The backstage corridor was a frenzy of activity, but the noise died away as William strode toward the dressing rooms. He found Seraphina near the loading dock. She was wrapped in a cashmere shawl, checking her reflection in a compact mirror, ensuring her “pale and sickly” makeup was intact.
When she saw him, she slumped instantly against the wall, putting a trembling hand to her forehead.
“William,” she rasped, her voice weak. “The noise… it’s too much for me. Did you see her? Flaunting herself on stage while I’m… while we’re suffering?”
William stopped inches from her. He didn’t reach out to steady her.
“Drop it, Seraphina,” he said. The tone was not angry; it was dead.
Seraphina blinked, her act faltering for a split second. “William? I don’t understand, I feel so faint…”
“I spoke to Anya Petrova,” William interrupted, watching the blood drain from her face–for real this time. “The caregiver you fired from Crestwood Clinic. She told me everything. The ulcers. The fake charts. The bribes.”
Seraphina straightened up. The frailty evaporated, replaced by a sharp, cornered look. “You’re listening to a disgruntled employee over your dying soulmate?”
“You’re not dying,” William stepped closer, towering over her. “And you’re not my soulmate. You’re a parasite.”
“You can’t leave me,” Seraphina hissed, her eyes narrowing into slits. “The public loves me. If you leave the ‘dying’ Seraphina Rivers now, you’ll be a pariah. I will ruin your reputation. I will take half your company in a lawsuit for emotional distress.”
William laughed, a dark, humorless sound that echoed off the concrete walls.
“That’s the best part,” he whispered, leaning in. “There is no company. I liquidated the assets this morning. I crashed the stock. I burned the company to get away from you.”
Seraphina stared at him, her mouth opening and closing in silent horror. He hadn’t just left her; he had nuked the gold mine she had spent years tunneling into.
“You have nothing to steal,” William said, turning his back on her. “And neither do I.”