At Elysian Prep, the east wing doesn't belong to students.
We pass by its iron-barred doors every day, pretending not to notice the dust gathering on stained-glass windows, the smell of paper and ink curling beneath the cracks. It's where they keep the ledgers, the transcripts, the pieces of history too fragile or inconvenient to display.
No one enters without permission.
Which is why, of course, I'm here.
The key wasn't difficult. A Valmont smile opens as many doors as a lockpick ever could. "Fundraiser research," I'd told the archivist this morning, tilting my head just so. He flushed, bowed, handed me access for the afternoon.
Now the doors groan shut behind me, and the silence swallows me whole.
The archives are not beautiful like the rotunda or the ballroom. They are heavy. Rows of shelves stretch into the dim, stacked with leather spines cracked by centuries. Dust motes dance in fractured light, drifting like ash.
I trail one hand along a shelf, fingertips brushing embossed gold letters: Founding Records. Estate Registries. Family Banners.
It feels like trespassing. Even as a Valmont, even as a queen, I feel the weight of every dynasty pressing down, whispering: You shouldn't be here.
But control is about knowing. Secrets are weapons. And if there's one thing I've learned, it's that only fools fight blind.
I find the ledgers under Judicial Proceedings – Families. The spines are lined up neatly, except for one. A gap stares back at me. My pulse trips.
I kneel, tugging a heavy book free. Its leather cover smells of dust and disuse, the pages foxed and yellow. My eyes scan:
Trial of House Laurent, 1812.
Inquiry into the Rousseau Holdings, 1874.
Sinclair vs. Harrington – Industrial Dispute, 1906.
My hands move faster, greedy. Then—
House D'Arclay – Proceedings, 1973.
The page ends abruptly. A jagged tear runs down the spine, the parchment ripped clean away.
My breath stalls.
Someone removed it. Not lost. Not misfiled. Erased.
I flip back and forth, but the gap remains, an empty mouth where the truth should be. Only a faint indentation lingers on the opposite page—letters pressed too hard, their ghosts still visible if I tilt the book against the light.
I pull a fountain pen from my pocket, scribbling the shapes into my notebook. My pulse hammers as the words form. Verdict. Judgment. Guilty.
And there, faintest of all: By decree of the Eleven.
My throat tightens.
The legends whispered at night aren't just stories. The Eleven really did destroy a dynasty.
And someone wanted that page gone badly enough to tear it from history.
The silence of the archive deepens. I close the ledger gently, as though afraid to wake it. My reflection stares back from the glass of the case—a girl with flawless curls and a perfect smile, but eyes too wide, too alive.
I tuck the notebook into my bag.
Secrets are weapons. And I've just found the sharpest one yet.
The archive's dust still clung to me when I stepped back into the daylight, but I couldn't afford to show it. By the time I reached the café across from Elysian Prep, I had already smoothed my skirt, reapplied gloss, and arranged my face into practiced serenity.
Inside, the café hummed with low chatter and the faint hiss of the espresso machine. It was not one of the gilded salons where our parents lingered over crystal cups; it was all dark wood and soft lamps, the kind of place where students whispered and secrets brewed as easily as coffee.
I chose a corner table. Of course. Corners command perspective.
And then he arrived.
Sebastian Blackwell strolled in as though he owned not just the café, but the street outside, the sun itself bending to spotlight him. His jacket was draped carelessly over one shoulder, his tie already discarded, his smile crooked in that way that makes professors grind their teeth and girls forget their names.
He spotted me instantly. Of course he did.
"Well," he drawled as he slid into the chair opposite me without asking, "if it isn't Her Majesty herself. Do I bow here or wait until the drinks arrive?"
"Neither," I said coolly, arranging my notes. "We're here to plan, not to indulge your theatrics."
He leaned forward, eyes dancing. "Oh, but I like indulging. And you—" his gaze flicked to the neat stack of papers, then back to my face—"you make it so easy."
I refused to flinch. "This fundraiser will not run on charm and late arrivals, Blackwell."
"Good thing I have more than charm," he said, flagging down the waiter with a lazy flick of his wrist. "Two espressos. Strong. She needs it."
"I ordered tea," I snapped.
"Exactly." He smirked. "You're wound tighter than the glass palace clocktower. Let me help."
The waiter left, and for a moment the air between us hummed with something not quite animosity, not quite ease.
I forced myself to focus on the papers. "The school expects at least ten thousand raised. I've outlined potential patron lists, auction lots, and presentation themes. All we need is execution."
"All you need," Sebastian corrected, lounging back. "What we need is spectacle. Nobody empties their wallets because you handed them a tidy list. They want to be seduced."
I met his eyes, sharp as glass. "This isn't about seduction. It's about control."
His grin curved slow, dangerous. "Everything's about seduction, Valmont. Even control."
The words lingered longer than they should have.
The waiter returned with two steaming cups. He slid mine toward me with a pointed look, daring me to drink. I did, just to spite him. Bitter, strong. Of course he'd be right.
Sebastian chuckled, low and satisfied, then leaned in, voice softer now. "Tell me something, Sera. When you're not pretending to be untouchable… do you ever get tired?"
My pulse caught. Just for a second. He saw it—of course he saw it—and his smirk faltered into something like curiosity.
I straightened, reclaiming my mask. "We should divide responsibilities. I'll handle the patrons. You… can work the crowd."
His laugh was warm, unguarded. "Oh, I'll work them, darling. Don't worry."
I hated the way it tugged at the corner of my own mouth.
We bent over the notes, our heads too close, our voices overlapping in a rhythm that felt almost… natural. Almost like we weren't enemies. Almost like the walls were thinning.
And that was the most dangerous feeling of all.
-----
The Blackwell estate did not glitter the way the Glass Palace did. It did not need to. Where the Valmonts showcased, the Blackwells reminded. Their mansion, an austere fortress of black stone and ironwork, rose out of the cliffs like a threat carved into the earth itself. No glass walls here. No light let in without permission.
Sebastian moved through the entry hall with his jacket slung carelessly over his shoulder, boots echoing against marble so dark it drank the light. A grand chandelier of wrought iron hung above, each branch ending not in crystal drops but sharp metal leaves, like frozen fire.
Selene was waiting at the base of the staircase. Of course she was. Perfect posture, arms folded, expression sharp as a blade. "You're late," she said.
"Late to what?" Sebastian shot back. "Dinner in a mausoleum?"
Her eyes narrowed. "Mother doesn't appreciate your tone."
"She doesn't appreciate anything about me," he muttered.
Selene arched a brow. "Whose fault is that?"
Their father appeared then, Lord Adrian Blackwell. Tall, severe, every line of his suit cut to intimidation. His gaze passed over Sebastian with the kind of disappointment that had long since dulled into habit.
"You make enemies in every room you enter," Adrian said without preamble. "You return after years in exile and expect deference. You will not find it here."
Sebastian smirked, though the weight pressed hard against his ribs. "And yet, here I am."
A figure swept down the staircase behind him—Lady Morgana Blackwell. Silk blacker than midnight, diamonds like fallen stars at her throat. Her beauty was as cold as the sea cliffs outside, and twice as merciless.
"Your insolence grows tiresome, Sebastian," she said, voice smooth, lethal. "This family doesn't need rebels. It needs rulers."
"Then you've already got Selene," he said lightly.
Selene didn't flinch at the jab. She didn't need to. Her silence was agreement enough.
Dinner was a parade of silence broken by measured critiques. Forks against porcelain, the occasional reprimand, Selene answering with precision, Sebastian answering with deflection. Adrian spoke of business empires. Morgana spoke of legacy. And every now and then, Sebastian let his gaze drift—past his family, past the walls, past the cage they'd built for him.
It drifted to her.
Seraphina Valmont.
The memory of her face at the café returned unbidden. The way her eyes flared—sharp but vulnerable—when he pressed too close. The taste of espresso still on his tongue, bitter but alive, because she had drunk it only to prove him wrong.
Her command unnerved him. She held herself like glass—perfect, reflective, untouchable. But he had seen, just for a breath, the crack beneath. The exhaustion she would never admit. And God help him, he wanted to press harder, to find out what would happen if she shattered.
Most girls he could conquer with a smile. Most heirs he could undo with a whisper. But Seraphina—she made him want to win, not to end.
He should want to break her crown. Every lesson of his blood demanded it. And yet…
And yet, he couldn't look away.