The first rule of Elysian Prep is simple: everything is currency.
And today, the stock market is on fire.
By the time I reach the rotunda, the whispers are already echoing off marble walls. My name. Domani's name. Sebastian's name. The holy trinity of scandal, etched into gossip blogs before the final song at the ball had even ended.
"Did you see the way Domani held her?" someone hisses behind me, their voice carrying like smoke.
"She was radiant."
"Sebastian looked murderous."
"I heard he left early."
"No, I heard he stayed, watching."
I keep my chin high, heels striking sharp as flint against the floor. The banners hang overhead, eleven crests stitched in gold, and though I don't look up, I feel the weight of them. The Eleven are always watching, judging, calculating. And today, even my crown feels heavier.
Penny Astor swoops in first, a hurricane of perfume and whispers.
"Darling, you were divine. Absolutely divine." She links her arm through mine before I can stop her. "But—tell me everything. Domani? Since when? And why wasn't I warned?"
"Because you'd have spoiled the surprise," I murmur, letting my lips curve in that practiced half-smile. The one that says I'm in control, even when the ground is shifting.
Penny gasps dramatically, as though I've given her the juiciest morsel yet. She'll spin this into a thousand different versions by lunch, each more glittering than the last.
Mia Rousseau waits at the foot of the stairs, arms folded, expression cool. "Bold choice, Valmont." Her tone makes it sound like a critique on architecture rather than my life. "Domani isn't… discreet."
"He doesn't need to be," I answer. "He only needs to be mine for a night."
Mia tilts her head, unconvinced. She's already calculating the angles, deciding if my move was strength or recklessness.
Across the hall, Izzy Harrington barely looks up from her tablet, though her voice cuts like a scalpel. "It was strategic. Everyone saw Sebastian's face. He's rattled. Mission accomplished."
Selene Blackwell finally steps forward, her smile sharp as glass.
"Or you've just declared war."
The others murmur, their glances darting between us. Selene and I don't duel often—not openly—but when we do, the ground trembles.
I meet her gaze without flinching. "If Sebastian wants war, he knows where to find me."
Her smile deepens. "Oh, darling. He doesn't need to find you. He already has."
The library at Elysian Prep was always my sanctuary.
At least, it used to be.
Glass-paneled ceilings let sunlight stream down in golden shafts, illuminating rows of oak shelves that smelled of polish and old paper. Marble floors gleamed beneath Persian rugs, muffling footsteps so even whispers felt intrusive. Here, history was catalogued, dusted, kept pristine—the way our families wanted it to be remembered.
And yet, even in a sanctuary, gossip followed me.
They didn't whisper much louder than they had in the rotunda, but in the hush of the library, their voices carried further. Every hushed syllable seemed to bounce off the leather-bound volumes stacked in endless rows.
"Domani looked at her like she was the sun," one voice hissed.
"Did you see Blackwell's face?" another murmured.
"He looked ready to burn the ballroom down."
"They say he followed her after—"
I didn't pause. Didn't flinch. I kept walking, heels striking a steady rhythm across the rug, until I reached the far wing where fewer eyes lingered. I had work to do, records to review, archives to search. Control wasn't just about wearing the crown—it was about knowing where every skeleton was buried.
I was halfway down the aisle toward the locked archives when his voice cut through the silence.
"Tell me, Valmont—did you choose Domani just to make me jealous, or was that a happy accident?"
My body froze before my mind caught up. The words slithered between the shelves, low and smooth, with the kind of arrogance only one boy could manage.
Sebastian Blackwell.
I turned slowly, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of surprise.
He stepped out from between the shelves like he'd been waiting for this moment. Jacket slung carelessly over one shoulder, dark hair falling into sharp eyes, tie hanging loose against his white shirt. He moved like the rules didn't apply to him—and worse, like he knew the world bent to accommodate it.
Sebastian leaned casually against the edge of the shelf, too tall for the narrow aisle, too present for the air to feel anything but thick.
I let my lips curl in a smile that didn't reach my eyes. "Jealousy implies I care what you think. I don't."
The corner of his mouth curved upward. "Liar."
One word. One syllable. And it landed with a precision I hated. My pulse gave the faintest betrayal, a tick faster, heat rising in my throat.
But I refused to let him see it.
"Domani is useful," I said evenly, adjusting the strap of my bag with deliberate slowness. "He's handsome, connected, ambitious. Everything a Valmont deserves on her arm."
Sebastian pushed off the shelf, closing the distance by a fraction. The sunlight from the windows caught the sharp planes of his face, turning his eyes into something molten. Dangerous. "Everything, except dangerous. And admit it, Sera—you like dangerous."
The way he said my name—Sera, not Seraphina—made it sound like something intimate. A challenge wrapped in velvet.
I stepped forward, refusing to retreat. My heels clicked against the hardwood floor, each sound sharp, defiant, filling the silence between us. "You mistake me for one of your toys, Blackwell. I don't play games."
He tilted his head, studying me the way predators studied prey. "Then what was last night? Because from where I stood, you looked like you were enjoying yourself."
I hated that his words conjured the image instantly: Domani's hand at my waist, his lips near my ear, the way the ballroom lights refracted off mirrored walls—only for my gaze to flick, unbidden, toward Sebastian across the crowd. His eyes had burned into me then, the same way they burned into me now.
I forced a smirk. "What I enjoy is winning. And you, Sebastian, are not competition."
That landed. Subtle, but I caught it—the twitch in his jaw, the flicker of heat in his eyes. Satisfaction sparked in my chest. I had struck flint, and fire caught.
But then he smiled again, slower this time, deliberate, like he was letting me think I'd won. "Careful, Valmont. You'll convince yourself of that, and then where will you be? Alone at the top, staring down at the empty space beside your crown."
The words slid under my armor in a way I despised.
Because he wasn't wrong.
The crown was lonely. It always had been.
But I couldn't let him see that—not him, not anyone.
So I stepped around him, close enough that silk brushed against his arm, close enough to feel the weight of his gaze following me. I didn't flinch. Didn't falter.
"Better empty than tarnished."
And with that, I kept walking, heels striking their rhythm again, carrying me out of the library before he could press further.
I didn't look back.
But I felt his eyes burning into me, all the way down the marble steps and out into the courtyard, as though the clash wasn't over at all—only paused.
-----
Sebastian's POV
Most people think exile is silence.
That when you're cut out, erased, sent away, you fade into nothing.
They're wrong.
Exile is noise.
It's every whispered rumor that won't die. Every headline that conveniently forgets your name. Every toast raised at parties you should've attended, where your seat sat empty. It's waking up in foreign cities with the sour taste of someone else's lipstick on your mouth and realizing you still aren't wanted—not there, not anywhere.
Exile is noise, and for a year, I drowned in it.
London first. A penthouse overlooking the Thames, my uncle's idea of penance disguised as privilege. Days spent fencing with tutors, nights spent in Mayfair clubs where the drinks were older than I was. The gossip rags adored me—Blackwell Heir Blows Fortune on Poker Table, Exiled Son Courts Countess's Daughter. They wrote me as a reckless prince without a throne.
Then Paris. Paris was worse. Paris glittered and devoured me whole. The girls there didn't care about the Blackwell name, only the way I said it, low and sharp, like a secret. I let them write it on my skin with red nails and teeth, let them distract me from the truth. For a while.
Milan followed, then Monaco, then a dozen other cities blurred together. I left wreckage in every one: broken bottles, broken rules, broken hearts. The tabloids followed, my family pretended not to notice, and through it all, I waited.
Because exile was never permanent.
The Blackwells don't vanish.
We endure. Even when the rest of the Eleven would prefer to see us gone.
I knew I'd come back. The only question was how.
And when I finally walked back into Elysian Prep, past the banners, past the polished marble rotunda, I saw it in their eyes. Shock. Fear. Curiosity. They thought they'd buried me. Instead, I came back sharper, leaner, harder. A weapon honed by absence.
And then there was her.
Seraphina Valmont.
She's always been untouchable. The crown jewel of Elysian Prep, the girl who commands without raising her voice. She doesn't need to shout—she tilts her head, and the world adjusts to accommodate her. The Valmonts trained her well, raised her to sit at the head of the table with the kind of authority that makes boys grovel and girls seethe with envy.
But last night at the ball, something shifted.
I watched her glide onto the dance floor with Domani at her side. His hand at her waist, her smile practiced, perfect. The crowd adored her. Of course they did. They always do. But when her eyes flicked across the room, just for a second, they landed on me.
And for the briefest moment, her mask slipped.
She wanted me to see her. To react. To care.
Jealousy? Maybe. But not the kind that gnaws in the stomach. No, it was sharper than that, more dangerous. Like a blade drawn across my chest, reminding me that whatever else Sera Valmont is, she's mine to measure myself against.
Not Domani. Not any of the others. Just her.
I should want to ruin her. It would be easier. To topple her crown, scatter her kingdom, and take the throne she guards so fiercely. But the truth is worse: I want to test her. I want to see if she can survive me.
Because if she does…
She'll be the only one who ever could.
-----
Sera's POV
The city is quieter at night. Or maybe it only feels that way because I'm listening too closely.
From my bedroom window, I can see the skyline—steel and glass towers stabbing at the sky, each one glowing like a jewel set in black velvet. Somewhere in that glittering sprawl, the other ten girls sleep beneath silk sheets and gilded ceilings. Eleven dynasties, eleven crowns.
But only one throne.
I press my palm against the cool glass. My reflection stares back: the smooth waves of dark hair, the flawless symmetry of features painted into magazines before I could even vote, the gown I'd draped across a chair earlier tonight. The armor is still intact. Still perfect.
So why do I feel like it's cracking?
Sebastian Blackwell.
Even thinking his name feels dangerous. He unsettles me in ways Domani never could. Domani is easy—handsome, charming, predictable. He says what I expect him to say, holds me how I expect to be held. He fits into the story I've written for myself.
But Sebastian doesn't fit. He never has. He carves new lines through every page I try to control. He makes me want to—
No.
I slam the thought shut like a door. Wanting is weakness. Weakness is death.
I lean back from the window, the city lights flickering across my eyes like judgment. Tomorrow, the whispers will keep circling. Tomorrow, I'll have to smile sharper, stand taller, wear the crown heavier.
But tonight, I let myself whisper the truth in silence, so softly that even the walls can't hear it.
He's dangerous.
And worse—I don't know if I want him gone.
-----
Sebastian's POV
The Blackwell estate is quieter at night too, though for different reasons. Silence here isn't peace. It's power. It's absence.
I lie awake, staring at the coffered ceiling, letting the darkness sharpen my thoughts.
I should want to break her. Seraphina Valmont, perfect queen of a perfect dynasty. The crown she wears should be mine to shatter. I could end her reign with one well-placed rumor, one calculated strike.
I've done it before to others. I could do it again.
But the truth coils tighter every time I see her. I don't want to take her crown away. I want to stand beside it. Beside her.
The thought is poison. Dangerous. Maybe fatal.
But as the night deepens, I realize it's the only thought I can't bury.