No Divorce, Only Widowhood: His Possession

The corner table at The Ivy was supposed to be secluded, but in Los Angeles, privacy was just a higher price bracket, not a guarantee. Serena Vance stared at the cardboard box sitting on the white tablecloth. Her fingers traced the rough edge of the tape, over and over, until the friction burned the pad of her index finger.

She checked her watch. Ten minutes late.

A waiter appeared for the third time, hovering with a silver coffee pot. Serena shook her head without looking up. Her stomach felt like she had swallowed a handful of gravel. She didn't need caffeine; she needed this to be over.

The heavy oak door at the front of the restaurant swung open. The air inside the room shifted. It was a subtle change, a sudden hush in the ambient chatter, the collective swivel of heads.

Harrison Knox walked in.

He was wearing sunglasses indoors, of course. He moved with that loose-limbed, practiced stride that made him look like he was walking on a movie set even when he was just crossing a dining room. He bypassed the hostess stand and headed straight for her.

Serena's heart did a painful double-tap against her ribs-not from affection, but from the sudden, sharp spike of adrenaline that came with confronting a mistake she had spent three years trying to bury.

Harrison reached the table and slid the sunglasses down his nose. His eyes, that famous shade of blue that had launched a dozen franchises, crinkled at the corners. He smiled, the kind of smile that used to make her feel chosen. Now, it just made her feel tired.

"Serena," he said. His voice was a low hum, intimate and staged.

"Sit," she said. She didn't smile back. She pushed the cardboard box across the table. It made a scraping sound against the linen. As she extended her arm, she instinctively tugged the sleeve of her blouse down, covering the inside of her left wrist. The skin there crawled, a phantom itch beneath the fabric where the ink sat. "This is everything. The hoodie, the scripts, the watch. Check it if you want. I just want it gone."

Harrison didn't look at the box. He pulled out the chair opposite her and sat down, leaning forward, invading the neutral space between them. He reached out, his hand hovering over hers.

"You look tense, Ren," he said, using the nickname only he used. "Julian not treating you right?"

Serena snatched her hand back as if he were a hot stove. She tucked her hands into her lap, clenching them together until her knuckles turned white.

"Don't say his name," she said. Her voice was low, hard. "This isn't about him. This is about us being done. Completely. I don't want your things in my house. I don't want your memory in my life."

Harrison laughed softly. He shook his head, looking at her with a pitying affection that made bile rise in her throat.

"You always were dramatic," he said. "That's what made you such a good writer. You feel things so deeply. Like that time in the desert. You gave me your blood, Ren. You don't just walk away from someone you bled for."

The memory hit her like a physical blow-the blinding fluorescent lights of that dusty urgent care clinic in Indio, the terrified medic saying they didn't have enough O-negative, her screaming at them to take hers directly if they had to. It hadn't been romance. It had been survival. It had been a terrified twenty-year-old girl trying to save a reckless boy who had crashed his motorcycle because he was high.

"That wasn't love, Harrison," she said, her voice trembling with suppressed rage. "That was a medical emergency in a godforsaken clinic because you were too stupid to wear a helmet. Stop romanticizing my trauma."

"You're writing a movie about it," he countered, his voice smooth, ignoring her distress. "I hear the rumors swirling around town. The heroine saves the hero. It's a love letter, Serena. Everyone knows it."

"It's a drama," she snapped. "And it's not a love letter. It's an autopsy."

She grabbed her purse, the leather strap digging into her palm. She stood up, her chair legs screeching against the floor. "I'm leaving. Don't contact me again."

Harrison stood up too. He was faster. He stepped around the table, blocking her path to the exit. He loomed over her, using his height to create a wall of expensive cologne and intimidation.

"You're running," he murmured, stepping closer. "Just like you ran to that Sterling money."

Serena stepped back, her heel catching on the edge of the rug. Harrison reached out, his hands gripping her upper arms. It looked like a steadying gesture. It felt like a cage.

Flash.

The light was blinding white, exploding from the window facing Robertson Boulevard.

Serena flinched, turning her head away, but Harrison didn't let go. He held her tighter, pulling her slightly into his chest, angling his face toward the window. He was posing.

He had set this up.

The realization washed over her like ice water. The "secluded" table by the window. The sunglasses. The lack of a hat.

"Let go of me," she hissed. She shoved his chest with both hands.

He stumbled back, feigning surprise for the cameras.

"Get away from me!" she yelled, no longer caring about the scene. "If you come near me again, I will have Julian bury you."

Harrison's smile vanished, replaced by a flash of genuine malice. "Julian?" he sneered. "That icicle? He doesn't care about you, Ren. He only cares about his merger. You're just an asset to him. At least I loved you."

Serena didn't answer. She turned and ran. She collided with a waiter near the entrance, knocking a menu from his hand, but she didn't stop. She burst out the door onto the patio, the humid LA air hitting her face.

"Ticket!" she gasped at the valet, her hand shaking so badly she dropped the paper slip.

Harrison stood in the doorway of the restaurant. He didn't chase her. He leaned against the frame, looking mournful, looking heartbroken. Looking perfect for the lenses zooming in from the bushes across the street.

The valet brought her Porsche. Serena threw herself into the driver's seat. She fumbled with the ignition, her fingers slippery with sweat. The engine roared to life on the second try.

As she peeled out onto Santa Monica Boulevard, she saw them in the rearview mirror-two men on motorcycles, cameras slung over their shoulders, revving their engines.

Panic clawed at her throat. She gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles aching. She merged aggressively, cutting off a Prius, desperate to put distance between herself and the flashbulbs.

She drove for twenty minutes, her eyes darting to the rearview mirror, ensuring no one was following her up the winding roads of Bel Air. Only when the heavy gates of the estate came into view did she allow herself to breathe.

Her phone, mounted on the dashboard, lit up with a barrage of notifications. A livestream alert from TMZ.

LIVE NOW: HARRISON KNOX HEARTBROKEN? TEARFUL REUNION WITH SERENA VANCE.

Serena stared at the headline. The blood drained from her face, leaving her lightheaded. She swerved sharply down a side street, the tires screeching, narrowly missing a parked delivery truck.

She pulled over to the curb and put the car in park. She folded her arms over the steering wheel and buried her face in them. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps.

Julian.

Julian was going to see this.

Her phone buzzed again. A text message.

From: Mrs. Higgins

Message: Mr. Sterling will be home for dinner this evening, Ma'am.

Serena closed her eyes. The darkness behind her eyelids offered no comfort. It only made the memory of the camera flash brighter.