Seraphina's POV
I disguised myself and went for my own burial as soon as I got the news of my funeral, and of course, Lucien was with me.
I watch them lower my coffin into the ground, and for a moment, the world holds its breath. The sky above is heavy with thick gray clouds, but the rain doesn't fall. The air is still, too still, as if even nature itself is reluctant to witness this final act. I stand several feet away, hidden beneath a borrowed black umbrella, my hands gripping it tightly, though I feel nothing in my fingers. My chest is hollow, my legs stiff, and yet my mind is shockingly clear. Every detail pierces me, the damp earth, the polished wood of the coffin, the cold air biting my skin.
Lucien stands beside me, tall and composed, his dark suit perfect, his hair unruffled. He looks nothing like a man at a funeral. He looks like a man at a chessboard, observing every piece, every movement, every subtle glance. His black eyes flick to the crowd and back to me, calculating, patient, unreadable.
"That's it," I whisper. "That's my grave."
"Yes," Lucien says softly. "That's where Seraphina Cole ends."
I glance at the coffin, the polished wood gleaming under the overcast sky. It's heavy, beautiful, and empty. A lie sealed in craftsmanship. My hands clench around the umbrella's handle. My thoughts race back to the hospital room, to the pain, the betrayal, the silence, and the empty crib. Every memory sharpens, each one a reminder of the girl I used to be naïve, hopeful, trusting. And now, she is officially dead.
Margaret Ashford stands at the front, perfect in black, her pearls gleaming against the muted fabric of her dress. She tilts her head slightly, a faint smile playing at the corner of her lips. Calm. Controlled. Untouched. She has always been like this, a woman whose power lies not in force, but in manipulation. She organizes grief like a symphony, and today is her masterwork.
"She looks pleased," I murmured.
"She is," Lucien replies. "To her, this is closure."
Julian is behind her, his posture stiff, his expression tight. He stares at the coffin like he might catch me sitting up and demanding answers. His suit is impeccable, but the tension in his shoulders betrays him. He knows. He knows that I am alive, that I am watching, that he will never truly understand the consequences of his silence.
"Does he feel anything?" I ask quietly, my voice barely audible above the soft murmur of the crowd.
"Fear," Lucien answers. "Not guilt. Not sorrow. Fear."
I let that settle for a moment. A small, bitter satisfaction blooms in my chest. Julian is uncomfortable. He is powerless. Exactly how it should be.
The priest's voice rises again. Words about peace, remembrance, and moving on echo across the cemetery. They fall flat, meaningless. The world does not know the truth. They only know the story, the narrative crafted by Margaret Ashford and her perfect little army of elites. A story where Seraphina Cole is fragile, unstable, and gone forever.
The coffin creaks as the workers guide it into the grave. Thud. Thud. Thud. Each sound reverberates in my chest. I close my eyes for a moment, imagining the girl I used to be hopeful, trembling, believing in love, in family, in fairness. That girl is gone, buried beneath expectations, lies, and cruelty. Her world ended long before this coffin touched the earth.
Margaret steps forward. She touches the polished edge of the coffin lightly, just enough to remind everyone that she is in control. Her voice softens, deliberately: "My poor son."
Not my child. Not me. Her son. The focus is always on her family, her legacy. I clench my jaw. Every ounce of anger I have felt over the years crystallizes in this single, deliberate performance.
Julian approaches next. His hands tremble slightly as he releases soil onto the coffin. "I'm sorry," he whispers, his voice fragile. The words are hollow, meaningless, and I want to scream at him. Scream that his silence destroyed me, that his choices killed our child, that he abandoned me when I needed him most. But I say nothing. I let the world see him as he is, weak, incapable, complicit.
"Good," I murmur to myself. "Let them believe this is the end."
The crowd disperses, whispers following them: "Such a tragedy… she was fragile… Margaret handled it gracefully…" Every word is poison, but I let it wash over me. I am Seraphina Cole no longer. These words cannot touch me. I am watching from a distance, unseen, untouchable, and untethered.
Lucien's hand brushes lightly against my arm, steadying me. "Are you ready?" he asks.
I take a deep breath, the air heavy with the scent of damp earth and flowers. "Yes," I say slowly. "Ready to let her go."
"Say it," Lucien instructs, his eyes locking onto mine. "Say the name you will carry from this day forward."
I straighten my shoulders, the weight of the past pressing down on me one last time. My voice is steady, cold, and final. "My name is Rina Vale now."
Lucien nods, a faint smile touching his lips. "Then it begins."
I look back once more at the grave. Seraphina Cole, the girl who loved too much, who trusted too easily, who was discarded like trash. I let the image burn in my mind, let it die fully in the soil before turning away.
The car waits. Dark, sleek, and silent. As I slide into the passenger seat, I feel the last traces of her, the fear, the pain, the grief fall away. The door closes with a firm click. Lucien joins me. The engine starts, and we drive away, leaving behind the dirt, the lies, the coffin, and the world's idea of who I was.
Rain begins to fall softly as we move through the empty streets. Each drop cool against my skin is a reminder that I am alive, that I am breathing, that Seraphina Cole is dead, and Rina Vale has been born.
I press my hand to the glass, watching the cemetery fade into the distance. The flowers, the coffin, the Ashfords, they are all behind me now. I am free, but freedom is not gentle. It is not forgiving. It is sharp, like glass against skin, like fire in the chest. I will wield it carefully, deliberately, with patience and precision.
Lucien glances at me, his expression unreadable. "Are you certain?" he asks.
I smile faintly. "Certain that she will never rise again."
"Then the real work begins," he says.
I close my eyes, imagining the empire I will inherit, the power I will claim, the vengeance I will unleash. Seraphina Cole's death is not a tragedy, it is a strategy, a foundation. Everything starts from this moment.
And for the first time in years, I feel in control. Whole. Dangerous. Alive.
"My name is Rina Vale now," I repeat, aloud, this time not a whisper. Not a plea. Not a confession. A declaration. A warning.
The rain falls harder now, cold against my face, washing the remnants of a girl I no longer am. Seraphina Cole is gone. Rina Vale has arrived.