The Glass Palace never really sleeps.
Even before dawn, the house hums with quiet movement. Staff glide through the corridors in polished shoes, voices low and precise. Curtains are drawn back in unison, silver trays gleam, and the faint scent of brewing coffee floats up the marble staircase.
It isn't just a home. It's a stage. A cathedral of glass and steel built to remind the city that the Valmonts don't simply live above them—they rule.
As the only daughter, I move through it like a figure on display. Wherever I walk, people straighten. Nannies, housekeepers, chefs—each one bows their head slightly, murmuring "Good morning, Miss Valmont." Their tone is respectful, deferential, but laced with something else too. Fear. Not of me. Of him.
Marcus Valmont.
My father doesn't need to raise his voice or lift a hand to command obedience. His presence is a law unto itself.
I find him, as always, in the dining hall.
The table is long enough to seat thirty, though it rarely hosts more than two. My father sits at the head, framed by a wall of windows that capture the skyline like a painting. Behind him, Elysian City glitters in the morning light, the towers stabbing upward as though competing with his ambition.
He doesn't look up when I enter. He doesn't need to.
"Seraphina," he says. Not warmly. Not coldly. Just my name, weighted like a crown placed on my head.
"Father."
I take my seat across from him. The chair feels smaller, though it's carved from the same Italian wood. Servants move with silent choreography, setting a crystal glass of orange juice at my elbow, plates of fruit carved to look like roses, silver domes lifted in perfect timing.
None of this is about food. It's about precision. About showing me that even breakfast is a performance.
I sit straighter. Fold my napkin once. Place it across my lap. The rules are second nature by now.
"You've made an impression this week," he begins, slicing into his grapefruit as though every word is merely business. "The gala, the ball. People are talking."
"They always do," I reply, a careful edge of poise in my voice.
He glances up then, eyes like sharpened steel. "Talk is a tool. Wield it. But remember—it cuts both ways."
I nod.
He sets down his knife. "You are poised, Seraphina. But poise is not enough. You must dominate. Especially now."
The air shifts. I know what's coming before he says it.
"The Blackwells," I murmur.
His mouth hardens around the name. "That boy—Sebastian. He thinks his exile absolves him. That he can walk back into Elysian Prep and reclaim ground he forfeited. He is not a friend. He is not an ally. He is a rival. And you will treat him as such."
My pulse flickers. Not with fear—at least not the kind he would recognize—but with something dangerous. Something I can't name.
"I won't let him undermine me."
His gaze pierces me, searching for cracks. For hesitation. For anything less than absolute loyalty.
"Good," he says finally. Then, softly, like a blade being sheathed:
"Dynasties rule by strength. Blackwells are rivals, not allies. We buried our enemies once. We will do it again if we must."
The words drop like stones into still water, and ripples spread through me.
I know what he means. He doesn't have to say the name.
D'Arclay.
The family erased from banners, from books, from memory. Their bloodline cut. Their crest ripped away.
When the staff clears our plates, I catch my reflection in the mirrored glass wall.
Seraphina Valmont. Seventeen years old. Senior at Elysian Prep. Queen of the Eleven.
On the surface: perfect. Dark hair in a glossy wave past my shoulders, eyes sharp, posture flawless, my uniform tailored to precision. A girl who never falters, never doubts, never lets her crown slip.
But in the glass I see more than perfection. I see a cage shaped like power. A dynasty pressing down on me, demanding I be flawless not because I want to—but because failure means extinction.
I force the thought away.
Perfection is survival. Survival is victory.
"The Valmonts don't lose," I tell my father.
And for the first time this morning, he smiles. Not warmly. But with satisfaction.
"Remember this," he says, rising from the table as though the conversation is concluded. "Strength isn't an option. It's our inheritance. Everything less is betrayal."
The word lingers long after he leaves.
Betrayal.
I finish my juice in silence. The staff moves in to clear the table, and I allow them to treat me like glassware—delicate, precious, untouchable.
But inside, I am anything but untouchable.
Because while my father sees Sebastian Blackwell as an enemy to be crushed, I see something else. A storm I can't control. A threat not just to my crown, but to the armor I've worn my entire life.
By the time the black town car pulls into Elysian Prep's drive, the mask is back in place.
The queen cannot falter. Not in the rotunda. Not in the classrooms. Not even when the enemy wears the smile of someone who knows exactly how to break me.
And today, I have to face him.