The thick, creamy paper was cool under my fingers as I held up the invitation, the weight of it heavier than it looked. "I received an invitation along with a bouquet of flowers," I said, my voice carrying a note of hope I tried to disguise as casual.
The card, framed by an extravagant arrangement of pink and red roses, looked like it belonged in a museum rather than my hands. Formal and precise, the script read:
INVITATION
SIR EISER LEINZ GRAYAN AND LADY SERENA SERENITY
YOU ARE CORDIALLY INVITED
TO ATTEND THE INAUGURATION
OF THE NEW DIRECTOR OF THE
DE LAURENT GALLERY.
REGARDS, DIAH DE LAURENT
DIRECTOR, DE LAURENT GALLERY
My eyes flicked up to meet his, searching for a spark of interest, but there was only the familiar shadow that always seemed to linger behind his handsome, unyielding features.
"Where do you want to go with me?" he asked, his tone measured, careful, like he was keeping some invisible distance between us.
I stepped closer, letting a flicker of hope push my words forward. "Attend this inauguration... with me," I proposed, trying to sound confident, though my heart thumped nervously against my ribs.
He barely glanced at the invitation, as if the flowers and the card were mere background noise. Then, slowly, his attention shifted back to it. His eyes lingered on the name at the bottom: Regards, Diah de Laurent, Director, De Laurent Gallery. His jaw tightened, the faintest crease forming at the corner of his mouth.
"No," he said flatly, the word cutting through the room like ice.
The breath caught in my throat. My shoulders sagged slightly, my eagerness deflating instantly. I lifted the invitation again, my voice sharper this time. "Can't you at least hear me out?!"
"NO," he repeated, low, final, like a verdict that couldn't be appealed.
I swallowed, fighting back a rush of frustration, and tried again, softer this time. "Let me at least tell you why—"
He stopped me with a narrowed gaze, the intensity in his eyes pressing against me. He reached out, hand steady, authoritative. "Give that back," he said, indicating the invitation.
A surge of defiance coursed through me. My fingers clenched around the card, pulling it back toward my chest. "YANK!" I cried, my voice sharper now, the tension in it raw. "Can't you at least hear me out?!"
His gaze dropped to me, dark and unwavering, challenging my will, testing it. Then, slowly, reluctantly, he said, "All right. Tell me." His voice was tight, and every inch of his posture screamed restraint.
I exhaled, my words tumbling out in a rush. "Diah invited both of us. And I want to go. There are several paintings there I'd like to see," I explained, trying to appeal to reason, to common ground, to some shared sense of curiosity.
He didn't move. He didn't speak. He just watched, and his silence roared louder than any argument I could make.
Something inside me hardened. This wasn't just about an invitation or a gallery evening. It was about him shutting me out, about the constant barriers that seemed to rise between us even when I tried to reach him.
I lifted my chin, eyes locked on his, holding the invitation like a fragile banner of defiance and hope. This wasn't going to be dismissed quietly. Not tonight.
"No," I thought, echoing his earlier refusal, letting the word strengthen me. I won't let him brush me aside this easily.
He shifted on the bed, the dark robe falling around him like a shadow, shoulders rigid and unyielding. "Paintings you want to look at? That's your business, not mine. I said I'm not going. You can attend by yourself, if you wish."
The words landed like stones in my chest. It wasn't just a refusal—no, it was a wall being built between us, one I hadn't seen coming. A barrier so cold, so final, that it left me to face the hostile social world alone.
I clenched the invitation tighter, feeling the delicate paper crumple slightly beneath my fingers. CLENCH. My voice fell to a frustrated whisper. "Why don't you want to go? Because of… her?"
His gaze lifted slowly, those startlingly blue eyes fixing on me like ice against fire. He said nothing, but I knew—he knew exactly who I meant. Diah de Laurent. The woman whose name alone made my chest tighten.
I looked down, shame creeping over me like a shadow. "Due to the nature of this ceremony… there will be many married couples in attendance. It would be a bit embarrassing to show up unaccompanied, sure." My voice wavered as I allowed myself to admit the truth.
It wasn't just the pitying glances I feared. No, it was her. "But it's not so much that I don't want to be subjected to other people's pitying gazes… Rather, that woman is why I don't want to go alone."
I remembered our last encounter—the way Diah had smiled, teeth perfect and gleaming, eyes cold, precise, calculating. Every public appearance since had felt like a trial, one I was doomed to fail.
"Given what she dared to say to me at our first meeting… if I were to come to her inauguration by myself, I have no doubt she'll be laughing at me behind my back." The thought of her smug, triumphant expression made my grip on the invitation tighten again, the paper threatening to tear.
I took a slow, deliberate breath, forcing calm into my trembling chest. Logic had to prevail over emotion here—I had to appeal to him, not plead for comfort.
"That being said…" I began, letting professional ambition push aside social anxiety. "It would be a big loss to skip this event solely because I'm uncomfortable around her. It's a rare opportunity to see works not available to the public, and to confirm whether her gallery possesses the pieces I've been seeking."
I lifted my gaze, meeting his eyes with as much hope as I could muster. "At the very least, I'll gain something tangible from this, which will make me less infuriated by the whole affair." I offered a small, bitter smile, the kind that tastes of resignation and stubborn determination at once.
He remained silent for a long, loaded moment, the kind of silence that presses down on you until you feel your chest tighten. His hand emerged from beneath the blanket, brushing across the soft fabric, casual yet deliberate.
Finally, he spoke, his tone dry, almost cutting. "So I'm right."
My chest sank. That single, dismissive sentence wasn't just rejection—it was dismissal. He hadn't even considered my reasoning.
His eyes lifted again, sharp, challenging. "…It'll take more than that for you to convince me to come with you."
I felt it then, the truth of the situation settling in like ice: this wasn't about the event, nor about Diah, nor even about the paintings. It was about me asking him for something he wasn't ready to give. A storm was building in the space between us, and I knew I had to either escalate my request—or abandon it entirely.
I watched him as he pulled his hand back, the movement slow, deliberate, like he was measuring every inch of his own control. His expression was a frustrating blend of disinterest and pride, the kind that always left me guessing. So I'm right. She's the reason he doesn't want to go. It wasn't about the paintings, nor about his social calendar—it was about avoiding Diah, even if it meant leaving me to navigate the evening alone.
A flicker of determination sparked within me. If he wouldn't come out of courtesy, then I would appeal to his sense of transaction. If he wanted a reason beyond obligation, I would give him one.
"Then… in exchange for coming with me, I'll owe you one favor."
I saw it—the tiniest flicker in his blue eyes, a crack in the otherwise impenetrable armor of indifference. Hope surged like a wave inside me.
"One favor? Can it be anything?" I asked, daring to push my luck, letting a trace of mischief edge into my tone.
A long silence stretched between us, broken only by the soft rustling of the curtains as a breeze whispered through the massive window. Time seemed to stretch, each second dragging the tension taut between us.
"…Depends," he finally replied, his voice deliberately ambiguous, like a puzzle I had to solve.
My frustration bubbled at the subtle rejection. "Doesn't sound like you want me there that badly. Then I'm not interested, either. You can see yourself out."
My eyes widened. He was throwing the negotiation back in my face, daring me to retreat. This man was impossible.
A surge of exasperation and defiance shot through me, and I let out the words I couldn't hold back. "Fine, fine. Wh-whatever it is… I'll try my best, all right?!" I relented, stamping my foot in my white heels with exaggerated emphasis.
He studied me then, slow, deliberate, his gaze sharp, calculating, as though weighing the merit of my words. "Hmm… Is that so?" he murmured, leaning forward slightly. An unsettling smirk touched his lips, teasing, predatory in the most infuriatingly controlled way. "Then get down on your knees and beg."
I froze, aghast. Beg? He was testing me, probing the limits of what I would endure, pushing for a humiliation I wasn't willing to offer. My pulse raced, heat rising in my cheeks.
Then, just as suddenly, he leaned back, a low chuckle escaping his chest. "I'm kidding."
The tension evaporated in an instant, and I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. He was playing games, teasing me, but at least he wasn't demanding my pride outright. I gave a quick, annoyed LIFT of my hand, a petty, childish gesture that made him smirk even wider.
"Work-wise, I don't have any favors to ask you," he finally said, his tone shifting, sincere now. He met my gaze with a steadiness that unsettled me, his eyes holding a depth of meaning I struggled to decipher.
And then he said it—words simple, almost casual, but carrying weight far beyond anything monetary or professional:
"Call me by my name."
The proposal hit me like a jolt of electricity. It wasn't about a debt, a favor, or any transactional exchange—it was about intimacy, about the severe lack of it between us. I stood frozen, clutching the invitation, staring at the man who had just traded a major social obligation for the simple sound of his own name on my lips.
Absolutely! Here's a fully expanded version of your concluding scene, keeping it entirely in Serena's first-person perspective, while deepening the tension, sensory detail, and internal conflict:
"Call me by my name."
I froze, my chest tightening, and stared at him, brow furrowed in disbelief. "... What?" My voice sounded small, fragile, even to me. Of all the things he could have asked for, this was the last thing I expected. He wanted to trade a public appearance—a form of professional support, a rare act of courtesy—for a single, simple word?
He continued to hold my gaze, eyes sharp and unyielding, the intensity almost physical. STARE.
I shifted my weight, the silence stretching between us until it pressed against my ribs. I was used to calling him Sir, or Lord Grayan, or simply referring to him as "my husband" in public. Intimacy was a language we had long since forgotten how to speak, replaced by formality, distance, and careful restraint.
I attempted a compromise, letting my voice be soft, hesitant. "... Grayan…" I murmured, using the house name—the title society expected me to use.
"... Not that," he rejected instantly, the firmness in his tone leaving no room for negotiation.
I clenched my hand tightly, fighting the rising panic. CLENCH. If I couldn't use his house name, if I couldn't utter the formal title—Sir Eiser Leinz—then what else was left?
My eyes darted to the invitation still clutched in my other hand. Sir Eiser Leinz Grayan. There it was: his first name, Eiser, and his middle name, Leinz. My throat tightened. "... Lei…" I began, testing the sound.
And then it hit me like a cold, sharp dagger. Leinz—that was likely Diah's pet name for him. I remembered how she had smirked at me in those brief, unbearable encounters, the glimmer of ownership in her eyes. The invitation itself—Sir Eiser Leinz Grayan and Lady Serena Serenity—felt like a subtle, pointed declaration, a mark of possession.
Leinz. A sweet, intimate name. A word meant to be whispered only between lovers, and not for me.
Suddenly, Diah's face flickered in my mind: serene, perfect, smirking, the malice and longing intertwined in her gaze. "I missed you, Leinz."
The image was so vivid, so cruel, it punched me in the gut. The name tasted like ash in my mouth, like a bitter reminder of what had once been hers, and still lingered in the corners of my life.
Then I realized the truth, cold and undeniable: the only name left for me to call him by was a name that belonged to her.
The room fell into absolute silence. SILENCE.
I couldn't say it. I couldn't utter the name that belonged to a ghost in our marriage, a shadow of his past that I was powerless to erase. My heart pounding, I turned abruptly, my heel clicking sharply against the polished floor. CLACK. TURN.
I walked swiftly to the door, the rustle of my dress loud in the quiet room. My hand found the heavy panel and pulled it closed with deliberate force. CLACK. SHUT.
I had lost the negotiation—but I had preserved the last shred of my self-respect. I would face Diah's smug, pitying gaze alone before I would betray myself by calling him by the name of his past.
I stared down at the invitation, crumpled now in my hand. His absence loomed like a shadow at the edge of the page. He hadn't come.
I would go to the inauguration of the new Director of the De Laurent Gallery by myself, as Lady Serena Serenity—proud, composed, unbroken.
And Sir Eiser Leinz Grayan? He could stay in his room.
The late afternoon sunlight glinted off the grand façade of the De Laurent Gallery, casting long, dramatic shadows across the stone steps. Elegant strains of music floated on the breeze, delicate and refined, like a prelude to a performance that would soon unfold. The Day of the Inauguration had arrived, and I was here, stepping into the very heart of the gallery that held both opportunity and trepidation.
Inside, the chatter of the crowd blended with the soft notes of the orchestra, creating a hum of anticipation and expectation. I walked through the gilded entrance hall, the echo of my heels on the marble floor resounding with each careful step. CLACK. My tailored checkered suit clung to me just right, the dramatic yellow bow at my shoulder a deliberate flourish meant to project confidence—even if I didn't feel it.
Immediately, I sensed the subtle shift in the atmosphere. Eyes turned, whispers fluttered through the crowd like ripples across a still pond.
WHISPER Oh my, darling! Look over there.
WHISPER You know, from that hotel! Serena Serenity!
WHISPER Looks like she received an invitation as well.
WHISPER She's so pretty! It's the first time I'm seeing her in person.
WHISPER But… did she come alone?
The murmurs pressed against me like a tide, confirming my worst fears. Without Eiser by my side, every movement, every step, every breath would be scrutinized, dissected, and judged. I forced my shoulders back, lifted my chin, and composed my face into a mask of serene indifference. A professional mask, polished and unyielding.
And then I saw her. Diah de Laurent, the new Director herself, glittering in a gown that shimmered with every subtle movement. She turned her head gracefully. TURN. Her smile widened, dazzling, perfectly calculated to seem sincere.
"Ms. Serenity? You came! Welcome." Her voice was honeyed, sweet and inviting—but I knew better. Beneath that perfect facade was the same sharp, precise intent that had caused Eiser to refuse to come. Every syllable, every gesture, was a measured blade in polite disguise.
I walked toward her, the final few steps feeling like miles. "Of course. You came to our hotel's anniversary event… and even extended the invitation for today yourself. Congratulations on your new position." I kept my tone level, polite, professional. Each word carefully chosen, each inflection neutral.
Her gaze flicked briefly to my side, as if to confirm the absence of my husband. Her smile, impossibly bright, seemed to grow.
"I've been looking for you. Seeing the beautiful flowers by the entrance, I inquired as to who sent them and was told you brought them yourself. Thank you for not only accepting my invitation, but bringing such a lovely gift as well."
I felt the subtle weight behind her words—praise laced with confirmation that I had arrived alone. It was a gentle jab disguised as civility.
I met her eyes, holding them steadily, injecting a hint of defiance beneath my calm exterior. "Yep, I came here alone." Another emphatic CLACK echoed as my heels stopped before her.
I would not give her the satisfaction of seeing me falter. I was here for business, for the paintings, and for myself. If Eiser wouldn't stand with me in public, then I would stand for myself.
I stood directly across from Diah, the glow of the gallery lights washing over her like a halo of carefully curated elegance. Every jewel, every fold of her gown, reflected the perfection she wished to project—power, poise, control. But I had come prepared for her particular brand of passive aggression. I had practiced my own armor: calm, polite, unshakable.
Her expression shifted slightly, the warm façade thinning just enough to let the slightest edge of surprise peek through. "Ah… to be completely frank, I did not expect you to attend today."
I held my ground, keeping my posture straight, my voice even. "Of course. You came to our hotel's anniversary event… and even extended the invitation for today yourself. Congratulations on your new position." I added a small, sincere-sounding nod, masking the resentment churning like fire in my chest. Every word was measured, deliberate—a shield and a sword.
Diah, ever eager to probe, tilted her head slightly, her eyes scanning me, trying to pinpoint weakness. "Since you graciously lent me a car on the day of the hotel anniversary party, I offered to send one of our cars to pick you and your husband up today, but I heard you refused."
Her words dripped with subtle venom, carefully framing my husband's absence as a slight, implying I had somehow made a deliberate choice against her kindness.
I countered smoothly, letting the statement slide off me like water on glass. "Sounds like a misunderstanding. It was simply easier for me to use my car instead."
"I see." Diah paused, letting her gaze linger, searching my face for the faintest crack of discomfort. "I couldn't help but think you'd taken offense after how rudely I acted that day…"
The memory threatened to prick at my nerves—the first meeting, her smirk, the coldness wrapped in honeyed words. I could have faltered, imagining her laughing behind my back. But I didn't. Not this time.
Instead, I smiled. Cool. Polite. Controlled. A mask of civility that didn't reach my eyes. "Not at all, Ms. de Laurent. In fact, the frankness with which you spoke to me that day has actually put me more at ease."
Her perfectly shaped eyebrows rose fractionally. Surprise flashed in her eyes, brief but undeniable. She had expected me to stumble, to feign ignorance, to accept her apology meekly, granting her the upper hand.
A hesitation. A pause. Then she tried to recover. "I truly hope you can forgive me for what happened—"
I cut her off smoothly, a slight lift of my chin asserting my dominance in the exchange. "No need for pretense or meaningless polite gestures."
I held her gaze, unwavering. "Neither of us have to feign knowledge or ignorance about certain aspects of the other anymore. We can now be completely honest with each other."
The words were deliberate, precise—a subtle declaration of war. The meaning was unmistakable: Eiser. I was making it clear that the game of appearances, the unspoken social chess she and I had been playing, was over.
Her composure wavered, almost imperceptibly at first, then more noticeably. Her eyes widened, a flicker of genuine surprise—and perhaps irritation—breaking through