No Divorce, Only Widowhood: His Possession

The duvet was ripped off her body.

Serena gasped, the sudden cold air hitting her skin like a slap. She curled into a ball, shielding her eyes from the morning light.

"Up," Julian's voice was a bark.

She blinked him into focus. He was dressed for work, immaculate in a navy suit, but his eyes were wild.

"What time is it?" she mumbled.

"Time for you to stop feeling sorry for yourself," he said. "Breakfast. Now."

He turned and walked out.

Serena dragged herself out of bed. She put on a robe and followed him.

In the dining room, Julian was standing, not sitting. He was leaning against the sideboard, arms crossed.

Serena sat down. Mrs. Higgins placed a plate of eggs in front of her. Serena picked up her fork, but her hand was shaking. She put it down.

"Not hungry?" Julian sneered.

He walked over to her. He picked up a slice of dry whole-wheat toast from the rack, breaking off a small corner. He held it to her lips.

"Eat," he ordered. His voice was harsh, but the food was bland, something her stomach could actually handle.

Serena pressed her lips together. "Julian, stop."

"You need your strength," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Carrying all those boxes of old handbags must be exhausting work."

Serena froze. She looked up at him. "How did you..."

"I know everything you do, Serena. Did you really think you could pawn your jewelry and bags without my security team flagging it?"

"They're mine," she said, her voice trembling. "I can do what I want with them."

"They were bought with Vance money," Julian said. "Which, for the last five years, has been Sterling money. So technically, you're selling my property to pay for your vanity project."

Serena stood up, knocking her chair back. "It's not vanity! It's my career! And I'd rather sell every stitch of clothing I own than ask you for a cent after the way you've treated me."

"The way I've treated you?" Julian laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. "I've given you a palace. I've given you a life. And you call yourself a prostitute."

The air left the room.

"You heard," she whispered.

"Every word."

He reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a card. It was black, metal, heavy. A Centurion card.

He tossed it onto the table. It slid across the wood and spun to a stop in front of her.

"There," he said. "The PIN is your birthday. Take it. Fund your little movie. Stop embarrassing me by hawking used goods on Melrose."

Serena looked at the card. It represented freedom. It represented her movie.

It represented defeat.

She reached out, picked up the card, and held it out to him.

"No," she said.

Julian stared at her hand. His jaw ticked.

"Take it," he warned.

"I said no. I don't want your money, Julian. I want a husband who respects me. And you can't buy that."

She dropped the card on the floor.

The silence that followed was deafening. Julian looked at the card on the rug, then back at her face. His eyes were blazing with an emotion she couldn't name-rage? Pain?

He stepped closer, invading her space until she had to tilt her head back to look at him. He gripped her chin in his hand, his fingers digging in.

"You have a lot of pride for someone with nothing," he whispered. "Fine. Do it your way. But tonight is the Vance dinner. You figure out how to get me there. Because I'm not going as a favor. Not anymore."

He released her abruptly and stormed out of the room. The front door slammed so hard the windows rattled.

Serena sank back into her chair. She put her head on the table and let the tears come.