“Oh, and please don’t misunderstand,” Cornelia added, her tone dripping with false innocence. “Luther’s just being thoughtful. He’s such a kind person, isn’t he?”
The audacity was almost laughable. Almost. Instead of replying, Seraphine silenced her phone and hailed a cab.
As the city lights streaked by in the window, her phone buzzed again. This time, it was Luther.
“Seraphine,” he began, his voice laced with accusation, “why were you so cold to Cornelia earlier? She’s my subordinate, and I was just helping her. That’s normal, isn’t it?”
Her tone remained steady, though her patience frayed. “Normal? Like how you sulked through her birthday party, claiming you didn’t feel well, and now you’re practically her personal handyman?”
Through the speaker, she could hear faint sobbing—Cornelia’s, no doubt perfectly timed.
“See? Now you’ve upset her,” Luther snapped, frustration bleeding into his words. “You’re overreacting again.”
A sharp, humorless laugh escaped Seraphine. “You’re right. I overreacted. Don’t worry—I’m already on my way home. You won’t have to deal with me anymore.”
For a moment, the line went quiet, then Luther’s voice softened. “Seraphine, don’t—”