Page 29 of The Chains that Bind
The color drains from his face, replaced by a sickly pallor that tells me everything I need to know. Their physical relationship was exactly as I suspected—tepid, restrained, utterly forgettable.
"Our relationship is none of your business," he manages, a weak defense at best.
"Everything about Seraphina is my business," I counter, my voice hardening. "Especially now that she's carrying a child."
The glass slips from his fingers, scotch splashing across his pristine trousers. I watch with detached amusement as he fumbles for his handkerchief, blotting ineffectually at the spreading stain.
"That's—that's impossible," he stammers. "We were careful. Always careful."
"Not her child with you," I clarify, enjoying the way his eyes widen with shock. "Mychild. Conceived before your pathetic excuse for an engagement even began."
Understanding dawns on his face, followed quickly by hurt, then anger. "She cheated on me? With you?"
"You can't cheat on someone who was never more than a placeholder," I explain, as if to a particularly slow child. "She was always mine, Richard. The ring on her finger, the promises she made—they were just temporary confusion on her part. An attempt to run from what she knows is inevitable."
"If that's true," he counters with surprising backbone even though he takes a step back like he’s afraid I’m going to lunge on him again, "why are you here? Why this meeting if you're so certain of your position?"
A fair question. I acknowledge it with a slight nod. "Because I want absolute clarity between us. No misunderstandings. No lingering hopes on your part that might lead to…complications."
"Complications," he repeats flatly.
"Attempts to contact her. Legal action regarding the wedding. Public statements to the press. Any behavior, in fact, that suggests you haven't accepted the reality of the situation." I lean forward, letting the mask slip just enough for him to see what lurks beneath my civilized exterior. "Seraphina is mine. The child she carries is mine. Any claim you thought you had has been nullified."
"Or what?" he asks, fear making him reckless. "Are you threatening me?"
"I never threaten," I reply calmly. "I simply outline consequences. If you accept that your relationship with Seraphina is permanently over, you'll find that certain opportunities become available to you. The curator position at the São Paulo Modern Art Museum, for instance. I understand they're looking for someone with your exact credentials. Housing provided, salary double what you currently make. Far, far away from New York."
His eyes narrow, calculation replacing fear. "And if I don't accept?"
I smile, letting him see nothing in it but cold certainty. "Then you'll find that opportunities become remarkably scarce. The art world is smaller than you might think, Richard. And my influence extends much further than you can imagine."
"You'd ruin me professionally because I loved the same woman you do?"
"No," I correct him. "I'd ruin you professionally because you tried to take what's mine. Because you haven't yet demonstrated that you understand the natural order of things." I take another sip of scotch, letting the silence stretch between us. "Love is a strong word. Did you love her, Richard? Truly? Or did you love the idea of her—the beautiful, accomplished gallery director who made you look good at social events? The woman whoseconnections helped your standing in the art world? The trophy you thought you'd won?"
His silence is answer enough.
"I thought as much," I continue, setting down my glass. "You wanted her. Ineedher. There's a difference."
I reach into my jacket pocket, withdrawing an envelope that I slide across the small table. "Your flight to São Paulo leaves next week. First class. The museum director is expecting your call tomorrow to discuss details. I've taken the liberty of having your apartment packed up—the movers will handle everything." I offer a thin smile. "Consider it a consolation prize for the wedding that never happened."
He stares at the envelope, conflict evident on his face. Pride warring with pragmatism. Outrage competing with opportunity.
"You're a monster," he says finally, but his hand reaches for the envelope nonetheless.
"No," I correct him. "I'm simply a man who understands what he wants and isn't afraid to ensure he gets it. Something you might learn from, if you were paying attention."
He rises from his chair, envelope clutched in fingers that tremble slightly. "Tell Seraphina—" he begins, then stops himself. "Never mind. I doubt she'd hear my message anyway."
"Wise decision," I acknowledge, remaining seated, maintaining the power position until the end. "Goodbye, Richard. Enjoy Brazil. I hear the women there are particularly beautiful."
The door closes behind him with a soft click, and I allow myself a moment of satisfaction. Another obstacle removed, another loose end tied up neatly. Richard Whittington will disappear from Seraphina's life as completely as if he never existed. By the time our child is born, he'll be nothing but a distant memory, a brief detour on the road that always led back to me.
I finish my scotch, already planning my return to the island, to Seraphina. She'll be angry about my absence, about my handling of Richard without consulting her. She'll rage and argue and push back against what she sees as controlling behavior.
And I'll let her. For now. Because her fury is beautiful, her independence intoxicating, her resistance the perfect counterpoint to my determination. I don't want to break her spirit—I simply want to channel it, to harness that fire for us, for our family, for our future.
Richard was never competition. Not really. Just a temporary distraction, a speed bump on the inevitable path that leads Seraphina back to me, where she belongs.
