Back to Dance, Back to Life

Ashton's POV

“Greedy little thing, wait until I finish giving your uncle his gift.” Seraphina smiled and slipped a bracelet around my wrist.

It reminded me of what a collector friend told me a few days ago, how excited he’d been when Seraphina asked him to help her buy a rare Patek Philippe watch, one worth fifty million. Gleeful, he had thrown in a matching bracelet for free.

Now, that same Patek Philippe glittered on Christian’s wrist, while the ill-fitting bracelet hung loosely on mine.

When the ballroom dancing started, as it did every year, I stayed seated in the audience.

Christian approached with that usual bright smile, taking Seraphina’s arm. “Ashton, since you can’t dance, why don’t I take Seraphina for the opening dance? You don’t mind, right?”

Before I could even respond, they were already gliding into the crowd.

Seraphina’s left hand rested gently on Christian’s shoulder, tender yet restrained, while her right hand intertwined with his. Her gaze was filled with warmth and emotion—eyes that could only hold him.

This was supposed to be our wedding anniversary. But tonight, it was clearly theirs.

For years, I thought the lavish anniversary parties were her way of honoring me, of showing the world she didn’t care that I was paralyzed. Now I realized the truth—these parties were nothing but excuses for her to be near the man she truly loved.

Guests whispered behind me.

“Wow, Mr. Montague really is the perfect lead dancer. Look at that form! Honestly, if he and Ms. Seraphina weren’t aunt and nephew, they’d make a much better match than her crippled husband.”

“Right? That husband of hers used to be some kind of prodigy in the dance world, but now he’s just a useless man in a wheelchair. Give it a few years, and Miss Seraphina will get bored, and no one will want that broken leftover anymore.”

Their laughter stung more than I wanted to admit.

Yet, Seraphina danced on, lost in Christian’s orbit, completely unaware of how cruel the whispers were.

Without her presence to protect me, the upper-class crowd dropped their polite masks and bared their disdain.

Soon, I couldn’t take it anymore. I turned my wheelchair and quietly left the hall, calling my lawyer to draft a divorce agreement. And while I was at it, I also booked a faked-death service.

When the banquet ended, I sat by the window of our room, watching the guests leave.

Under the trees, Seraphina stood there for a long time, staring at Christian’s departing figure. Only after he was completely out of sight did she finally turn and head upstairs.

The moment she entered our bedroom, she pushed me down on the bed, kissing me over and over like she couldn’t breathe without me.

“Sweetie, say you love me, okay? I love you. I love you so much. You’re mine, only mine.”

As her words echoed, fragments of memory started piecing themselves together. I suddenly realized every time she was this desperate for me, it was always after she saw Christian.

Was I… just his substitute for her desires?

A wave of nausea hit me, and tears slipped from my eyes before I could stop them.

When she tasted the wetness on my face, she finally paused, her voice softening. “Honey, what’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”

Her kisses trailed gently across my cheek, meant to soothe me, but the more tender she was, the sicker I felt.

I shoved her away, stumbled into the bathroom, and threw up again and again.

She immediately followed, rubbing my back as I retched. To anyone else, she might’ve looked like the picture of concern.

“Honey, are you feeling better? Should I call the doctor?”

I almost laughed through the bitterness. A doctor? For what? To prescribe more vitamins that didn’t heal anything?

“No need. I just ate too much. I’ll be fine after this,” I flatly replied.

She nodded and helped me back to bed, massaging my stomach with gentle hands.

Then suddenly, her phone rang. It was Christian.

Her eyes lit up instantly.

The moment she hung up, she grabbed her purse and rushed out of the room without even looking back.