Sera had every intention of ignoring him. The morning after their last argument had left her raw, and she wasn't about to encourage whatever this thing between her and Sebastian was turning into.
But her phone wouldn't stop buzzing.
Sebastian Blackwell: Stop pretending you're still asleep.
Sebastian Blackwell: You're not.
Sebastian Blackwell: Where are you going today?
She typed and erased three different replies before finally sending:
Seraphina Valmont: Not your business.
Seconds later, her phone rang. She stared at the name glowing on the screen, debating whether to let it ring out. But against her better judgment, she answered.
"You're terrible at lying, Valmont." His voice came warm, low, threaded with smugness. "Where are you?"
"At home."
"Try again."
Her jaw ticked. "Fine. Beach house. And before you say anything, I'm not inviting you."
Too late.
Two hours later, Sera stretched on the lounger, one leg bent, sunglasses balanced on the bridge of her nose, book in hand. Her skin already glowed under the golden morning sun, and she told herself the day would stay quiet.
Of course, it didn't.
A shadow fell over her, blocking the sun. She sighed. "Please tell me you're a waiter and not—"
"Disappointed?" Sebastian dropped into the chair beside hers, two iced coffees in hand. "I can leave. But you'll miss me."
She closed her book with a snap, eyeing him from behind her glasses. "You followed me."
"Correction: I anticipated you. Predictable, Valmont." He handed her the cup.
She scowled but accepted, muttering, "If you think this bribe works—"
"Worked," he corrected, leaning back, gaze shamelessly sweeping over her. "Already worked."
Before she could retort, voices cut in.
"Is that… Seraphina Valmont?"
A group of boys, around their age but unfamiliar, were strolling down the beach. Their posture screamed entitlement—sons of "allies," maybe, visiting heirs from another prep. The kind who grew up knowing they could take what they wanted.
They approached, grins cocky. One held out a bottle of water, another crouched beside her lounger, brushing stray sand off her thigh with the ease of someone too used to women not objecting.
"You shouldn't waste your tan alone," one said smoothly. "We could keep you company."
Sera arched a brow, calm, collected, queenly. "I don't recall asking for it."
The boy chuckled, unfazed. "Some pleasures don't need an invitation." His hand lingered.
That was when Sebastian moved.
He rose in one fluid motion, grip closing around the boy's wrist. "Take your hand off her." His voice was even, but the steel beneath it made the boy flinch.
The boy jerked his arm back, scoffing. "Easy, man. Just being friendly."
"Friendly?" Sebastian's gaze was lethal. "Touch her again, and you'll find out how unfriendly I can get."
The air thickened, heavy with challenge. For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then the boys, muttering under their breath, retreated, swagger collapsing into retreat.
When Sebastian sat again, Sera tilted her head toward him, lips curved. "Jealous, Blackwell?"
He smirked, but his jaw was tight. "Possessive. There's a difference."
Her laugh slipped out, light and unexpected, and the sound seemed to catch him off guard.
"You're insufferable," she said, sliding her sunglasses back into place.
"You're welcome," he countered.
Later, the tension shifted—softened. They ended up in the surf, her squealing when he splashed water at her, him laughing as she shoved him back into a wave. For a moment, the world wasn't crowns or secrets, dynasties or rivalries. It was just sunlight, saltwater, and the impossible truth that Sebastian Blackwell could make her forget.
When they collapsed onto the sand, both breathless, both damp, his hand brushed hers, lingering for a heartbeat too long.
And Sera—who had sworn never to falter—didn't pull away.
By Monday, the high was gone. The halls buzzed with their usual cruelty—velvet masks over sharpened teeth.
The cafeteria was full, sunlight spilling through arched windows, chandeliers glinting above. At the center, as always, the Eleven commanded their table. Sera sat tall, pristine, every movement rehearsed perfection.
And that was when it happened.
One tray, one "accident." Someone—not of the Eleven, not even close—tripped right at Sera's side. A bowl of pasta slid like a bullet, sauce and oil flying.
It hit Sera's dress, red bleeding into ivory silk.
The room went still.
Gasps rippled like aftershocks, but no one dared laugh aloud. Not at her. Not to her face.
Sera rose slowly, napkin in hand, spine straight, mask flawless. "Watch where you walk."
Her tone was icy, but her composure only fueled the tension. Because the spill wasn't clumsiness—it was orchestrated. Everyone knew.
And then he was there.
Sebastian didn't let the moment die.
He stripped off the blazer so fast it was a blur, leaving it snug around Sera's shoulders as if daring anyone to even see the stain underneath. Then he pivoted.
And there he was—the culprit.
One of the outsiders. The same pack of heirs from the beach house, sons of allied families sniffing around Elysian like vultures circling a feast. The smirking one who'd tried to brush sand off Sera's thigh.
Domani's cousin. Vittorio Vescari.
Sebastian crossed the cafeteria in three strides, like a storm with teeth. The crowd parted without being asked.
"Vescari," he said, voice low, dangerous. "You think spilling food on her makes you clever?"
Vittorio leaned back against the table, playing nonchalant, though his eyes flickered nervously. "Accidents happen, Blackwell. Maybe the Queen should be more careful where she sits."
A ripple went through the crowd—audible inhales, hushed disbelief.
Sebastian didn't blink. "Say that again."
The heir smirked wider, emboldened by the attention. "Maybe the crown isn't as untouchable as you think. Maybe—"
The words cut off when Sebastian slammed his hand flat against the table, rattling silverware.
"Listen carefully," he growled, leaning in so close that Vittorio lost his swagger. "Seraphina Valmont doesn't get touched, doesn't get mocked, doesn't get humiliated—not by you, not by anyone. You want to test that? You go through me first."
The cafeteria went silent, every head turning, every breath suspended.
Vittorio tried to laugh, but it came out thin. "What, are you her guard dog now?"
Sebastian's lips curved—not in amusement, but in something sharper. "No. I'm the one who decides if you walk out of here with your dignity intact."
And that was the moment.
The words weren't just defense. They were claim. Not even he realized it until the air around them burned with it—him standing between Sera and the world like she already belonged to him.
Behind him, Sera sat tall, unflinching, her mask intact. But her fingers pressed into the lapel of his jacket just once, like a tether. The gesture was so small, almost invisible. But Sebastian felt it.
Everyone felt it.
The room wasn't watching a scandal anymore. They were watching a theater, a coronation, a storm brewing right in front of them.
And for the first time, the Queen's untouchable aura wasn't standing alone.
It had found its match.
-----
Selene's POV
From her seat, Selene Blackwell did not flinch.
She watched the spectacle unfold—her twin, reckless as always, standing in front of Seraphina Valmont like a knight in a storybook. His voice carrying across the room, his fury branding itself into the silence.
It disgusted her.
Not because Vittorio Vescari didn't deserve to be cut down—he did. But because Sebastian had done it in front of everyone, humiliating their family name, announcing himself like some lovesick hero instead of the Blackwell heir he was raised to be.
"Pathetic," she murmured, though her eyes never left him.
Yet she couldn't ignore what she saw.
The way Sera's mask had slipped—just for a moment. The faint tension in her shoulders eased when Sebastian stepped in. The brief, almost invisible touch of her fingers on his jacket.
It wasn't nothing.
And Selene, sharp as glass, catalogued every detail.
Maybe her brother was playing a deeper game than she thought. Maybe aligning himself with Seraphina was a strategy to unseat her.
Or maybe—just maybe—he was already lost.
Her lips curved, not quite a smile. "Careful, brother," she whispered under her breath. "Queens don't save pawns. They sacrifice them."