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,"