The whispers start before the assembly even ends.
By the time the principal dismisses us, Elysian Prep has already chosen its headline for the day, whispered from marble steps to velvet benches, from locker rows to the mezzanine balcony.
Sebastian Blackwell is back.
It isn't just gossip. Gossip is careless, scattered, like champagne bubbles. This—this is oxygen. Every inhale carries his name. Every exhale is a question.
Where has he been?
Why is he back now?
And what does it mean for us?
For me.
I walk through the hallway like nothing's changed, Penny glued to my side, Mia and Izzy trailing just behind. My mask is flawless—chin high, smile faint, eyes cool. But I can feel it. The shift. The way people glance at me, then over my shoulder, waiting for him to follow.
The Valmont crown is slipping, and it's only the first day of senior year.
"Maybe he came back for you," Penny whispers, too delighted with the idea. "Enemies-to-lovers—it's very on-trend."
I don't dignify that with a response.
"Heard he was in rehab," Cass drawls from across the group, her blazer hanging loose. "Family shipped him off after the summer gala debacle."
"No." Izzy pushes her glasses up her nose. "The official statement was an internship in Geneva."
"Official statements are lies," Jules says softly, scribbling something in her ever-present notebook.
Mia stays quiet, but her eyes flicker, like she knows more than she's saying.
Selene, his sister, is the only one who doesn't flinch, doesn't smile, doesn't react at all. Her silence is louder than all their chatter combined.
"Whatever the reason," I say finally, "it doesn't matter. He's irrelevant."
The words taste like iron.
By fourth period, I've had enough of the stares, the whispers, the did-you-see-hims. So I escape. Not home—never home, not yet—but the library courtyard, where the ivy climbs high and the fountain muffles sound.
It's my place. Or it was.
He's already there.
Leaning against the stone balustrade, sleeves rolled, tie loose, sun glinting against the edges of his hair. As though he owns the air I've been breathing since freshman year.
"Valmont." His voice is warm velvet stretched over steel. "Still claiming prime territory, I see."
"This isn't territory," I say coolly. "It's tradition."
He smiles, slow and devastating. "Funny. That's what my family used to say."
The jab lands, sharper than I'd like.
I take a step closer, refusing to retreat. "Tradition only matters if people still believe in it. Last I checked, no one believed in the Blackwells."
A spark in his eyes. He straightens, pushing off the stone. "Careful, Sera. You'll make people think you're threatened."
"I don't get threatened."
"Everyone gets threatened." His voice drops, intimate, dangerous. "Especially queens with crowns too heavy for their heads."
Heat coils in my chest—anger, irritation, something I won't name.
I refuse to look away. "Enjoy your little rebellion while it lasts, Sebastian. This is my world. You're just trespassing."
He leans in, close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. "Then maybe I'm here to steal it."
By lunch, the story has mutated.
He didn't just return; he stormed out of exile. He wasn't in Geneva; he was in court, standing trial for fraud, or drugs, or maybe even a hit-and-run that the Blackwells covered up.
Every voice adds another layer, another scandal, until Sebastian Blackwell has become less a boy and more a myth resurrected.
The Eleven gather in our usual place—the glass solarium that overlooks the east gardens. A private wing, technically for faculty events, but no one dares shoo us away. Not when our families fund the scholarships and the symphony and the new science wing.
The sunlight slants across marble floors, painting us in sharp lines. Penny sprawls across a chaise, Eva adjusts her lipstick in a mirrored compact, Cass paces like a caged wolf.
I sit at the center table, chair angled deliberately higher. Queens don't perch on window ledges. Queens anchor.
"So." Penny grins, all teeth. "The prodigal son returns."
"He's not prodigal," I say flatly.
"He's not a son either," Cass mutters. "He's a problem."
Izzy looks up from her tablet, ever the analyst. "A problem or a strategy? Depends how you use him."
"Use him?" Jules echoes, eyes gleaming with the start of a story. "He's not a pawn, Izzy. He's a hurricane. You don't control hurricanes."
"Then we prepare for damage control," Mia says quietly, her voice steady as glass.
The group turns as one to Selene.
She sits apart from us, back straight, nails painted a deep crimson that catches the light. Her expression is unreadable, carved in stone.
"Well?" Eva asks, adjusting a diamond earring. "He's your brother. What's his angle?"
Selene's eyes flick to me before she answers. "Sebastian doesn't have angles. He has detonations."
Her tone is calm, but it lands heavy, final.
For a moment, silence swallows the room. The air feels tight, too bright with sunlight, too sharp with unspoken loyalties.
And in that silence, I understand.
The Eleven aren't unified on this. Penny is amused. Cass is wary. Izzy sees an opportunity. Jules is hungry for drama. Eva is curious. Mia is calculating. Aria, silent as always, just wants peace. And Selene—Selene is the loaded gun no one can predict.
Sebastian isn't just a disruption. He's a fracture line.
And if I'm not careful, he'll break us all.
When the meeting dissolves, Penny loops her arm through mine. "You should make the first move," she whispers, too close.
"On Sebastian?"
"Of course. Crush him. Publicly. Privately. Doesn't matter. He thrives on shadows—drag him into the spotlight and he'll burn."
Her voice is light, but her eyes aren't. Penny Astor loves spectacle, but she also knows survival.
"Not yet," I murmur.
She pouts. "Boring."
"Strategic," I correct.
Cass passes us on the way out, her smirk sharp. "Careful, Valmont. You sound like you're already playing defense."
I don't flinch. Queens don't flinch. But the words linger.
By the time the final bell rings, my control feels like silk stretched thin over glass—beautiful, fragile, one crack away from shattering.
The car waits outside, black and gleaming, driver already holding the door. But I linger on the steps of Elysian Prep, staring up at the banners under the dome. Eleven crests. Eleven dynasties. My dynasty.
And in the empty space, the one marble patch scrubbed clean where the D'Arclay crest once hung, I almost see his smirk.
Sebastian Blackwell.
He doesn't belong here. He shouldn't matter.
And yet.
My hands curl into fists.
This year was supposed to be mine. My reign. My story.
But if Sebastian wants war—
Then I'll burn the city before I let him take my crown.
The car glides to a stop beneath the glittering awning of Valmont Tower, our family's name carved in steel letters ten feet high. People look up at it the way they'd look up at a cathedral. For them, it's aspiration. For me, it's obligation.
The chauffeur hurries to open my door, bowing just enough. "Welcome home, Miss Valmont."
The marble lobby is hushed, reverent, lined with abstract sculptures worth more than most people's annual salaries. We rise in the private elevator—seventy floors, then eighty—until the doors open directly into The Glass Palace, our penthouse.
It's all light and space, a house made of reflections. Floor-to-ceiling windows throw the whole city at your feet. The skyline stretches like a jeweled crown, sharp and glittering. My father designed this place as a monument, a declaration: The Valmonts are above it all.
And in many ways, we are.
"Seraphina."
My father's voice is the first thing I hear. Marcus Valmont stands near the piano, still in his suit, jacket off, cuffs rolled. Power clings to him like a second skin. He doesn't hug me, doesn't ask about my day. He measures me with a glance, as though I were a stock he's calculating.
"You made an impression today, I trust?" he asks, not as a question but a demand.
"Of course." I slide out of my blazer, handing it to Mr. Keats, our chief butler. "The Eleven assembled. The crown is secure."
His mouth curves in something almost like approval. "Good. You know what's at stake this year."
"Yes, Father." The words are automatic, smooth. A daughter's pledge.
From across the room, a softer voice interrupts. "You look pale, Sera."
My mother, Helena, reclines on the chaise, silk robe pooling around her. She hasn't been seen at a gala in over a year, yet somehow the city still whispers her name with reverence. She is a portrait in faded glamour—once radiant, now shadowed, her beauty edged with weariness.
"I'm fine," I answer, though she isn't really asking. Helena rarely asks; she observes, dissects, critiques.
"You should wear warmer tones," she murmurs. "Gray makes you look cold."
I almost laugh. That's the point.
I retreat to my room, shedding perfection like armor piece by piece. The heels, the blazer, the Cartier cuff. In the mirror, I study myself not as the school sees me, but as I am when no one's watching.
Chestnut hair falling loose around my shoulders. Gray eyes that hold no warmth. A face too carefully arranged.
Seraphina Valmont: the crown, the dynasty, the façade.
Some nights, I wonder who I'd be without the glass walls and marble floors. But the thought is dangerous. I shove it away.
I close the curtains, shutting the city out. Tomorrow, the game continues. And I will win.
Because Queens don't fall. They reign.
-----
Sebastian's POV
From the balcony of his own apartment across the river, Sebastian Blackwell leans on the railing, cigarette unlit between his fingers. The Valmont Tower glows against the night, a shard of glass piercing the clouds.
Her tower. Her palace.
He smirks.
Let Sera Valmont believe she rules unchallenged. Let her polish her crown until it blinds the city.
Because soon enough, he'll be standing in her reflection.
And when the glass shatters—he'll be the one left holding the shards.