The silence in the grand hall was heavy, a suffocating blanket woven from blue twilight and the glittering shards of a shattered marriage. Shadows pooled in the corners, thick and dark, as if the room itself was mourning alongside me. I looked down at her, her hands gripping my suit with a grip that was both desperate and trembling. The action spoke louder than words: it was a plea, a tether, a fragile anchor thrown into the storm of our unraveling lives. Her name, Serena, echoed in my mind, a delicate bell tolling for what we had lost—our laughter, our small rituals, the quiet evenings that had once felt infinite.
"The divorce doesn't have to change our relationship, so..." I began, my voice a low, strained rumble, cracking under the weight of my own emotions. I clasped her hands tighter, as though by sheer force I could absorb her fear, her sorrow, her longing into myself and make it less unbearable. "...Before you leave, promise me that I'll still be able to see you..."
Her eyes glistened with tears, reflecting the last shards of sunlight filtering through the tall windows. She squeezed my hands again, a desperate, final SQUEEZE. It was not for herself, I realized, but for me, echoing the exact terror that had been festering in my chest.
"Even if we're apart, promise me you'll come see me whenever I want." Her voice, small but trembling, cut through the oppressive air, threading its way directly into my heart.
I turned, glancing out the enormous window. The glass reflected my own rigid profile, severe and unyielding, and I saw there the truth I had been avoiding: a sharp, cold object lodged in my chest, pricking, unrelenting. Memories of those who had left without warning rose like phantoms, clawing at my resolve. "I really hate people close to me leaving suddenly and disappearing from my life." My words were jagged, raw. "I don't want to live through that again." The thought alone made my chest tighten painfully. I didn't want this to be a final, irreversible severing, a goodbye carved into stone.
I waited for her answer. The seconds stretched, each one a tiny eternity, echoing like a drumbeat in a cavern. Did she understand the depth of my fear, the raw vulnerability hidden beneath the polished facade I wore like armor?
Her response was a whisper, fragile, hesitant, and it felt more like a concession than a promise.
"Yes..."
And then, the quiet, devastating finality that fell over me like snow on a battlefield. The words that followed seemed to hollow out my chest.
"If only I could."
---
🚂 **The Midnight Train to Pinata**
Hours later, the ornate train station was a blur of shadows and gaslight, a place of transient goodbyes and new beginnings. Steam hissed from the engines, curling around lampposts like restless spirits. I lingered in the darkness, unseen, a phantom among the living. My gaze sharpened, catching a figure in the distance. Long coat, wide-brimmed hat—the unmistakable silhouette of her.
"No, that's not just a woman who resembles her," I muttered under my breath, heart hammering against my ribs with a frantic, uneven rhythm. "It's Lady Serena. I'm certain of it."
A porter, brisk and polite, approached her. "Ah, first class, then you should have had a separate guide when the ticket was issued," he said, a casual smile masking the efficiency beneath. "No problem, I'll guide you myself. Follow me, and let me take your suitcase."
I watched them, every movement magnified in the dim lamplight. "But what is she doing at a train station at this late hour?" My mind screamed the question, the thought twisting tighter with every second. Then, a darker, colder realization settled in: "And all alone, too… Where is she headed?"
The loudspeaker crackled to life, jagged and intrusive, cutting through the night like a blade.
> "ATTENTION, PASSENGERS. BOARDING FOR THE TRAIN HEADED TO PINATA WILL END SHORTLY. THIS IS THE LAST CALL FOR ALL PASSENGERS TO BOARD THE TRAIN HEADED TO PINATA."
Pinata. A small, remote town, nestled somewhere the maps barely remembered. She wasn't just leaving—she was vanishing into a place where I could not follow. The fragile bridge I had begged her to walk was collapsing beneath her feet. The promise, the delicate words meant to tether us together, now felt like a lie whispered under the chandeliers, drowned in the echo of a love already slipping through my fingers.
---
I stood in the shadows, my body pressed against the cold stone pillar, watching the man I knew to be a facilitator—a fixer—speak in low, clipped tones with another figure. The air was thick with the dust and coal-scented steam of the train station, mingling with the unspoken gravity of their transaction. Every movement, every word, felt deliberate, measured, final.
"HERE, THE TRAIN TICKET AND IDENTIFICATION YOU ASKED FOR. IT'S IN THAT NOTEBOOK." The facilitator held out a slim notebook, the corner of a ticket protruding from it like a dagger tip. I caught the faint glint of the inked letters on the ticket through the dim light: Lang Piaze → Pinata. My stomach twisted, the reality of the situation striking me like a live wire.
"Remember, you'll need that identification when you board the train. BOTH WERE VERY HARD TO GET MY HANDS ON, GIVEN IT'S A CROSS-BORDER TRAIN. MAKE SURE YOU DON'T LOSE THEM." His voice was flat, professional, almost devoid of emotion—but the words carried a weight I couldn't ignore.
The man receiving the notebook—clearly the one orchestrating Serena's escape—nodded grimly. I watched every motion, every subtle twitch in his hands. The facilitator concluded the transaction, his tone brisk, leaving no room for doubt.
"I don't know what was suddenly resolved or how, but in any case, it's all over with now thanks to you. GOOD WORK."
I watched the facilitator turn on his heel and disappear into the shadows of the station, leaving a trail of dust and inevitability. The man in the cap—the one who had taken responsibility for Serena's final departure—turned to the receding figure with a grim expression. His voice, low and oddly ceremonial, carried a finality that cut me deeper than any blade.
"LET GO OF ALL YOUR PAST TROUBLES AND BE AT PEACE. HAVE A GOOD LIFE."
It wasn't a blessing. It wasn't reassurance. It was a dismissal. The world around me constricted, vision narrowing to a tunnel as the enormity of her disappearance hit with the force of a physical blow. The promise she had whispered to me hours ago—that I would still be able to see her—was a lie, a cruel charade. This wasn't moving apartments. This was total erasure: a complete severance of our shared life, aided by falsified documents and a cross-border train.
I felt the ticket I had purchased for myself, the one meant to take me to her, burning in my pocket. My hand shook, trembling with a mixture of cold rage and despair. Without thought, with a raw, violent motion, I crumpled the delicate paper in my fist. The sharp crack of creasing tore through the quiet station like a gunshot.
I tossed the crumpled ball of paper away. TOSS. It landed in a nearby trash bin with a hollow, final thunk, sinking among the refuse and discarded detritus of countless lives. It felt symbolic, a physical manifestation of the bridge that had just been torn from my hands.
Alone now, I shivered in the chill of the station, the weight of defeat pressing on me like a stone. The shadows stretched longer, and the echo of my own footsteps was the only sound I could claim as mine.
🛤️ The Train to Nothingness
The announcement boomed once more, its mechanical voice sealing my fate:
"BOARDING FOR THE TRAIN HEADED TO PINATA WILL END SHORTLY. THIS IS THE LAST CALL FOR ALL PASSENGERS..."
My eyes followed the train as it began to pull away, a black leviathan cutting through the mountainous night. Steam hissed and curled into the cold air, the rhythmic CLUNK… CLUNK… of the wheels hammering into my chest with every beat.
Inside, she was there. Sitting by the window of her cabin, encased in plush velvet and polished dark wood—a world apart from the gilded cage of life we had once shared. Her back was to the door, long, dark hair cascading over her shoulders like a curtain hiding the person I had loved. She stared out into the swiftly passing night, her eyes tracing the blur of trees, the deep blue of a sky that had suddenly become her only boundary.
CLUNK… CLUNK…
The train carried her further and further, tearing the last fragile thread connecting her to me. My chest ached with a hollowness that had no name. The last memory I could hold onto—the final imprint burned into my mind—was the sight of her alone, finally gone, disappearing into the night, and leaving me behind with nothing but the echo of her absence.
The rhythmic CLUNK… CLUNK… of the train wheels was the only sound I heard, a steady, relentless percussion against the backdrop of the dark, passing forest. Each strike against the rails felt like a pulse, a heartbeat not of mine, but of fate—slow, heavy, indifferent.
I sat in the luxurious cabin, swallowed in the soft blue glow of the bedside lamp, the light bending around the polished wood and velvet trim. I wore a dark, simple dress that draped over my frame like a shadow, and the heavy necklace around my collarbones felt colder than the night outside—an heirloom, a memory, a chain. A reminder of the life I was abandoning, piece by piece.
I turned my gaze toward the window. Outside, there was nothing but an endless smear of trees, their forms dissolving into the greater darkness of the looming mountains. Freedom stretched before me in that ink-black forest—but it tasted like ash, bitter and burned.
My hands lay folded tightly in my lap, fingers interlocked with a desperate CLENCH, as if holding myself together by sheer physical force. My nails pressed so hard into my skin that it hurt, grounding me, reminding me I was still here, still real, even if the person I had been was dissolving somewhere along the tracks behind me.
This escape was necessary. Every rational part of me knew that. But the cost…
The cost was the ultimate betrayal: lying to the one man who feared abandonment more than anything. The man whose voice had trembled—not with anger, but with unguarded vulnerability—when he asked me for a promise I could never keep.
And now I was alone. Truly alone.
With every CLUNK, the distance between my old life and this uncertain future grew wider, stretching into something immeasurable, something irreversibl
, far away, five days had passed since I vanished.
The morning light painted the intricate facade of the manor in soft shades of rose and gold, turning every windowpane into a shimmering mask of serenity. The gardens stirred with life; the gentle, deceptive sounds of a normal morning echoed through the grounds—CHIRP CHIRP, light and carefree, ignorant of the collapse within.
But inside, there was only tension.
A taut, suffocating stillness that clung to the walls and settled between every breath.
I sat behind my massive mahogany desk, its surface cluttered with documents and letters—papers that demanded decisions, signatures, attention. Yet none of them offered the answers I craved. None of them could tell me where she was.
Before me stood a nervous employee, shifting her weight from foot to foot, fingers twisting together. Sui. My secretary. Loyal. Sharp. Too perceptive for my comfort.
"SIR EISER," she began, her voice tight with anxiety, on the brink of trembling. "Five days have already passed since Lady Serena disappeared."
The words hung between us like smoke.
I kept my gaze pinned to the desk, refusing to let her see the panic clawing at the edges of my composure. I could feel it rising, a pressure behind my ribs, tightening, swelling.
Sui pressed on, unable to hold back her fear.
"Do you really think she just ran away? Will she come home eventually? She hasn't gotten in contact with us at all, and I'm terrified that something awful might have happened to her."
Her voice cracked. The concern in her eyes was genuine, almost maternal—far too earnest, far too honest.
"The worst part is that she's all alone. She's never done anything like this before, and I doubt she knows much about the world at large…"
I finally forced myself to look up at her. My expression was severe, a mask carved from stone. I needed that mask. She needed it. Everyone did. If I let it slip even once, the entire fragile structure of the lie would collapse.
"Sui, Serena is not a child," I countered, my voice firm, dismissive—far colder than I intended. "She is a grown woman who made a choice. Don't worry about her and focus on doing your job."
The lie settled heavily in the room.
A perfect lie.
A necessary lie.
I had to make them all believe this was her decision—that she'd simply run away on a whim. That she would eventually return. That she was fine.
But I knew the truth.
I knew her silence wasn't a pause—it was an ending.
A severance.
Final and complete.
I had to pretend not to worry.
I had to pretend the ticking of the clock wasn't a countdown to my own collapse.
And I had to do it all while drowning in the very emptiness she left behind.
---
Sui stood before me, her worry radiating in waves, but I could not allow myself to betray the storm churning beneath my carefully constructed exterior. My fingers moved with a deliberate, almost mechanical **SCRIBBLE** across the document in front of me, every stroke a shield against the truth clawing at my chest.
"**NOW LEAVE ME BE. I'M BUSY.**" My tone was clipped, final, a command that brooked no discussion.
Sui hesitated, the memory of her lady's sudden disappearance pressing heavier than professional decorum. Her voice trembled slightly as she pressed on. "SIR EISER! THAT'S NOT WHAT I MEANT, I JUST— I FEAR SHE MIGHT BE IN DANGER—"
I let the temperature of my voice drop, sharp and lethal in its coldness. "**I SAID LEAVE.**"
The words hung in the air like ice shards. Sui froze for a moment, then executed a silent **BOW**, retreating swiftly. The **CLACK** of the heavy door echoed through the otherwise silent room, a punctuation mark on her departure.
Raul, my junior employee, had been quietly observing, his brow furrowed in confusion and concern. He sank into a plush chair with an audible creak, adjusting his spectacles as if the motion might anchor him to reason.
"**MY GOODNESS… WHY MUST HE BE SO COLD?**" he murmured to himself, swallowing hard—a **GULP** that sounded far too loud in the tense silence. His private worry mirrored the thoughts I knew were circulating among the staff. "IS SIR EISER NOT WORRIED ABOUT LADY SERENA AT ALL? HOW CAN HE DO NOTHING BUT WORK WITH THAT POKER FACE OF HIS?"
He paused, mentally processing my earlier, cryptic instruction: "**GIVEN THAT SIR EISER TOLD ME TO KEEP AN EYE OUT, SEE IF SERENA CONTACTS THE HOTEL… IT DOESN'T SEEM LIKE HE KNOWS LADY SERENA'S WHEREABOUTS EITHER…**" The realization that I was as blind as he was—to all appearances—seemed to genuinely shock him, though I carefully allowed no flicker of reaction to betray the urgency gnawing at my mind.
---
I lifted my gaze from the papers, fixing Raul with the calm, unreadable expression that masked everything. He was the only one I trusted with the mechanics of certain matters, and I needed an update on the administrative task that now defined every move of our immediate future.
"**RAUL, WHAT ABOUT THE MATTER I HAD YOU FOLLOW UP ON?**"
The sudden sharpness of my voice made him nearly jump, a visible **FLINCH** that tightened his shoulders and drew his attention fully to me. He stumbled over his words, flustered, trying to regain composure. "I—I HAVEN'T RECEIVED ANY UPDATES AFTER SUBMITTING THE PAPERWORK…"
Recognition finally dawned. "OH, OH! YOU MEAN THE DIVORCE PROCEEDINGS."
I nodded once, my face a mask of serenity, betraying nothing of the tempest roiling beneath. The divorce—filed at Serena's insistence—was no mere legal formality; it had become the key, the mechanism through which I could assert control over circumstances that extended far beyond the apparent reason.
Raul gave me the procedural update, his voice hurried and eager. "**WELL… IT SEEMS LIKE THEY'RE LOOKING INTO SEVERAL THINGS BEFORE THEY GIVE THE FINAL APPROVAL. I THINK THEY'RE CHECKING WITH BANKS AND OTHER ROUTES TO SEE IF THERE WAS ANY CONCEALMENT OF ASSETS.**"
I processed this instantly, silent and measured. "**RIGHT. THEY'LL BE MORE THOROUGH SINCE IANSA IS STILL UNCONSCIOUS.**" Iansa—the third party, whose presence had sparked the divorce—was complicating the proceedings in ways that, on the surface, seemed unrelated to me but were central to the timeline I needed.
Ever eager to assist, Raul offered a potential solution. "**SHALL I GIVE THEM A CALL AND ASK IF THEY CAN SPEED THINGS UP?**"
I fixed him with a cold, unwavering stare. "**THAT WILL ONLY ROUSE SUSPICION. DON'T LET THEM KNOW WE'RE IN A RUSH AND JUST WAIT QUIETLY.**"
The urgency I felt could not, must not, be visible. No one could know that I needed this divorce finalized—not merely as a legal formality, but as a key to unlocking the search that no one, including Sui and Raul, believed I was capable of beginning. The paperwork was both shield and signal: proof to the world that I had honored Serena's wishes, while secretly positioning me to act without arousing suspicion.
Every move now was calculated, every expression measured. The calm exterior, the so-called **poker face**, was the only weapon I possessed in a world that demanded both patience and precision, even as the fire of urgency burned silently beneath it.
---
I watched Raul absorb my instructions, his movements deliberate and careful, as though committing every nuance of my words to memory. "AH, I SEE. UNDERSTOOD. I'LL LET YOU KNOW AS SOON AS THINGS PROGRESS." He seemed chastened, yet obedient, the weight of responsibility pressing on him visibly.
Once he stepped away, the rigid posture I maintained for the benefit of others softened for a brief moment. My fingers drummed lightly against the polished mahogany desk, though the motion offered no relief. My mind raced ahead, already calculating the next move in a game whose stakes were measured in lives and secrets.
"I EXPECTED THIS, BUT THE FASTER THE DIVORCE IS GRANTED, THE BETTER." The delay was more than an inconvenience—it was a potential risk, a window for Victor to act. "THE COURTHOUSE IS FAR FROM SECURE."
I leaned back in my chair, the velvet upholstery failing to provide comfort, failing to mask the tension in my shoulders. Every thought returned to the same inescapable truth: the danger was real, and the enemy I had to outmaneuver was clear. "NOW THAT THE PAPERWORK HAS BEEN SUBMITTED, VICTOR IS BOUND TO FIND OUT ABOUT IT."
Victor. The man who would benefit most from my failure, from Serena's continued vulnerability. I couldn't stop him from discovering the divorce, but I could control the timing, the pace, the information he had. My gaze narrowed, cold and sharp, focused like a scalpel. "IDEALLY, I'D LIKE IT TO BE PROCESSED BEFORE HE FINDS OUT."
If the divorce were finalized, Serena would be legally severed from my name, from my assets. She would be invisible in the system, untraceable to anyone who wished her harm. Only then could I initiate my next steps without leaving breadcrumbs for Victor—or anyone else—to follow.
The moon rose slowly, full and luminous in the evening sky, casting a cold light across the room. Its pale glow seemed to illuminate the calculations turning ceaselessly in my mind, each one another step in the silent war I had been forced to wage.
Meanwhile, down the hallway, Sui and Raul walked together, their movements quiet, the STEP STEP of polished shoes softened by Persian rugs. The air was filled with tentative curiosity and worry, a stark contrast to the cold certainty of the office I had just vacated.
Sui's voice, soft yet tense, carried the weight of confusion and concern. "I DON'T KNOW WHAT THE TWO OF THEM ARE THINKING. WHY DID LADY SERENA SUDDENLY LEAVE? WHERE IS SHE NOW? AND WHY IS SIR EISER SO CALM ABOUT ALL THIS?"
Raul exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples beneath his spectacles, as though the physical motion could ease the frustration and uncertainty gnawing at him. "It's the same here… ESPECIALLY SIR EISER. I'VE WORKED FOR HIM FOR FOUR YEARS, YET HE'S STILL A MYSTERY…" He let out a frustrated SIGH. "AND YOU DON'T KNOW ANYTHING?"
Sui shook her head, her gaze distant. "I REALLY DON'T. BUT… SIR EISER ISN'T IN A GOOD PLACE RIGHT NOW EITHER. FAR FROM IT."
Raul blinked, astonished, disbelief shadowing his features. "WHAT MAKES YOU SAY THAT? HE SEEMS AS CALM AND UNFLAPPABLE AS HE ALWAYS IS, SO MUCH SO THAT I'M FEELING A LITTLE BIT HURT. OVER LADY SERENA'S DISAPPEARANCE, AT THAT!"
Sui leaned closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "You don't see it, Raul, but that poker face is too perfect. It's a shield. The man who hated the idea of her leaving is now pushing her divorce through while publicly denying his concern. He's not calm; he's calculating. He's preparing for a battle he can only fight if he appears indifferent."
Their words drifted through the hallway like mist, unaware that I had already heard them, though unseen. I had successfully concealed my true intentions, my inner turmoil, and my relentless focus on Serena's safety. Yet the cost of this deception was evident: the trust and understanding of my most loyal staff had been strained, perhaps permanently.
Every passing day weighed heavily—not just with Serena's absence, but with the knowledge that Victor was circling, waiting for an opportunity. My calm exterior remained intact, but the game had already begun, and the pieces were moving faster than anyone realized.
The day I learned the truth—the immutable, inescapable fact that LADY SERENA HAD DISAPPEARED!—was not one of shock, but of cold confirmation. There was no gasp, no immediate reaction; only a strategic calm, a professional facade that masked the storm beneath. "I IMMEDIATELY HAD PEOPLE LOOK INTO WHAT THE GRAYAN FAMILY WAS UP TO, BUT THEY APPEARED TO HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH THIS MATTER." The enemy was not external, not the Grayans. The threat was intangible, or perhaps nonexistent, but the consequence was inevitable: a woman asserting her freedom, leaving in silence.
I sat alone in my private study, the lighting muted, draped in deep green hues that bounced off the high shelves lined with bottles of rare liquor. The room smelled faintly of polished wood and aged spirits, a scent that always accompanied moments of reflection, of contemplation, of strategy. In my hand rested a glass of my preferred liquor—sharp, unforgiving—the one Raul had learned I allowed myself only in moments when the world demanded clarity.
Raul's thoughts, filtered through his careful observation, would have captured this.
"THERE'S A PARTICULAR LIQUOR SIR EISER LIKES TO DRINK WHEN HE HAS A LOT ON HIS MIND. USUALLY, HE ONLY ALLOWS HIMSELF TO DRINK IT FOR A DAY OR TWO… BUT AFTER LADY SERENA DISAPPEARED, FOR THE FIRST TIME I'VE SEEN… HE'S BEEN DRINKING IT EVERY SINGLE DAY."
Yes. Every single day.
By daylight, I maintained the icy veneer of control, the calculated calm that allowed others to underestimate the depth of my vigilance. But by night, the green liquid in my glass reflected the slow burn of frustration and despair, a measured surrender to the private weight of failure.
I ran over the facts, dissected them piece by piece, stripping away sentiment in favor of logic.
"…AND JUDGING BY THE FACT THAT SHE'D ASKED THE GENERAL MANAGER TO TAKE GOOD CARE OF THE HOTEL, MADE PREPARATIONS TO LEAVE… AND MADE SURE TO LOSE HER CHAUFFEUR AND BODYGUARDS, SHE SEEMED TO HAVE ACTED OF HER OWN VOLITION."
She was deliberate. Calculated. Methodical. She hadn't fled blindly, as Sui feared. She had orchestrated an escape.
And yet… a question gnawed at me, unbidden, echoing through the cavernous study: "WHERE COULD YOU HAVE GONE?"
I rested my hand near the antique telephone, its brass edges cold under my fingers, a reminder of the world beyond this room. My eyes were drawn to the small, empty space on the desk where her belongings had once rested, now vacant, stark, accusatory.
"SHE TOOK HER IDENTIFICATION WITH HER, WHICH SHE DOESN'T USUALLY… SO SHE MUST HAVE INTENDED TO TAKE THE TRAIN." The logic was simple, unassailable, yet each deduction tightened the knot in my chest. "IF SHE NEEDED TO TAKE THE TRAIN, HER DESTINATION MUST BE QUITE A WAYS AWAY."
The memory returned with vivid clarity: the cold, late-night station; the porter offering assistance with polite efficiency; the single word that now burned in my mind: Pinata. I knew where she had gone, but not why. Not what she planned to do upon arrival. The final, desperate promise I had begged from her—the tether I had hoped would survive the severance—mocked me in its absence.
I looked down at the pale green liquid in my glass, swirling it slowly, a mirror of the calculated despair coursing through me. The divorce was procedural, a necessity to protect her, to free my hands, to remove obstacles. But the liquor… the drinking was the truth. The confession of the man who had once pleaded, "I REALLY HATE PEOPLE CLOSE TO ME LEAVING SUDDENLY AND DISAPPEARING FROM MY LIFE. I DON'T WANT TO LIVE THROUGH THAT AGAIN!"
The plan was deceptively simple: finalize the divorce quietly, then leverage my political and financial resources to locate her, leaving no trace, avoiding Victor's gaze. Yet the execution was a relentless, daily war against my own spiraling fear, against the gnawing uncertainty, against the cruel irony that the one person I needed most was the one I could not reach.
The next morning, I returned to my office, the harsh light of day cutting through the lingering shadows of last night's despair. The green-tinged haze of whiskey and sleepless brooding had dissipated, leaving only the steely clarity of purpose. I perched at my desk, hands resting lightly on the polished surface, the weight of strategy pressing in from all sides.
Raul approached cautiously, his movements tentative, as if the air itself were charged with unspoken tension.
"SIR EISER, I HAVE SOMETHING TO REPORT." His voice carried a mixture of professional deference and barely suppressed worry.
I looked up from my papers, my expression carefully neutral, a mask honed over years. "I'M LISTENING."
"I CALLED THE COURTHOUSE YESTERDAY EVENING, AND IT SEEMS LIKE THE DIVORCE IS TAKING MORE TIME BECAUSE OF IANSA'S STATE…" Raul continued, eyes flicking toward mine for a sign of reaction. The legal complications caused by Iansa being unconscious had slowed the process, giving Victor an extended window to act. He held out a document. "THEY SENT US THE DIVISION OF ASSETS AND PROPERTY AGREEMENT, SO THEY PROBABLY WANTED TO MAKE SURE THERE WERE NO ISSUES BEFORE THEY FINALIZE THE DIVORCE."
My focus sharpened instantly. The divorce had to conclude quietly, without drawing Victor's attention or suspicion. Every clause, every figure mattered. I took the document, letting my eyes scan the page with surgical precision.
"AHA. SO THEY'RE TRYING TO CONFIRM THERE'S NO CONCEALMENT OF ASSETS OR ANY OTHER PROBLEMS." I murmured, my mind already calculating implications, contingencies, and countermeasures. "WHAT IS THIS AGREEMENT SAYING?"
Raul cleared his throat, his tone cautious as though the weight of my attention could shatter him. "IT SEEMS LIKE LADY SERENA DIDN'T ASK FOR ANYTHING AT ALL, AND SHE JUST GAVE UP EVERYTHING." He studied my face, searching for a reaction that would betray my thoughts. "SHE REFUSED ANY DIVISION OF ASSETS, AND SHE'S NOT ASKING FOR ANY ALIMONY."
I stared at the cold, unyielding numbers. She had chosen to take nothing. Absolute renunciation. Every asset, every entitlement, she relinquished freely. My chest constricted—not with anger, but with a weight heavier than any confrontation. She had paid the price of her freedom with total financial surrender.
Raul's astonishment broke the silence. "THIS IS STRANGE…" His voice faltered. "IT SAYS HERE THAT SHE WANTS TO PAY A FINE OF $1 MILLION INSTEAD OF RECEIVING ALIMONY."
A fine? A self-imposed penalty? She wasn't merely separating from me—she was punishing herself, erasing any trace of dependence, removing all tether to the past we had shared. It was meticulous, deliberate, and cruelly final.
I lowered my gaze to the paper, the finality of her decision striking me with a force stronger than any confrontation. She had even dictated the timing of the payment. "AND SHE WANTS TO PAY THE FINE AS SOON AS THE DIVORCE IS GRANTED."
The irony was suffocating. She thought she could buy her independence with money, severing the connection with the man she believed had held her too tightly. She had chosen to sacrifice everything to escape.
I made my decision instantly, the clarity of purpose cutting through the tangle of grief and strategy. "CALL HER LAWYER." My voice was firm, devoid of hesitation. "I WILL BE PAYING FOR THE $1 MILLION SHE'S ASKING FOR."
Raul blinked, utterly flustered. "WHAT? ARE YOU SURE? WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?"
My gaze went distant, vision drifting to the memory of the retreating train, the image of her cabin fading into the night. "Because if she is truly gone, she needs the means to survive. And if she refuses to take anything from me, I will find a way to give it to her without her knowing. It's the least I can do for the woman who sacrificed everything for her own happiness."
I signed the agreement, each stroke of the pen sealing both her freedom and my commitment to protect it. "I WILL BE SIGNING THIS AGREEMENT. NOW GO AND DON'T TELL ANYONE ABOUT THIS FINE."
No one could know. Not Raul, not Sui, not the world. She had risked everything for her independence; I would protect her from that risk, even if it meant bending the rules of propriety, legality, and appearances. The divorce had to be finalized swiftly, quietly, before Victor caught wind. And through it all, she must remain untouchable, unseen, and safe—no matter the cost.
I watched the light catch the heavy, ornate bottle of liquor. It rested like a golden idol atop the polished marble counter, its shadow stretching long and sinuous across the surface, as if reaching for me, beckoning. The label, embossed in swirling, elegant script, read Serenade—a hard liquor with a lovely name, indeed.
But the beauty of the bottle was a lie. The glow that made it appear warm, inviting, almost sacred, hid a venomous poison beneath its golden facade. I knew that truth intimately; it was a familiar ache in my chest, a reminder of the line between pleasure and self-destruction.
A cold knot tightened in my stomach as the man's smooth, low voice cut through my thoughts, echoing the cruel realization in my mind. He leaned back slightly, the bitter smile on his lips failing to touch the depths of his eyes.
"This liquor is a lot like you."
The glass tilted in his hand, the liquid inside sloshing with a hypnotic rhythm, a sound that resonated deep in my bones. At first, it was a vibrant, unnatural green—bitter, pungent, promising both exhilaration and ruin. Its scent was sharp, almost electric, and the flavor, if tasted, would bite with the intensity of life itself.
Then, with a single, fluid turn of his wrist, the hue shifted. The green softened, caught the light, and blossomed into a radiant, golden yellow. The aroma became intoxicating, fragrant, sweet—almost seductive. The perfect poison.
The words he spoke, lingering in the air, were a riddle I could not ignore:
Any less of it and its alluring taste will be no more…
But too much of it will stop your heart and end your life.
The advice was absolute, cruelly precise, and impossibly difficult to follow. It demanded balance I could never trust myself to maintain, a restraint I had never mastered. It was high time to stop, to let go—but the temptation was far from spent.
I found myself on the edge of a churning, turquoise sea, the cold spray smacking against my face and soaking my hair. The water below glowed with a phosphorescent green, almost neon in its brilliance, mirroring the liquor's initial, bitter hue. Waves rose and crashed with a definitive SPLASH, each one punctuating the rhythm of my restless thoughts. Gulls circled overhead, their cries swallowed by the endless roar of the ocean.
The bottle was gone, vanished into memory, yet the craving remained. It was a sharp, aching need, a pulse I could not quiet. His words lingered, echoing like a mirror held up to my fatal flaw. I saw myself reflected in that poisoned gold: the desire for control, the obsession with perfection, the hunger to taste life to its bitter end, no matter the cost.
And still, despite the warning, despite the pain, despite the ruin it promised, I found myself asking, over and over, with a voice too soft to be heard over the sea:
So why is it that I want to drink more? Why do I covet it so?
The waves crashed again. SPLASH. The wind tugged at my coat and hair. And somewhere, far beneath the surface of the luminous water, I felt the pull of the poison calling me back, impossible to resist.
"Any less of it and its alluring taste will be no more... But too much of it will stop your heart and end your life."
The words, stark and unforgiving, echoed in the quiet of my mind as I stood before the vast, restless sea. The shoreline stretched endlessly, a jagged boundary between stability and surrender. Each crashing wave struck with a conviction I lacked, breaking apart in a spray of white foam that dissolved before it could touch me. The rhythm was relentless—an indifferent heartbeat that mocked my own erratic one.
Why is it that I want to drink more?
Why do I covet it so?
The questions stung with their own pathetic clarity, and I let out a forlorn laugh—a thin, brittle sound the wind snatched away before it even fully formed. It was ridiculous, really, how transparent I was beneath all my careful composure. A single gust of wind could scatter my resolve like sand.
The answer was simple. Terrifying in its simplicity.
It wasn't just the liquor; it was him.
I thought I had turned away. God, I had believed it so fiercely. There had been a time—small, fragile, and already fraying at its edges—when I convinced myself stepping back from him meant I would finally breathe again. That I would stop choking on the possibilities he dangled before me, sweet and lethal in equal measure.
I told myself I needed time. Time to tune out the echo of his voice. Time to learn the shape of my own shadow without his entwined with it. I remembered the heaviness of that decision, how it pressed down on my ribs like a weight I had to carry alone. I remembered the strange liberation of it too—like slipping out of a velvet trap.
I saw myself then, hat brim shadowing my eyes, walking away with shaky steps I pretended were steady. A letter clutched in my hand, its folded edges digging into my palm, marking my skin with the finality of that choice. I imagined him behind me—whether he reached out or simply watched me leave, I could never quite decide. His gaze lingered, whether real or imagined, a tether that never snapped.
But memories are a cruel mistress, especially when laced with regret and threaded with a desire that refuses to die cleanly.
Now he was back again—if not in body, then in thought, in memory, in the imprint of his voice against the rim of a glass. A phantom made of warmth and warning. A presence behind the amber glow of the 'Serenade' bottle that haunted me still.
I could see him as clearly as if he sat before me. At a dimly lit bar, golden light spilling over him like a confession. Rows of familiar green bottles stood at attention behind him, their tinted surfaces catching the light in sharp, inviting angles. He held a glass delicately, swirling the liquid with a practiced ease. The flicker of the golden liquor danced against his features, making it impossible to tell where the shadows ended and he began. His eyes, sharp and knowing, rested on something beyond my understanding—something I feared might have always been me.
Honestly, I still...
The unspoken truth hovered in the space between memory and longing.
The words from the bottle—mocking, merciless—became a mirror, reflecting the truth I tried to deny:
Any less of it and its alluring taste will be no more...
But too much of it will stop your heart and end your life.
The ocean breeze rolled over me, cool and salt-laden, but it offered no solace. Not even a distraction. Just another reminder that nature could be brutal and beautiful at once.
It's high time to stop, let go...
A logical command. Even a merciful one. Yet my heart rebelled with a stubborn ache that pulsed beneath my skin. He was the Serenade—a hard liquor with a lovely name, intoxicating in all the wrong and irresistible ways. And I, helplessly drawn back into orbit, hovered on the edge of addiction, knowing a taste would never satisfy, and drowning in it would be my undoing.
I closed my eyes, letting the sound of the waves mix with the memory of his voice. The image of him, the golden bottle, and the endless sea twisted together behind my eyelids like threads woven into a trap of my own making. The craving burned through me—a hollow, consuming thirst. A desire for something that promised pleasure sharp enough to cut, and destruction gentle enough to seduce.
I can only let out a forlorn laugh.
It leaves me before I can stop it—dry, brittle, embarrassingly fragile. A sound more suited for a crypt than a bustling bar. It should have echoed against stone walls, not mingled with the soft chatter and the muted clinking of glass around me. Yet there it was, proof of the cracks spiderwebbing beneath my skin.
The bartender says nothing as he slides the heavy glass toward me. The 'Serenade' glows like liquid sunlight—rich, golden, deceptively warm. It pools in the low crystal tumbler like a promise, like a threat. The bottle beside it is ornate, decadent, too beautiful for something so fatal. Its glass facets scatter the lamplight, transforming it into a seductive, shimmering invitation.
A memory slices through the haze, sharp as broken glass.
I see myself standing on a street washed in the muted grays of early morning. The brim of my hat pulled low, shielding me from prying eyes—not that it could hide the rawness in my expression. In my hand, the letter. The one that sealed everything between us. A future I told myself would be brighter because you weren't in it. A future where I would learn how to breathe again.
Where I would find my own way in this world without you.
I can still see your figure on the stairs behind me. The way you held the letter. The way your eyes were steady, unreadable. Detached, almost—yet not quite. That not quite was a fracture that still hasn't healed. There had been sorrow there, muffled and restrained, but potent enough that it felt like the bitter first swirl of that vivid green liquor—the one that stung my throat and marked the beginning of an addiction I never escaped.
But time…
Time didn't cleanse me.
Time didn't free me.
Time didn't make me forget.
It only sharpened the allure.
Now here I am again, staring down into the reflection trembling on the surface of my drink. My own features are fractured and distorted by the amber glow. And just beneath them—your face. Clear. Unavoidable. Sitting across from me like a ghost given form.
You don't move. You merely watch. One hand resting casually against your jaw, elbow propped on the counter. The golden watch gleams against your wrist, catching every flicker of light. Your eyes—cool, assessing, painfully familiar—hold a truth I've tried to outrun.
…honestly, I still…
Still what?
Still want to go back?
Still want to unravel?
Still want to lose myself in you until nothing else exists?
My gaze falls to the bottle between us. The label stares up like an accusation.
Serenade.
The words echo again, cruel and sacred:
Any less of it and its alluring taste will be no more…
But too much of it will stop your heart and end your life.
You've always been the liquor.
And the dose… has always been my choice.
But in the dim, golden light, with the weight of your unspoken truth pressing on me like a hand at my throat, I finally understand the deepest thread in this tangle of obsession.
You can't bear to let me go.
The realization is a cold tide washing over me, dragging me back to the shoreline where this all began. I look up, and in your eyes, I see the violent sea. I see myself standing at the edge of the turquoise waves, their foam shimmering green like the first bitter form of the drink. The wind had whipped my hair across my face, dark strands against pale skin. The gulls cried overhead—distant, eerie, like omens.
The drink is poured.
The moment is irreversible.
The fate is sealed.
So why is it that I want to drink more? Why do I covet it so?
Because the taste of you—no matter how toxic—
is the only way I feel truly alive.
And I'll risk everything for just one more sip.