CEO's Regret After I Divorced-Chapter 359 The Real Serena

Serena’s POV

How the hell did I end up on this stage?

The crowd’s energy is infectious in the worst possible way—champagne-fueled enthusiasm mixed with that particular brand of London society bloodlust that comes out when they sense drama. I can feel hands literally pushing me forward, voices shouting encouragement that sounds more like demands.

Great. Just what I needed tonight.

I grip the microphone like a lifeline, my palms already slick with sweat. The spotlight is blinding, but somehow my eyes find him immediately. Ryan. He’s standing near the back, that unsettling intensity radiating from him like heat waves. His stare has been burning into me all evening—relentless, uncomfortable, like he’s trying to figure out some puzzle I don’t even know I’m part of.

Why does he keep looking at me like that? It’s making my skin crawl.

My pulse hammers against my throat, but I force myself to speak. Standard hostess nonsense—thanking everyone for their support, expressing gratitude for the incredible turnout, blah blah blah. The crowd eats it up, clapping and cheering like I’ve just delivered the Gettysburg Address.

Then the real torture begins.

"Come on, get Mr. Lancaster up there too!"

"When’s the wedding banquet? Don’t keep us in suspense!"

"We want our invitations!"

"Seriously, you two are like something out of a fairy tale!"

A fairy tale. If only they knew how complicated this actually is.

The noise level doubles as everyone starts shouting suggestions and demands. Cedric materializes beside me with that effortless confidence I’ve always envied, his arm sliding around my waist like we’ve rehearsed this moment a thousand times.

"Thank you all so much," his voice carries perfectly over the crowd, smooth as aged whiskey. "Serena and I have actually been discussing this, and once we get through this insane month, we’re definitely planning a proper celebration here in London. You’ll all be the first to know."

We’ve been discussing what now?

My smile feels like it might crack my face in half. When exactly did we have this conversation? His fingers press against my side—a warning, a request, a gentle threat all rolled into one. Play along. Don’t ruin the magic.

Fine. Whatever gets me off this stage faster.

But something in the crowd shifts, and my eyes find Ryan again. This time, he’s not staring. He’s moving—pushing through the throng of people with determined strides, heading straight for the exit.

He’s leaving.

The realization hits me with unexpected force. I watch his broad shoulders disappear through the hotel doors, and something inside my chest tightens uncomfortably.

Why do I care? He’s been nothing but trouble since he showed up.

But there’s something about the way he left—abrupt, almost... hurt?—that bothers me more than I want to admit. My throat burns, and I realize with horror that I’m feeling emotional. On stage. In front of half of London. While pretending to be blissfully happy with my husband.

Get it together, Serena. You don’t even know this man.

Cedric must feel the change in my body language because he smoothly guides us off the stage, his hand steady at my elbow. The concern in his eyes looks genuine, which somehow makes everything more confusing.

"Serena, what’s wrong?"

"Nothing. Too much champagne probably." My voice sounds strange, distant. I want to find a bathroom and lock myself in until this night is over, until I can figure out why a complete stranger’s departure is affecting me this much.

"Are you sure? You look—"

"I’m fine." I’m not fine. I’m confused and tired and this whole night has been too much.

I can’t leave—not yet, not when everyone’s watching, waiting to see if the fairy tale couple will crack under pressure.

"Five minutes," I whisper back. "Just give me five minutes to pull myself together."

Fake it till you make it. That’s gotten me this far.

I manage to hold it together through the rest of the speeches, the toasts, the endless parade of networking conversations. By the time the last guests start filtering toward the exits, my face hurts from smiling and my feet are screaming in these designer heels.

Finally. Almost over.

But as we’re heading toward the door, a familiar figure detaches herself from the shadows near the entrance. Sophie, looking like she stepped out of a magazine spread, all perfectly tousled hair and calculated vulnerability.

"Mrs. Lancaster." Her voice is honey over razor blades.

What now?

Every instinct I have is screaming danger, but I can’t pinpoint why.

"Mrs. Anderson. Not heading home yet?"

"Oh, I’m in no rush." She steps closer, invading my personal space with predatory grace. "I was hoping we could chat about the fashion week lineup. Professional curiosity, you understand."

Professional curiosity, my ass.

"Sure. What would you like to know?"

Her smile sharpens. "Well, for starters, do you really think a little boutique operation like yours can handle an event this scale?" She pauses, letting the insult sink in. "And you and Mr. Lancaster—such a gorgeous couple. I have to admit, I’m a bit envious."

There it is. The real Sophie, finally showing her claws.

My own smile turns arctic. "That’s very sweet of you to worry, but we’re managing just fine. It’s getting late though—you should probably head home."

I turn to leave, but her voice stops me cold.

"Aren’t you even a little curious about what happened to the real Serena?" Her tone is sing-song, almost playful. "What’s it like, walking around wearing someone else’s face?"

What the hell did she just say?

The words hit me like ice water. My knees actually wobble, and for a terrifying moment I think I might pass out right here on the hotel steps.

The real Serena? What is she talking about?

I force myself to turn back, keeping my expression carefully blank despite the way my heart is racing. "I’m sorry, what?"

"Oh, nothing." Sophie’s smile is all innocence now, but her eyes are calculating. "Just wondering out loud. You do look so much like someone I used to know."

Someone she used to know? Is she suggesting I’m... what? An imposter?

Cedric appears beside me, tension radiating from every line of his body. "Serena, let’s go. Mrs. Anderson, whatever game you’re playing, it ends here."

I straighten my shoulders, channeling every ounce of steel I possess even as my mind reels. "Mrs. Anderson, I don’t know what you think you’re implying, but I know exactly who I am. Good night."

I slide into the car before she can respond, my hands shaking as I fumble with the seatbelt.

What did she mean, ’the real Serena’? Am I not... real? That’s insane. I have memories, a life, a business...

Cedric gets in beside me, but not before delivering one final warning to Sophie: "Stay away from my wife. I mean it. Keep pushing, and you’ll regret it."

I hear Sophie’s laugh through the window, light and mocking, as we pull away from the hotel.

Rain starts to patter against the windshield, matching the storm building in my head. Cedric keeps glancing at me with worried eyes, reminding me to rest, not to overdo it, all the things a concerned husband should say.

But I’m barely listening. Sophie’s words are playing on repeat in my mind, mixing with memories of Ryan’s intense stare, the way he looked at me like he recognized something I don’t even know exists.

What’s it like, walking around wearing someone else’s face?

The city lights blur past us, distorted by rain and my growing anxiety. Something doesn’t add up—Ryan’s behavior, Sophie’s cryptic comments, the way people have been looking at me all evening like I’m a ghost they’ve seen before.

But that’s impossible. I know who I am. I have a life, memories, a daughter...

Don’t I?

Thunder rumbles in the distance, and I close my eyes, trying to shut out the growing unease that something fundamental about my life might not be what it seems.

I’m being paranoid. Sophie was just trying to get under my skin, and it worked.