The mirror does not lie, but it flatters only when you force it to.
I stand before the gilded triptych in my room as Anya fastens the last hook of my gown. Midnight silk clings like liquid shadow, the skirt cascading into a sweep of fabric meant to whisper elegance with every step. A collar of diamonds circles my throat—my father's choice, not mine. Too heavy, too sharp, but weight is what power feels like.
"Perfect," my mother says from the chaise, glass of champagne in hand. "A Valmont must never look less than divine."
I don't answer. Instead, I meet my own gaze in the mirror. Pale skin, chestnut hair swept into a chignon, eyes gray as steel. The image is polished, immaculate. But beneath the layers of couture and expectation, my pulse hums like a trapped bird.
Not nerves. Anticipation.
Tonight is not just another gala. It's the Inauguration Soirée of Elysian Prep, the first spectacle of the year where the Eleven families parade their wealth, their heirs, their unity. The banners will hang in golden arcs above the ballroom—eleven, not twelve. Always eleven.
And I, Seraphina Valmont, will stand at the center.
The ballroom of the Elysian Hotel is a cathedral of light. Chandeliers scatter diamonds across polished marble, the air perfumed with roses and ambition. Gold banners drape from the mezzanine, each crest embroidered in thread so bright it nearly glows.
I glide into the room with the other Eleven, the cameras flashing, voices whispering. Penny soaks in the attention, Mia offers her signature cool smile, Izzy already looks bored, Selene radiates control like she invented it.
And me? I am the axis on which the night spins.
"Miss Valmont."
The voice rolls smooth as velvet. I turn to find Domani Vescari, heir to an Italian shipping dynasty, offering his hand. He is tall, striking, with Mediterranean features sharpened by generations of wealth and ruthlessness. His suit is black, tailored within an inch of perfection.
"Would you honor me with the first dance?" he asks, bowing slightly, his accent curling around the words.
Every eye turns. Every whisper sharpens.
"Yes," I say, my smile calibrated. "I would."
The orchestra swells as we step onto the floor. Domani leads with a confidence that borders on arrogance, but it suits him. We move in clean arcs across marble polished to a mirror's shine, and I feel the room watching—their envy, their speculation, their hunger.
Domani leans close, his breath warm against my ear. "You command them all, Seraphina. Even when you don't try."
"Of course." My lips curve. "It's what I was born to do."
And yet, as we turn in a perfect sweep, I catch sight of him.
Sebastian Blackwell stands at the edge of the ballroom, one hand in his pocket, a glass of champagne untouched in the other. His tie is loose, hair rebellious against the order of the night. He isn't smiling, but his gaze is fire, fixed on me and Domani like a predator assessing prey.
I should ignore him. I don't.
Domani notices. His fingers tighten on mine. "Ah. The infamous Blackwell."
"Infamous is the right word," I murmur, masking the quickened beat of my heart.
The waltz ends in a sweep of applause. Domani bows, lips brushing my hand. The crowd hums with approval. A perfect picture.
And then Sebastian moves.
He strides onto the floor, breaking etiquette so brazenly that the whispers rise like a storm. He doesn't ask. He doesn't bow. He simply steps between Domani and me, his hand outstretched.
"Valmont," he says, voice carrying just enough to be heard by the onlookers. "Dance with me."
It isn't a request. It's a challenge.
I could refuse. I should. But refusing would mean yielding, and queens do not yield.
I place my hand in his.
The orchestra strikes again, and the world sharpens to a knife's edge. Sebastian pulls me close, too close, his movements sharper, more dangerous than Domani's precision. His palm is warm against mine, his breath brushing my temple.
"You enjoy your little coronation," he murmurs. "But you and I both know thrones are fragile."
"And you," I whisper back, "are reckless enough to break your neck trying to steal mine."
Our eyes lock. The dance is fire disguised as elegance, tension thick enough to suffocate. Around us, the whispers spiral, the photographers lean forward, and Domani's jaw tightens like a drawn bow.
When the music stops, Sebastian releases me with a bow so mocking it might as well be a victory.
I need air.
I slip from the ballroom into the mirrored gallery, a quiet corridor gilded with ornate frames. The hush here is different—less performance, more memory.
That's when I see it.
On the edge of a mirror's golden frame, half-buried beneath carvings of roses and vines, a faint symbol catches the light. A sigil, circular, intricate, worn smooth by time but unmistakable.
Not one of the Eleven.
The twelfth.
The crest of House D'Arclay.
My breath stalls. A strange déjà vu ripples through me, as though I've stood here before, as though this symbol belongs not just to history, but to me.
I blink, and the ballroom's music echoes faintly in the distance. But all I can see is the erased dynasty's mark, shining where it should not exist.
-----
Sebastian's POV
From the shadows of the gallery's entrance, Sebastian watches her fingers brush the old crest. Watches the flicker in her eyes—a crack in her perfect armor.
Good. She's seen it.
He smirks, finishing his glass of champagne.
Let her chase ghosts. Let her wonder why the twelfth hasn't stayed buried.
Because tonight is only the beginning.
And he intends to be the one who writes the ending.
-----
Sera's POV
By the time I return to the ballroom, the air has changed. Whispers ripple like silk being torn, every glance edged with speculation.
The Eleven are gathered near the champagne fountain, a constellation of glittering gowns and predatory smiles. Penny is practically vibrating with glee.
"You," she squeals when I approach, "just rewrote the season's script! Domani and Sebastian, in one night? Darling, the scandal!"
"Not scandal," Mia corrects coolly, sipping her flute. "Strategy. If it was intentional." Her eyes flicker to mine, sharp as glass.
Lila, predictably, wrings her hands. "But what will people say? The Vescaris are—"
"International royalty," Penny interrupts, grinning. "And Blackwell is the devil dressed in Armani. It's delicious."
I give them nothing. No smile, no explanation. Control is silence, and silence is power.
But Domani doesn't share my philosophy.
He finds me within minutes, his expression smooth but eyes narrowed. "Sera," he says, voice low, "you allow him too much liberty."
"Allow?" My smile doesn't reach my eyes. "Sebastian takes. He's a Blackwell."
Domani's jaw tightens. "He humiliated me."
"He humiliated himself," I counter. "Crashing a dance floor isn't power—it's desperation."
And yet, even as I say it, I can feel Sebastian's heat still lingering at my waist, the burn of his hand on mine.
Domani leans closer, his cologne rich and suffocating. "If you want a future that matters, Seraphina, align yourself with strength. With stability. Not with chaos."
It's a warning. And a proposal. And a threat.
I smile sweetly, the kind of smile that can cut. "You mistake me for someone who needs alignment. I am the future, Domani."
His lips press into a thin line. He bows, stiff and precise. And then he's gone, swallowed by the crowd.
The night air is cooler, sharper, carrying the hum of the city below. I breathe it in like freedom, until I hear the voice.
"You do love theatrics."
Sebastian leans against the stone balustrade, tie loose, gaze sharp. The moonlight gilds him in silver and shadow.
"You ambushed me," I snap.
He shrugs, lazy, infuriating. "You let me."
"I didn't—"
"You did." His smirk deepens. "And you liked it."
My pulse betrays me, quickening, though I keep my face flawless. "You're insufferable."
"And yet," he murmurs, stepping closer, "you can't stop thinking about me."
The space between us tightens like a pulled thread. For a dangerous moment, I almost believe him. Almost.
But I recover first. "You're a distraction, Blackwell. Nothing more."
He chuckles, low and dangerous. "Funny. That's exactly what they used to say about the D'Arclays."
The name lands like a stone in still water, rippling through me. My mask doesn't crack, but my grip on the balustrade does.
Sebastian sees it. Of course he does. His smirk is victory and warning all at once.
"Enjoy your crown, Valmont," he says, brushing past me. "I'll enjoy watching it slip."
I remain on the balcony long after he's gone, city lights blazing beneath me.
Domani's warning. Sebastian's taunt. The carved crest, seared in my mind.
Control is everything. And tonight, I lost pieces of it—to two men who don't deserve to hold them.
I clench my fists, nails biting into my palms.
Never again.
A queen doesn't falter. A queen endures. A queen reigns.
And I will reign—even if it kills me.