The Laurent estate glittered as though the gods themselves had dipped it in gold.
Chandeliers spilled crystal light across marble floors, mirrors caught the gleam and multiplied it until the air itself seemed gilded. Strings of pearls framed the grand staircase; servants moved like shadows, trays of champagne and jeweled hors d'oeuvres balanced effortlessly in gloved hands. The scent of roses—dozens, hundreds—perfumed the air, as if even the flowers had been ordered to bloom only in perfection tonight.
It was not a party. It was a coronation rehearsal.
And I knew the moment I appeared, the room would bow—if not in body, then in breath.
The doors opened.
I stepped through, the silk of my gown trailing like liquid night. Midnight-blue, cut to command, embroidered with silver threads that caught the chandelier's glow like captured stars. A diamond comb pinned back my hair, sharp as a crown.
The air shifted. The chatter dimmed. Heads turned.
"Seraphina Valmont," someone whispered, as though invoking a spell.
I let the moment stretch. Every dynasty present—Laurents, Sinclairs, Astors, Crosses, Harringtons—watched as I descended the steps, each heel click deliberate, each smile measured. No nerves, no hesitation. Only command.
This was my battlefield, and I would not falter.
"Magnificent," Penny Astor breathed when I reached her side, curls bouncing as she grinned. "Half the room just forgot how to swallow."
"That's the point," I murmured, accepting a glass of champagne without really tasting it.
Because here, appearances weren't decoration. They were weapons.
Across the room, the Eleven glittered in pairs—Eva Laurent radiant in white silk beside Domani, Cass Devereux in a gown that looked stolen from a battlefield, Aria Sinclair glowing soft gold with Noah at her elbow. They each commanded attention in their way.
But the air shifted again when he entered.
Sebastian Blackwell.
Late, of course. Always late. He strolled in as if he hadn't kept the entire room waiting. Black velvet mask hiding half his face, the other half shadowed by that mocking, devastating smirk. His suit was tailored within an inch of its life, but he wore it like armor he refused to fasten fully—tie loose, jacket unbuttoned, shirt collar open at the throat.
If I was precision, he was rebellion.
And together, we froze the room.
The whisper rose like a tide: Valmont. Blackwell.
We were not the hosts of the gala. Yet every eye tracked us, every step we took mapped against each other. Reverence was the wrong word—fear was closer. The Elysians didn't just watch us. They measured us.
And I felt it, as I always did: the terrifying, undeniable truth.
Together, Sebastian and I were the storm.
"Enjoying yourself, Queen?" he drawled as he slid close enough to murmur in my ear, his breath warm against my skin.
I did not turn. "Try not to embarrass your family tonight, Sebastian."
He chuckled, low and dark. "But embarrassing my family is the only fun I have."
His grin widened when I finally looked at him. And I hated how the room seemed to hold its breath again—as though waiting for our next move, our next clash.
The gala might have belonged to the Laurents, but Sebastian and I were already its sovereigns.
The ballroom pulsed with strings and laughter, polished to perfection. Silver trays floated between jeweled hands, champagne fizzed in crystal, and everywhere the glint of diamonds caught the chandelier's glow.
I smiled when I needed to, inclined my head when duty demanded. Never too warm, never too cold. Perfection was not a choice—it was survival.
But perfection also sharpens awareness. You feel when the air shifts, when attention fractures, when whispers spark in corners like struck matches.
I knew the moment the rumors began.
Not because I heard them directly—no one would dare. But because of the weight of glances, the quick shutter of eyes when I passed. Too fast. Too careful.
Penny was the one who slid up beside me, curls bouncing, fan fluttering, though the room was not warm. "They're talking," she sang softly, the way a child might hum about a ghost in the dark. "I shouldn't tell you, but—"
"Then don't," I cut in, sipping champagne, eyes forward.
She pouted, but her voice dropped lower. "They say your mother hasn't been seen in months. That perhaps… she's ill." A pause, coy. "Or worse."
The fan snapped shut. She winced at her own daring.
I didn't flinch. "And who, exactly, is saying this?"
"Not me." Penny smiled too widely, the edges brittle. "Not to you."
I let silence stretch until she shifted uncomfortably. Then I smiled, soft as frost. "Then it doesn't exist."
Her relief was almost comical. She scurried away, curls bouncing, already itching to deliver her next morsel elsewhere.
But the whisper lingered. My mother. Always the soft spot, the one thing even my power could not control.
Across the room, Jules watched me too closely, her notebook tucked against her ribs like a shield. Aria sent me a fleeting look of sympathy, quickly hidden behind a glass. Izzy frowned at something on her tablet, but I wondered if she'd caught it too.
They weren't fools. None of the Eleven were. They'd heard it.
I wanted to burn the rumor to ash.
Instead, I smiled.
And then I saw him.
Sebastian.
He lounged near the colonnade, a glass of something amber in hand, speaking with a knot of Montrose cousins too eager to please. His grin was lazy, careless—until one of them leaned closer, voice lowered.
I saw the shift. The way his jaw tightened, the way his smirk sharpened to a blade.
He didn't look at me, but I knew. I knew they'd dared to speak of my family in his presence.
What happened next was almost art.
He laughed, slow and dangerous, and leaned back with that insufferable confidence that made boys mimic him and girls loathe themselves for wanting him. Then he said something—too low for me to hear, but sharp enough to slice.
The Montrose boy paled. Another swallowed hard. The group scattered like pigeons startled from crumbs, leaving Sebastian alone with his drink and his wolfish grin.
He had cut the thread before it could reach me.
Our gazes met across the room. His smirk widened, daring me to acknowledge what he'd done.
I did not.
Instead, I turned away, spine straight, smile unbroken.
But my pulse was no longer steady.
Because in that single moment, I realized something terrifying.
Sebastian Blackwell didn't just know how to destroy me. He knew how to protect me.
And that was infinitely more dangerous.
The orchestra swelled, the floor opening as if on command. Couples glided into place beneath the chandeliers, satin and silk twirling like waves of a jeweled sea.
I lingered at the edge, not because I lacked partners—half the room was waiting for a nod—but because timing is everything. The Queen does not rush to the floor. The Queen chooses when the world may see her move.
"Seraphina."
I turned, and there he was: Domani Vescari.
Old Venetian blood, rumored ties to half of Europe's luxury houses. Tall, polished, with a smile like he already imagined our names entwined on invitations. Tonight he wore midnight blue, a color that softened his severity.
He bowed just low enough. "Dance with me."
The words were confident, but not presumptuous. He offered his hand like an heir presents a treaty.
And yes—he was important. His family controlled galleries and jewel vaults, a network of collectors and patrons. Domani was no mere suitor. He was power wrapped in velvet.
I allowed myself the smallest smile, tilting my hand toward his—
"Already taken."
The interruption was velvet stretched over steel.
Sebastian.
He stepped into the space between us like it was always meant for him. His jacket undone, bowtie abandoned, every line of him carelessly perfect. He radiated a kind of reckless gravity that pulled eyes without permission.
Domani stiffened. "I don't recall asking you."
"Funny," Sebastian drawled, "I don't recall caring." His gaze flicked to me, lazy but electric. "Come on, Queen. They're waiting."
It wasn't a question.
I should have refused. I should have reminded him, sharply, that no one takes without asking.
But the truth? My body betrayed me. My hand slid into his before my pride could stop it.
The orchestra's tempo shifted as he led me onto the floor. Gasps rippled, whispers flared—but no one dared to speak them aloud. The Queen and the Black Sheep, together at center stage.
His hand settled at the small of my back, hot even through layers of silk. I looked up, chin high. "You had no right."
His grin was infuriating. "Since when do I ask for permission?"
"Since always," I snapped, though my pulse leapt when he twirled me with effortless control. "Domani was—"
"Domani was two seconds from boring you to tears." His voice dipped lower, meant for me alone. "Tell me you'd rather have his hand on you than mine. Lie to me, Sera. Go on."
I hated that I couldn't answer.
The dance carried us closer, closer, until the air between us was nothing but tension strung taut. His thumb brushed my spine. My fingers tightened against his shoulder, not for balance but to remind myself I could still hold on.
The music swelled.
For one dangerous heartbeat, I forgot the crown. Forgot the dynasty. Forgot everything but him.
We spun, and when I came back to him, his face was only inches from mine. The world blurred, chandeliers dimmed, and I felt it—that reckless pull, magnetic and merciless.
His lips hovered just shy of mine, close enough that the ghost of his breath sent a shiver across my skin.
I tilted up, barely, traitorous—
And then the music ended.
Applause shattered the moment, the spell breaking into shards of polite clapping. He didn't move right away. Neither did I.
For one dangerous heartbeat, I forgot the crown. Forgot the dynasty. Forgot everything but him.
His lips brushed near my ear as he whispered, "Careful, Queen. The room thinks you've chosen me."
I swallowed hard, forced a smile for the watching crowd, and whispered back, "Then let them think wrong."
But my pulse, wild and traitorous, told a different story.
The night ended in a flurry of goodbyes, champagne flutes abandoned, the orchestra's bows finally silenced. The ballroom emptied in glittering waves, jewels and gowns vanishing into waiting cars.
I smiled until my cheeks ached. I curtsied until my knees burned. Queens don't tire in public—they only retreat when the court has been conquered.
And so I retreated.
The Valmont car was sleek and black, a predator among prey in the valet line. I slid inside, silk skirts whispering against leather. The door closed, sealing me into silence.
Except it wasn't silent.
My father was waiting.
Marcus Valmont didn't need to speak to fill a space. His presence was gravity itself—measured, immovable, inescapable. Tonight, he wore black tailored lines that seemed carved from stone, silver cufflinks glinting like tiny blades.
"Did you enjoy your evening?" His voice was mild, but I heard the steel beneath it.
"Yes," I said smoothly. "The gala was a success."
A pause. "The gala," he repeated, "was a spectacle. And you"—his gaze sharpened—"were at the center of it."
I kept my chin high. "As I should be."
He leaned back, studying me with that unnerving calm. "I watched you dance."
My pulse stuttered. "With Domani?"
"No." His silence stretched, heavy as judgment. "With Blackwell."
The air thickened. I forced my features to remain serene. "It was one dance."
"One too many." His voice was velvet wrapped around a blade. "You do not elevate wolves by letting them stand at your side."
"He's hardly—"
"He is a Blackwell." Marcus's words snapped through the space like a whip. "And Blackwells are not allies. They never were, never will be. They are rivals. Rivals you crush, not indulge."
I swallowed, my throat suddenly tight.
He leaned forward, eyes glinting cold. "Dynasties do not survive on sentiment, Seraphina. They survive on strength. Remember that. We buried our enemies once. We will do it again."
The words pressed down like a weight on my chest. For one reckless heartbeat, I thought of Sebastian's hand at my back, the heat of his breath at my ear, the almost of his lips against mine.
I thought of what it would mean if I let myself slip.
Then I locked it away.
Because my father was right. Queens don't falter. Crowns don't bend.
"Understood," I said evenly, even as the echo of the dance lingered in my blood.
His gaze held mine for a long, suffocating moment. Then he nodded, satisfied.
The car moved through Elysian City's glittering streets, and I sat there, poised and perfect, with secrets burning like fire beneath my skin.