At Elysian Prep, fundraisers aren't about charity. They're about crowns.
The council chamber gleams like a stage. Sunlight knifes through stained glass, scattering ruby and emerald over the mahogany table. Banners line the walls—our banners, eleven crests stitched in gold. Eleven dynasties, eleven heirs. Never twelve.
I sit first, as always. Position is everything. Whoever claims the front sets the tone.
The others drift in like pieces sliding onto a chessboard. Penny with her gossiping smile, Jules with her quiet watchfulness, Eva with a beauty that turns heads without effort. Selene arrives late, precision in every step, ice in her veins.
And then—him.
Sebastian Blackwell.
He strolls in as though the room was made for him, as though the seat across from me has been waiting, aching, for his presence. His tie is loose, hair deliberately imperfect, smile weaponized. He leans back in his chair, sprawled where I sit straight. A perfect counterpoint.
"Sorry I'm late," he says, drawl deliberate. "Valmont had to warm the throne first."
A ripple of laughter, nervous and eager, spills down the table. Penny hides a giggle behind her hand. Even Cass grins, wicked and sharp.
I don't move. "At least I arrived prepared."
"Prepared," he repeats, eyes glittering. "Or rehearsed?"
The Headmistress's voice cuts through. "This year's charity fundraiser will be the most important in decades. Elysian Prep is watched closely. And our Eleven must prove their worth."
"Eleven," Sebastian murmurs, just loud enough. "Such a strange number."
My nails dig crescents into my palm under the table.
"We expect unity," the Headmistress continues, "and so, this year, the fundraiser will be co-led by Seraphina Valmont and Sebastian Blackwell."
The silence after is deafening.
Then Sebastian's grin sharpens. "How generous of you, Headmistress. Pairing me with a Queen. It'll be a delight knocking her crown sideways."
My mask stays fixed. "Do try to keep up, Sebastian. This isn't a street brawl. It's dynasty. Which means poise, spectacle, reputation. A gala at a palace. Black tie, orchestras, crystal."
He leans forward, eyes never leaving mine. "And meaningless excess. We should do something real. Build homes. Fund scholarships. Show them we're more than champagne fountains and glossy photographs."
"You mean reckless stunts that crumble under scrutiny," I counter.
His smirk deepens. "You're afraid of anything you can't choreograph."
The words slice. Too close.
My breath catches, but I force the smile. "Control is what keeps dynasties alive. Not chaos."
For a heartbeat, the table is suspended between us, every heir watching like hawks. Izzy's eyes flicker with calculation. Aria leans forward, concern softening her gaze. Penny's practically vibrating with the gossip she'll spread by lunch.
He sees all of it. He sees me.
And I hate him for it.
When the meeting ends, I rise first, spine a rod of glass. My stride is steady, but my pulse is wildfire.
In the hallway, Penny tugs at my arm. "He's impossible, isn't he? Like—unbearable."
"Don't feed him with attention," I murmur.
"But he already has it. Did you see Cass? She was practically swooning at his speech about 'real impact.'"
I don't answer. Because I did see. And I know the others felt it too—the tremor in my mask when he pressed too close.
By the time I step into the courtyard, the whispers have already begun.
"Did you hear what he said to Valmont—"
"Finally, someone stood up to her—"
"She almost looked rattled—"
Almost. Almost.
The word haunts me.
I'm halfway down the marble corridor when I hear him behind me.
Not footsteps. Too smooth for that. A presence.
"Running away already?"
I stop. Slowly, deliberately, I turn.
Sebastian leans against the stone archway, sleeves rolled, hair falling into his eyes. The smirk is there, but softer, lazier. Almost intimate.
"I don't run," I say. My voice doesn't shake. I won't let it.
He pushes off the wall, closing the space with infuriating ease. "No, you don't. You strut. You glide. You… orchestrate." His eyes glint. "But today? I saw you falter."
My spine stiffens. "You imagined it."
"Maybe." He tilts his head, studying me like I'm a puzzle he's half a breath from solving. "Or maybe perfection isn't your natural state. Maybe it's just the tightrope you've been walking so long you don't remember what the ground feels like."
Heat licks my cheeks, traitorous. "You know nothing about me."
"Mm." He steps closer still, until I can count the flecks of bronze in his eyes. "Maybe not. But I know this—when you snapped back at me in there? It wasn't rehearsed. That was real. And real looks good on you, Valmont."
My chest seizes. For one heartbeat, I don't have an answer.
Then I force the words out, crisp as glass: "You mistake cracks for weakness. But a crown doesn't slip just because someone brushes against it."
His smile curves, slow and dangerous. "Then I suppose I'll just have to keep brushing."
For a second, the hallway holds only us, breath against breath, fire against fire.
Then I turn sharply, heels striking marble. I don't look back.
But his voice follows, low and certain.
"I'll see you at the next meeting, Queen."
-----
The Blackwell estate looms on the edge of the city like a fortress.
Stone walls, ivy crawling like veins, windows set deep as wounds. Inside, shadows cling where light dares not linger.
Sebastian tosses his jacket aside, drops into a leather armchair by the fire. Selene waits, perfect and cold, arms crossed.
"You embarrassed her today," she says flatly.
"Did I?" He smirks into the flames. "Looked like she was still standing when I left."
"She slipped. I saw it." Selene steps closer, gaze sharp as her heels on the marble. "But you're playing with fire. You're supposed to break her, not… circle her."
He doesn't look up. "And what if I don't want to break her?"
Silence stretches. Selene's eyes narrow, a shard of ice in them. "You've gone soft."
"No," he says, finally meeting her gaze. "I've gone curious."
Her lips curl into disdain. "Curiosity is weakness. And weakness kills dynasties. Remember why we were sent away, Sebastian. Remember why we came back."
She leaves, heels echoing like a death knell.
-----
Sebastian's POV
The fire hisses low. Sebastian sits, glass untouched in his hand.
He should want to ruin her. Every lesson, every wound their family taught him says so. Seraphina Valmont—the immaculate heir, the untouchable Queen.
But when she looks at him, chin lifted like her crown is fused to her bones, he doesn't see perfection. He sees the flicker she tried to hide. The breath she held too long. The crack in the mask.
She fascinates him. The command in her posture, the calculation in her smile, the way her voice can slice and soothe in the same breath. The light on her hair in the stained-glass glow, like strands of fire she pretends aren't burning.
She is dangerous not because of her crown—
But because she makes him want to kneel and tear it off in the same breath.
He tips the glass back. The whiskey burns, but it's nothing compared to the fire already lodged in his chest.
"I should break her," he whispers to the empty room.
But what if I don't want to?