Chapter 24
Seraphine's POV
The phone buzzed against the polished surface of the table, a persistent, irritating vibration. I frowned, annoyed at myself for having forgotten to block the number. My first instinct was to silence it, to just let it ring itself into oblivion, but the caller was relentless. The screen went dark, only to light up again, and then again. It was clear he wouldn't give up. With a sigh of frustration, I finally answered, my voice clipped and cold. "Mitchell, what do you want?"
On the other end, Mitchell’s voice was laced with a manufactured, almost theatrical mystery. "Seraphine, don't hang up! I have something really important to give you. It's about Octavius. Can you please come get it? I'm at my house."
A flicker of suspicion tightened my chest. "What about Octavius?"
"You'll see when you get here." he coaxed, his tone smooth and practiced. "My parents are here too. They want to apologize in person for… well, for me. You wouldn't deny them that courtesy, would you?"
The mention of Octavius was a well-aimed hook, and I felt its barb sink in. I couldn't ignore anything that involved him. Against my better judgment, I decided I had to see what new game Mitchell was playing.
"Fine," I said, the word sharp. "I'm on my way."
After hanging up, I drove to the address I knew all too well: the Stafford Mansion. The moment I stepped through the grand double doors, I saw the elaborate trap. The dining room table was laden with a lavish feast, a spread that spoke of orchestrated apology. Jasper and his wife Xanthe Davis were there, their faces plastered with warm, almost pleading smiles. "Seraphine, you're here! Come in, please!"
Mitchell moved to intercept me, his hand reaching for mine. I sidestepped the gesture, my eyes taking in the whole scene. It was instantly, painfully clear. There was no important item, nothing related to Octavius. It was all a pretext. He was using his parents, leveraging their presence to corner me, to force me to stay and listen to his attempts at reconciliation.
A hot surge of anger rose in my throat, but it cooled as I met the gazes of Jasper and Xanthe. Their smiles, though strained, held a history of kindness toward me. I couldn't bring myself to humiliate them. Whatever Mitchell’s failings, his parents had, in the past, treated me well. I swallowed my revulsion and managed a tight, civil smile. "Mr. Stafford. Mrs. Stafford."
"Wonderful! Come, sit down before the food gets cold." Xanthe said, her warmth a little too effusive as she guided me to a chair.
I sat through the next hour with forced patience, a silent audience to their carefully rehearsed performance. Jasper and Xanthe spoke in soft, cautious tones about how Mitchell knew he was wrong, how he was consumed with regret, and how they hoped I could find it in my heart to give him another chance. Beside them, Mitchell played his part, head bowed in a pantomime of contrition. I offered noncommittal murmurs and polite nods, my mind focused on a single objective: enduring this dinner and leaving.
But my placid indifference seemed to agitate Mitchell. Seeing his parents' gentle pleading fail, he grew desperate. He set down his fork and knife with a clatter, adopting a look of profound anguish. "Seraphine, I know I was a bastard. I was a terrible person." he began, his voice thick with emotion. "But my feelings for you have never changed. If you'll just come back to me, we can go sign the papers tomorrow. We can get married. I'll transfer all my assets, all my shares, directly into your name. No prenup, nothing. I swear to you, I will never have anything to do with Brielle again. Just please, trust me one more time."
Jasper and Xanthe immediately chimed in, their voices nearly begging. "He means it, Seraphine! Look how sincere he is. He's willing to do anything!"
The absurdity of it was staggering. They spoke as if love were a transaction, as if betrayal could be erased with a portfolio of stocks and a promise of future fidelity. It was laughable.
I placed my own silverware down, dabbing the corners of my mouth with a linen napkin. Only then did I lift my head, my gaze moving deliberately from one Stafford to the next. "Mr. Stafford, Mrs. Stafford, thank you for your hospitality. I stayed for this meal out of respect for the kindness you've shown me in the past. I didn't want to cause you embarrassment."
My voice dropped, and when I turned to Mitchell, my eyes were glacial. "But Mitchell, I want you to listen very carefully. And I want your parents to bear witness. There is no possibility of a 'us.' Your assets, your guarantees… they are worthless to me. Please, from now on, stop humiliating yourself."
Without waiting for a response, I rose from my chair, ignoring the way their expressions soured and curdled. I picked up my bag and walked out of the Stafford Mansion, leaving the cloying scent of their desperation behind without a single backward glance.
The heavy pressure in my chest eased slightly as the cool night air hit my face. All I wanted now was to see Octavius. I needed to explain, to ensure that the stain of a man like Mitchell didn't seep into whatever was beginning to form between us.
Half an hour later, I arrived at the Capulet Group headquarters. Flynn intercepted me before I could reach the executive suite, his expression a mask of professional froideur. "Ms. Whitaker, I'm sorry. Mr. Capulet is in a very important video conference. He's given instructions not to be disturbed by anyone."
I knew what that meant. He was still angry.
"Then I'll wait." I said calmly, taking a seat in the plush reception area outside his office.
Time stretched, marked only by the silent sweep of the clock's second hand. An hour passed, then two. Flynn came and went several times, each time casting a complicated, unreadable look in my direction, but the heavy doors to Octavius's office remained shut. I couldn't just sit here indefinitely. I had to see him.
An idea, reckless and dramatic, sparked in my mind. I stood, pretending to head toward the restroom. Then, with a carefully executed sway, I let my body go limp, sliding down the cool marble wall until I was crumpled on the floor. I closed my eyes.
"Ms. Whitaker!" Flynn's alarmed cry cut through the silence as he rushed toward me.
Almost simultaneously, I heard the sound I'd been waiting for: the main office door being thrown open with violent force. Octavius appeared in the doorway, his face a canvas of undisguised panic. He crossed the distance between us in three long strides and scooped me into his arms.
"Call my doctor! Tell them to be on standby!" he barked at Flynn, his voice tight with a fear he couldn't hide.
He carried me, his steps urgent, toward his private elevator. Descending to the subterranean garage, he gently laid me across the back seat of his car. The vehicle pulled away immediately, heading in the direction of the hospital.
Inside the car, the silence was absolute, broken only by the hum of the engine. I could feel his gaze on my face, a scorching, unwavering heat. He hadn't looked away for a second. I knew the charade was over. Slowly, I let my eyelids flutter open, my gaze colliding directly with his.
We stared at each other. I was guilty. He was stunned.
I cleared my throat, forcing myself to speak past the lump of apprehension. "Isn't Mr. Capulet a terribly busy man? How is it that the moment I faint, you appear?"
He froze, the dawning realization washing the concern from his face and replacing it with a chilling cold.
"Seraphine." he growled, the name a curse on his lips. He leaned over me, his larger frame eclipsing the dim light of the car's interior, the air crackling with his fury. "You dare lie to me about something like this?"
His breath was hot against my skin. Before I could form a defense, before I could even process the raw anger in his eyes, he swooped down and crushed his mouth to mine.
My body went rigid, my mind blanking completely. All I could register was the searing heat of his lips and the insistent, punishing pressure of his tongue as it forced its way past my teeth, invading and conquering in a kiss that was anything but gentle.