavering support reassures me as I walk silently down the familiar corridor lined with obnoxiously expensive artworks. Nearing the end of the hall, I begin hearing voices emanating from what I recall as the drawing room—a room that's never fulfilled its purpose.I don't know what to expect as I approach the ajar doorway but the sight of my husban
𝐒𝐢𝐱 𝐌𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐡𝐬 𝐋𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫 The hum of soft conversations and the occasional clink of cutlery greets me as I step into The Gilded Stag, a beacon of luxury in the heart of London. Although I've been working here for a little over a month, the understated elegance of the restaurant never hesitates to stun me. Subdued lighting glints off the crystal chandeliers, giving the place a warm and cozy vibe while servers glide between polished tables draped in pristine white linens. I clock in at the side station, exchanging curt nods and murmured hellos with my coworkers. “Good evening, Elena.” The maître d’, Colette, greets, her French accent as crisp as her tailored uniform. “It is a slow one tonight.”“Appears so,” I reply, grabbing my program sheet for the night. Colette nods and strides off, leaving me to make my way to the alcove where my grand piano sits. It's tucked in a corner near the bar, just enough to let my music drift around the restaurant without overwhelming the guests. I l
CameronI don’t fixate on people—it’s never been my style. And with women, I’ve never had to try too hard. The Lancaster name alone is enough to have them flocking towards me, though most recognize me before I even speak.Yet, here I am, over a week later, still thinking about her—the pianist from one of my family’s restaurants. About that punch and how, despite the bloody pain, it only made her more intriguing. About the way she looked at me, not with interest, but irritation, like I was more of a nuisance than a man worth her time. It should’ve pissed me off; should’ve bruised my ego along with my nose. Instead, it’s got me walking back into The Gilded Stag, feeling like I’ve got unfinished business.Officially, I’m here to celebrate another successful acquisition. But let’s not kid ourselves—that’s just an excuse. Dining at one of my own restaurants has never been my idea of celebrating. No, I’m here for her. And this time, I want my best mates to be present for this.I’ve booked a
𝐒𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐚The elevator dings before the doors slide open and I step out into the dimly lit underground garage of the restaurant, a sigh escaping my lips. The fresh, cool air that rushes at me makes my body sag in relief as I weave through the many luxurious cars of varying brands and colors parked here, my phone pressed to my ear.I could've simply gone to relax in the staff lounge which is on the floor below the restaurant but it's routine for me to stretch my legs during my break since I spend hours seated on a bench plus, I don't want to risk bumping into a co-worker in there and being forced to interact. Perhaps not entirely safe but the underground garage is where I find myself on most nights. It provides the privacy I desire and it's the only other place besides the restaurant and lounge (which take up the 29th and 28th floors respectively) we, the staff, have access to within the entire 30-storey building complex and thus, the best place for me to stroll.“Wait, are you bei
𝐒𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐚The cab smells faintly of stale leather and cheap air freshener. I sit curled against the window as the morning fog hangs low over the streets, blurring the corners of buildings and streetlights. Tiny beads of moisture cling to the cab window, streaking slightly as the car moves. I watch them absentmindedly, my thoughts just as heavy as the damp air outside.Another day. Another appointment. Another round of cautious optimism. Another chance for disappointment to sink its teeth into me.I shouldn’t hope, but I do. Every single time.The cab jerks to a stop in front of the hospital, the familiar white building looming before me. I swallow the lump in my throat, fumbling in my purse for cash. My fingers tremble slightly as I hand the cabbie the rumpled money, my pulse thrumming in my ears."Keep the change," I mutter, pushing the door open.Cold air bites at my cheeks as I step out. The hospital doors stand just a few feet away, but I hesitate, staring up at the building lik
𝐒𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐚I step off the bus, adjusting the strap of my purse as I start the familiar walk back to my apartment. I've only walked past a few houses when a chill suddenly creeps down my spine, having absolutely nothing to do with the cold.I’m not sure what sets me off first—the way the air suddenly feels heavier or the prickling sensation at the back of my neck. But the moment I stop to listen closely, I hear it.Footsteps. Slow. Careful. Too careful. Like they have purpose.My breath hitches, and my fingers tighten around the strap of my bag. It could be nothing—someone else walking home or going for an evening stroll—but my gut tells me otherwise.Forcing my legs to keep a steady pace, I walk faster, my heart pounding with every step. The streets aren’t deserted, but they’re quiet enough that every little noise feels amplified.I turn the corner onto my street, my building in sight. Almost there.But my heart lurches when the footsteps behind me seem to pick up speed, closing in.
𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚I sit behind the wheel, fingers drumming restlessly against the steering. For the tenth time, I check the time on the dashboard. She’s not late—not really. But my nerves are a different story.At her insistence, today’s outing is to be strictly casual. No romance, no pressure, no expectations. I tried to pick the most un-date-like date imaginable. So, football. The one place people shout themselves hoarse, spill overpriced beer on each other, and wear matching jerseys without anyone batting an eye.Still, even with all the effort to keep things simple, I’m nervous. Because it’s her.Then, I see her car pull into the lot.She steps out, and everything slows. She’s wearing the team jersey I’d sent her—red and white, the same as mine—paired with light blue jeans and white sneakers. Casual. Effortless. Gorgeous.She tosses me a small smirk as she approaches. “Don’t look so surprised, doctor. I do own casual clothes.”“You’re sure you’re not secretly trying to outshine the pla
𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚His office is still the calm, neat space I remember, though now I notice how strikingly organized it is. The books on the shelf are arranged alphabetically, a soft lavender-scented diffuser hums in the corner, and a small bonsai tree sits by the window like a gentle sentinel. There’s not a single paper out of place, every pen lined up with precision. It’s the kind of space that mirrors Marcus himself—composed, measured, and quietly meticulous.He closes the door behind me and gestures to the chair opposite his desk. I sink into it wordlessly as he moves around, taking his usual seat behind the desk and resting both hands on the surface like he’s bracing for something heavier than an update.“Florence is healing faster than expected,” he begins. His voice is calm but firm, always steady. “Her vitals are stable, her scans are clean, and she’s responding well to treatment. If everything stays on track, she could be discharged by next weekend.”I close my eyes for a brief sec
𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚I linger in the hallway for a while, staring at the half-open hospital door like it’s a threshold to something I’m not ready to face. Inside, Marcus still plays with Florence, their laughter carrying softly into the corridor like a warm breeze on a cold day. My hand is frozen mid-air, inches from pushing the door open, but I just… can’t.Not yet.My emotions are too jumbled—grief, gratitude, guilt, and something dangerously close to longing. Seeing him like that—soft and unguarded—reminded me of a version of him I hadn’t allowed myself to imagine. It’s disarming. And it’s why I turn away, intending to head back toward the elevators, maybe find a quiet place to gather myself.But as I turn, I nearly collide with someone.She’s standing silently behind me—slender, in a wrinkled blouse and jeans, her coat draped hastily over one arm. Her hair is in a messy bun, strands falling loose around her tired but softened features. I recognize her immediately: the child’s mother.She
𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚It’s just past 10 a.m. when my personal assistant, Winifred, bursts into my office, tablet in hand, eyes gleaming with the kind of enthusiasm that usually spells either disaster or a sudden stroke of genius. I look up from the contract I’ve been revising for the last twenty minutes, one brow lifting in silent question.“You’re going to want to see this, Miss. Hawthorne,” she says, practically skipping to my desk.“Please tell me that’s not another scandal brewing,” I mutter, half-joking. After the week I’ve had, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone’s unearthed some long-forgotten college photos or declared I secretly run a cult in my spare time.“Quite the opposite actually, Boss.” Winnie swings the tablet around so I can see the analytics dashboard. “Sales are up. Way up. Nearly thirty-two percent since yesterday. Online traffic has doubled since this morning alone. And…” she swipes to another page, “…our social sentiment index has shifted. Positively.”I blink at the numb
𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨𝐬Saturday afternoon stretches out before me like a question I don't quite have the answer to. I'm home, sitting at the edge of the leather sofa, phone in hand, thumb hovering over Aretha's contact.Should I text her? Call her? Ask how she's holding up?The memory of last night lingers. Her trembling voice. The kiss. That look in her eyes when she pulled away. Part fear, part need. And then, nothing. Silence since.I sigh and toss the phone onto the couch beside me, running both hands down my face. She's probably overwhelmed, dealing with press vultures and her family. The last thing she needs is me barging into her peace—or what's left of it.A ping vibrates on my phone. It’s from Cameron: "Meeting at the club. 5PM sharp. Drinks on Nathaniel. Don’t be late."I almost laugh. Nathaniel probably didn’t even agree to that.• • •The gentleman’s club isn’t as rowdy as usual. Rich men in tailored suits, cigars in one hand, arrogance in the other. Gold accents glint in the dim li
𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚I wake up to the distinct scent of chamomile tea and the soft clinking of china. For a brief second, I think I’ve dreamt it all up—the accident, the hospital, the mother’s accusations, the kiss with Marcos. But when I open my eyes and see Mom standing at the foot of my bed, holding a tray while wearing her signature pinched expression of maternal concern, I know I didn’t.“Aretha, darling,” she says carefully, as though afraid she might shatter me if she speaks too loudly, “you don’t have to go in today.”I sit up, blinking away the sleep from my eyes. “I do.”“You shouldn’t.” She sets the tray on my bedside table. “Not after everything yesterday. The media is going to be relentless. And emotionally, you’re—”“I’m fine, Mom. Seriously. I appreciate your concern, though.”She gives me a look that says she’s not convinced, but she knows me well enough not to argue. Still, she lingers while I get ready, watching me like I’m about to unravel. I offer a small smile and a kiss
𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨𝐬I stand rooted to the cold, polished hospital floor, my mind reeling as Aretha’s words echo like a chime struck in the deepest part of me."I know very well what it feels like to lose a child."She says it so softly, so simply, like it’s just another sentence in a long list of things that have happened to her—but it lands like a gut punch. I don’t move as she turns and walks away, her back straight, her head high, but her shoulders… her shoulders tremble the slightest bit.I’ve seen death on the table. I’ve watched people code right in front of me, seen mothers scream over sons and children collapse into the arms of nurses. But this? This is different. This is the kind of pain that doesn’t bleed on the outside.The mother of the injured girl stands silently beside me, unsure now—maybe ashamed. Her anger drains the moment Aretha disappears around the corner. She says nothing more, just quietly returns to the waiting area, clinging to the hope I gave her minutes ago.I take
𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚The hospital air is cold—too cold. It seeps through my skin and settles deep into my bones, making me feel like I’m walking through a fog. I sit on one of the stiff plastic chairs in the waiting area, hands clasped tightly in my lap. I must’ve checked the time on my phone a hundred times in the past hour, each glance bringing no new relief.Where are they? Why hasn’t anyone come out yet?I chew on the inside of my cheek, my mind replaying the accident in a relentless loop. The sickening thud of her body brushing the jeep’s front grille, the sharp scream that tore from my lips, the way Alfie clutched my hand so tightly as we rushed out of the car. That little girl—so small, so fragile—just darting across like life was a game of tag.I’ve tried to breathe. I’ve tried to pray. Nothing sticks. I feel like I’m going to break apart, right here in this freezing corridor.Then I hear footsteps. Sharp. Hasty. Unforgiving.My eyes lift just in time to see a woman charging toward me
𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚The mall is buzzing with energy as Alfie and I walk hand-in-hand past the storefronts, our steps matching in rhythm. He’s practically bouncing beside me, excitement fizzing off him like a shaken soda.“I want to check out the new Nintendo games!” he exclaims, tugging my arm like he’s trying to drag me there himself.I laugh, adjusting my sunglasses as I glance around. “We’ll get there, little man. Let’s start with shoes first. You’ve outgrown yours—your toes are probably screaming.”“My toes are fine,” he mutters dramatically, but he doesn't protest when I guide him into the kids’ footwear store.He slips onto a little bench as the attendant brings options in his size. I sit beside him, watching his nose wrinkle as he examines a pair of lime green sneakers.“These are loud,” he declares. “Like, even the birds would hear me coming.”I snort. “Isn’t that the point? So the entire house can hear when you try to sneak cookies after bedtime?”He flashes me a mischievous grin. “