Sera's POV
For once, the world felt like it wasn't watching.
We slipped into a rhythm—our rhythm.
Morning glances in the hallways, texts that buzzed beneath desks, stolen smiles when the Eleven weren't looking. Lunches stretched into lazy afternoons; "fundraiser meetings" became excuses to escape together.
It started on Monday.
Sebastian shadowed me from the moment I stepped out of the Glass Palace, as if daring anyone to question it. He didn't hide. Didn't slink through hallways like a boy sneaking glances. No, he walked beside me with his usual careless arrogance, but now, his arrogance was tethered to me.
"Do you plan to stalk me all week?" I asked, not bothering to slow my stride.
He smirked. "Stalk is such an ugly word. I prefer 'escort'."
"Escorts get paid."
"Fine. Buy me lunch."
"I don't buy boys lunch."
"You do now."
I rolled my eyes, but the corner of my mouth betrayed me. He saw. He always saw.
On Tuesday, we were supposed to finalize supplier lists. Instead, we ended up in the back of his car, parked along the coastline. The sea shimmered, restless and wild, much like him.
"Why here?" I asked, leaning back against the leather seat.
"Because you look like you needed air," he said simply.
He had his arm stretched casually on the headrest, close enough that I felt his heat at my neck.
I tilted my chin toward him. "And what do you get out of playing chauffeur?"
"Front-row seat to watching you fall for me."
I snorted. "In your dreams."
He leaned in, close enough that his breath stirred my hair. "You're in my dreams every damn night, Queen."
I froze. He grinned, shameless. And yet—something in his eyes flickered, too raw to be just teasing.
Wednesday was softer. We slipped into the city like shadows, hidden under caps and coats. No chauffeured cars, no grand entrances—just two teenagers walking among flower stalls and bakeries.
He bought me macarons, shoving the pastel box into my hand with a muttered, "Don't say I never give you anything."
"Romantic," I said dryly, biting into one.
He leaned closer, gaze fixed on my lips. "You've got crumbs."
"Don't even think about it."
But his thumb brushed my lower lip anyway, deliberate, slow. My breath caught.
"You're infuriating," I hissed.
"You like it."
I hated that he was right.
Thursday night, we ordered takeout while working on seating charts. He stretched out on the floor, tie undone, while I sat cross-legged beside him with a carton of noodles.
"Who pairs Domani next to the Russos?" he asked, squinting at the chart.
"Me. Because if I suffer, everyone suffers."
He barked out a laugh, choking halfway through. I dropped my chopsticks in alarm.
"Are you dying?"
"Your cruelty is… lethal," he wheezed.
I smacked his shoulder. "You're impossible."
He caught my wrist before I could pull away. His grip was warm, steady, grounding.
His voice dropped. "I missed this."
"This?" I tried for sarcasm. "Being assaulted by lo mein?"
"No." His gaze locked on mine, serious now. "You."
The word hung between us, sharp and soft all at once. I couldn't answer. Not when my heart already had.
By Friday, the school buzzed with whispers. They noticed how his shadow trailed mine. How our laughter carried across the quad. How my mask—polished, untouchable—slipped whenever he was near.
I should've cared. But instead, I let him walk me to class. I let him steal my coffee in the mornings. I let him be the one person who saw me—not the Queen, not the dynasty—just me.
And for one dangerous week, it was enough.
He didn't tell me where we were going. He never did. He just showed up at dawn, coffee in hand, coat draped over his arm like it was the most natural thing in the world to take care of me.
"Drink this."
"Wear this."
"Bossy," I muttered.
"You like it," he shot back, eyes glinting.
And I did. That was the problem.
He drove us out of Elysian City, past the gilded spires and into the quieter coastlines where no one whispered our names. The sea stretched wide, glittering silver under the morning light.
"Sebastian," I said slowly, "this doesn't look like a fundraiser meeting."
"Sharp eyes," he teased, pulling over near a cliffside path. "Come on. Before I change my mind."
We walked along the rocks, the wind tangling my hair. At one point, the path narrowed and he slipped his hand into mine—not tentative, not asking—just there.
"Careful," he murmured.
I should've pulled away. I didn't.
We ended up at a secluded cove, the tide brushing soft against the sand. He stooped to pick up a flat stone and flicked it toward the waves. It skipped twice before sinking.
"Not bad," I admitted.
"Please. That was artistry."
I rolled my eyes, crouching for a stone of my own. Mine plopped uselessly into the surf.
His laugh echoed against the cliffs. "Tragic."
"Shut up."
"Here." He stepped behind me, his chest pressing lightly to my back, his hands guiding mine. "You have to angle it—like this."
My breath caught as his arms framed me, his voice low against my ear. "Now, throw."
The stone skipped four times.
I turned, triumphant—only to find his face inches from mine. The smirk slid into something softer. The sea roared around us, but all I heard was the thrum of my pulse.
He kissed me, quick and sure, like he couldn't stop himself.
I should've scolded him. Instead, I kissed him back.
By afternoon, we were tangled in the simplest kind of happiness. Sharing fries at a roadside café, his arm draped over my chair, brushing shoulders as we argued about which milkshake flavor was superior.
"Chocolate," he said firmly.
"Vanilla," I countered.
"Boring."
"Classic."
He leaned close, stealing my straw. "Chocolate wins."
"Sebastian!" I tried to snatch it back, but his grin was wicked, boyish, utterly disarming.
Later, as the sky burned gold, we sat on the hood of his car, the ocean stretched below. I leaned against him, his arm curling around my shoulders, his chin resting briefly on my hair.
It felt dangerous. It felt inevitable.
It felt like ours.
That night, when he dropped me back at the dorms, he didn't let go of my hand until the very last second.
"I'll see you Monday," he said softly.
"You'll see me tomorrow," I corrected.
And the way he smiled—like I'd just given him something sacred—nearly undid me.
My phone buzzed before the sun even climbed high enough to cut through the curtains.
Sebastian: Still asleep, Valmont? I thought queens rose early.
Me: Even queens get Sundays off. Go bother someone else.
Sebastian: Already did. They were boring. Try again.
I bit back a smile, the kind I would never admit to having because of him. My thumbs moved before I thought better of it.
Me: You're insufferable.
Sebastian: And yet, here you are, replying instead of ignoring me.
I didn't get the chance to answer before a soft knock tapped against my balcony door.
I froze. Then, I opened it to find him leaning against the rail like he had every right to be there, dawn painting his skin gold.
"Good morning, Queen." His grin was lazy, wicked. "Hungry?"
I should've sent him away. Reminded him that the Glass Palace was not a place for Blackwells, let alone ones who scaled balconies uninvited. Instead, I found myself whispering, "You're insane."
"And yet—" he held up a paper bag, the smell of coffee and warm croissants curling into the air—"you'll forgive me for it."
He wasn't wrong.
We ate in my car, windows down, parked along the quiet streets away from the eyes of guards and gossip. He told me about his uncle's obsession with fencing, about a Blackwell heirloom he'd nearly broken as a child, about how boring his Saturday night had been compared to mine. I laughed more than I meant to, his thumb brushing away a crumb from my lip like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Later, he drove us to the overlook above Elysian City, where the marble towers glittered in daylight. We sat in silence for a while, my head resting against his shoulder, his arm draped over mine like a shield.
For a few hours, we weren't Valmont and Blackwell. We weren't heirs, or pawns, or dynasties.
We were just Sera and Sebastian.
It wasn't until the sun dipped west and duty tugged me back that the weight of my name settled on my shoulders again.
That night, when I slipped into the archives, I carried both with me—my family's crown, and the memory of his arm around me like it belonged there.
By the time midnight came, the Glass Palace was asleep.
Guards posted at every corner. The silent gleam of chandeliers. My mother's voice still echoing from dinner, reminding me—commanding me—who I was supposed to be.
But tonight, I needed answers more than obedience.
I slipped past the service stairwell, shoes in hand, breath shallow as I moved through the hushed corridors. The gates were easier than I'd expected; the guards knew better than to question the Valmont heir if she claimed she needed air.
By the time I reached the car waiting in the shadows—a sleek black one Sebastian had once teased me for preferring—I felt the familiar rush. Not rebellion. Not yet. But something close.
The city blurred by in lights and glass until the spires of Elysian Prep loomed ahead, silent and waiting. The campus was empty, marble washed in moonlight, windows dark.
My keycard slid against the lock with a muted beep. I slipped inside.
The archives sat in the oldest wing, a place no one bothered with after hours. Dust greeted me as I pulled open the heavy door, the air thick with the scent of forgotten years. My phone's light cast thin shadows across rows of boxes, files, and bound ledgers.
I'd come here before, searching for whispers of the Twelfth. Tonight, I wasn't even sure what I was hunting. Just that something was missing.
My fingers brushed over brittle labels until one stopped me cold.
An envelope, sealed and untouched, the paper yellowed but still bearing the clean, deliberate scrawl of old ink.
One word.
D'Arclay.
I stared.
The name should not have existed. The dynasties were eleven. They had always been eleven.
The envelope felt heavier than it should when I slipped it into my coat, pressing it tight against my ribs as if the walls themselves might be listening.
This was no ordinary oversight. This was a secret someone had buried deep.
And I had just dug it up.