Sera's POV
Sebastian was already leaning against the fountain in the courtyard when I found him, arms folded, dark eyes narrowing at the sight of me.
"You went to the archives," he said flatly. Not a question. A judgment.
I lifted my chin. "Good morning to you, too."
He pushed off the stone ledge, closing the space between us in two long strides. His voice dropped low, sharp. "Alone. Again. Do you have a death wish, Valmont?"
I bristled, tugging the envelope from my bag and thrusting it into his chest. "If I had waited for you, we wouldn't have this."
He caught it, scowling, but curiosity flickered in his eyes. The wax seal cracked under his fingers. He unfolded the card, scanned the inscription once, twice, then froze.
His voice was a rasp. "A D'Arclay invitation."
"Dated after the murders," I finished, arms crossing in triumph.
He looked at me, and for once, all the sarcasm bled out of him. "This changes everything."
"Exactly why we need to show my father."
Sebastian snapped the card shut, almost violently. "And let Marcus Valmont lock it in some drawer to rot? You know what he'll do, Sera. You know what they all will do. They buried the truth once; they'll do it again."
I hated that he was right. Hated the way it made my stomach twist.
"So what, then?" I demanded. "We just keep it to ourselves? Pretend it means nothing?"
His gaze softened just slightly. "Not nothing. Just… not yet. After the gala, when they can't smother us without drawing the whole city's eyes. Until then…" He slid the envelope back into my bag, his fingers brushing mine, deliberate. "It's our secret."
I exhaled, slow. A pact sealed not by blood, but by fire in the chest that burned hotter with every brush of his hand.
"I hate it when you're right," I muttered.
His smirk returned, infuriating and irresistible. "No, you don't."
By dusk, Elysian Prep had transformed into a palace. The ballroom blazed with light from a thousand chandeliers, their crystal flames glittering off marble floors polished to a mirror sheen. Every dynasty, every parent, every investor and benefactor the school courted had descended for the night.
The air itself vibrated with music and money.
And then, the procession began.
The herald's voice rang clear:
"The Sinclair Dynasty."
Aria glided forward first, pale blue chiffon trailing behind her like morning mist. Her gown was ethereal, layered in gauzy fabric that shimmered when she moved. Her blonde hair cascaded in loose waves, silver pins glinting at every turn of her head. She smiled with practiced sweetness, but her eyes were sharp, calculating. The crowd sighed in admiration. Aria looked like a fairytale, but one written with knives between the lines.
"The Harrington Dynasty."
Izzy's scarlet satin was fire poured over her skin, slit to the thigh, every step a statement. Her lips matched her gown, bold and defiant. Her hair was slicked back into a glossy knot, exposing the strong line of her jaw. She carried herself like a queen already crowned, chin high, daring anyone to doubt her. Whispers rippled through the crowd—danger, allure, scandal waiting to happen.
"The Cross Dynasty."
Jules appeared in lavender silk that hugged her gently, unpretentious but luminous under the chandeliers. Her curls framed her face in soft halos, no mask of glitter or paint, just wide eyes and a shy smile that somehow disarmed even the most jaded guests. Some whispered that she looked like she didn't belong here. Others said she was the only one who looked real.
"The Astor Dynasty."
Penny dazzled like gold incarnate, sequins scattering light across the floor as she moved. Her laughter rang out before she even reached the steps, easy and infectious. Golden hoops swung from her ears, catching candlelight. She radiated warmth, wealth, and the kind of confidence that made people want to be near her—even as envy burned in their eyes.
"The Rousseau Dynasty."
Celeste was midnight made flesh. Her gown was made of velvet, a deep navy so dark it bordered on black, and was structured and statuesque. Her dark hair was braided with pearls, her posture so rigid she could have been carved from marble. No smile graced her lips—only cool disdain, like she walked among mortals she did not deign to acknowledge.
"The Laurent Dynasty."
Mia's emerald silk was sleek, tailored to perfection, the lines of her gown mirroring her composure. She wore her hair slicked into a low chignon, emerald drops at her ears, her every detail controlled. She looked like power in human form, the kind of heir who could sit across a negotiating table and crush her opponent with nothing more than a raised brow.
"The Devereux Dynasty."
Cass was shadow and steel. Black lace clung to her frame, structured with hidden boning that gave her a warrior's silhouette. Her makeup was sharp, smoky eyes like battle paint, lips painted in deep wine. Every step was a challenge, every glance a dare. She did not glide—she prowled. The ballroom's chatter dimmed in her wake.
"The Laurent Dynasty."
Eva followed, but where Mia was controlled, Eva was fluid. White silk clung like liquid, cut scandalously low, her lips painted the color of ripe plums. Diamonds dripped from her ears, her throat, her wrists, each sparkle designed to catch the eye and hold it. She moved like smoke curling through the room, leaving envy and hunger trailing behind her.
"The Montrose Dynasty."
Lila was spun sugar in blush tulle, the skirt layered and soft, fluttering around her like petals. She smiled too widely, too eagerly, the very picture of delicate sweetness. But behind every coo of admiration came mutters of try-hard, of desperate to be adored. Her parents clapped louder than anyone else, as though willing her into perfection.
"The Blackwell Dynasty."
Selene descended in storm-gray silk, the gown cut in lethal lines, no softness anywhere. Her crown braid gleamed under the chandeliers, each diamond pin catching fire. She was a blade honed sharp, her eyes narrowed, her jaw tense. She was not here to dazzle; she was here to remind everyone why a Blackwell should never be underestimated.
And finally—
"The Valmont Dynasty."
I was last, as was tradition.
And then the room hushed.
The doors opened, and I stepped into the light.
I knew what they saw—because I had made sure of it. A vision forged of ice and fire. My gown, a sheath of liquid silver silk, clung like it had been poured over me by gods. Every chandelier flame bent itself into my fabric, scattering shards of starlight across the ballroom. The plunge of the back was deliberate, a blade of exposed skin framed by diamond chains that draped like captured constellations. My hair was twisted into a crown braid, threaded with crystal dust so every turn of my head glowed like its own halo. Diamonds cascaded at my throat, cool and merciless, as though I had plucked them from winter's heart. I did not smile. I did not need to. Queens did not ask for attention—they commanded it.
And at my side—my equal, my opposite—Sebastian Blackwell.
If I were silver flame, he was obsidian steel. His tuxedo was cut to lethal perfection, as if sculpted from the night itself. The silk lapels shimmered with the gleam of shadows, his shirt broken only by the dark flash of heirloom cufflinks engraved with the Blackwell crest: wolf and blade. His tie was narrow, severe. His shoes caught the chandelier light like a black mirror. His hair, darker than midnight, had been swept back with infuriating precision—save for a single rebellious strand that fell to his brow, mocking restraint itself. His expression was carved from quiet defiance, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth as if he knew exactly how dangerous he looked—and enjoyed it.
Together, we were winter and night.
Moonlight and shadow.
A tableau so striking that the ballroom collectively forgot to breathe.
And when we stepped forward, side by side, I felt the weight of it settle over the crowd. The question was no longer if the Valmont heiress and the Blackwell heir would rule this world—
It was only whether the world would survive us.
-----
The silence shattered into a ripple of whispers. The glittering crowd leaned forward like reeds in a tide, some faces rapt with awe, others tightening into masks too polished to betray dismay.
Selene Blackwell's hand, resting lightly on her escort's arm, curled into a fist. Her spine went rigid, eyes narrowing at the sight of her twin tethered so publicly to the girl she'd sworn to dethrone.
Across the ballroom, Marcus Valmont lifted his glass in a toast that wasn't a toast—his expression unreadable, save for the faint gleam of calculation flickering behind his gaze.
Adrian Blackwell's smile strained, edges cracking like glass under pressure. He clapped politely, but his eyes—those steel-colored eyes that mirrored his son's—never left Sebastian.
And the rest of the Eleven? They watched with sharpened interest, weighing, recalculating, cataloguing. Allies, enemies, predators—every role shifted, all because of the two of them.
The master of ceremonies cleared his throat, voice echoing across the chamber. "Ladies and gentlemen… co-chairs of tonight's gala, Seraphina Valmont and Sebastian Blackwell."
A spotlight carved through the air, pinning them in white-gold brilliance as they approached the podium. Their shoulders brushed. Their hands ghosted against one another on the polished wood as they adjusted the microphone.
The contact was fleeting. Barely a touch.
But the ballroom gasped as one.
The hush that had fallen over the ballroom deepened as Sera leaned toward the microphone. Her diamond-draped throat caught the light, her voice cool and unhurried as it swept across the crowd.
"Tonight is more than a display of wealth," she said, each word honed like glass. "It is proof of what legacy can accomplish when put to purpose. Elysian Prep has always stood as the heart of our dynasties, and through this fundraiser, we give that heart a future worthy of its past."
Applause flared—polite, reverent.
Then Sebastian stepped forward, his hand grazing the edge of hers as he took the microphone. The faintest smirk curved his mouth as though he could feel the ripple of unease tightening the room.
"And legacies," he said, voice deep, smooth as smoke, "are nothing if they don't evolve. Tonight, we aren't just raising funds. We're raising the standard of what it means to stand among the Eleven. To give. To lead. To build something that will outlast even us."
His gaze swept the ballroom like a blade. Parents stiffened; students swooned. Somewhere in the crowd, a girl sighed audibly, and laughter stirred before being swallowed by applause.
Sera angled her chin, reclaiming the microphone, her hand brushing his deliberately this time. "May tonight remind us all: power is not only inherited. It is proven."
For a moment, their eyes locked—silver and steel, flame and shadow—before they both turned to face the crowd together.
"Enjoy the evening," they said in unison, voices twining like a vow.
The room erupted.
But the power was not in the applause. It was in the silent pact the crowd had just witnessed: Valmont and Blackwell, shoulder to shoulder. A vision no dynasty had asked for, but none could deny.
The chandeliers blazed brighter as the auction began, each crystal catching the fire of ambition from the crowd below. Waiters glided with trays of champagne, their polished shoes whispering across the marble. A hush of expectancy clung to every raised paddle—this was not just philanthropy, it was theater. Every bid was a declaration of wealth, every prize a trophy for dominance.
Sera sat poised at the front, her diamond-crowned posture immaculate, Sebastian a dark, steady presence at her side. From the corner of her eye, she could see Selene's razor-sharp gaze fixed on them, could feel Marcus Valmont's faintly approving weight like a crown pressing on her shoulders, and Adrian Blackwell's smile stretched too tight, too thin.
The items glittered by in succession: a sapphire necklace once belonging to an Elysian duchess, a weekend estate in the South of France, a painting said to be lost in a private war. Prices climbed with every breath. The room practically smoked with money.
Then came the final item—a crystal decanter set, engraved with sigils no longer in common use. Whispers rippled when the auctioneer announced its provenance: "Gifted, once, to the House D'Arclay."
The air shifted. Old ghosts pressed against the gilded walls.
A paddle rose from the back. A man—anonymous in the shadows of the chandeliers, his face obscured by the angle—spoke with cool finality.
"In honor of the D'Arclays," he said.
The words struck the ballroom like thunder.
The silence that followed was absolute. Even the glasses on silver trays seemed to still. And though the auctioneer quickly smoothed the moment over with a triumphant hammer strike—"Sold!"—the damage was done. A whisper had been planted.
Sera's heart drummed, sharp and cold in her chest. She felt Sebastian shift beside her, his gaze cutting through the crowd like he could hunt down the speaker with his eyes alone.
It should have ended there. It could have.
But later, as she stepped aside to allow another donor to greet Marcus, she caught a murmur—a server, distracted, speaking under his breath to another as they passed with trays.
"The D'Arclays were innocent."
Sera froze. The words slid into her veins like ice water. She turned, but the waiters had already disappeared into the crowd, swallowed whole by silk and diamonds and false laughter.
At her side, Sebastian's hand brushed her elbow, steadying her. His eyes asked the question he didn't voice.
And though she said nothing, they both knew—the night had shifted.
The gala ended in triumph. Applause thundered through the ballroom as the final numbers were announced—targets exceeded, records shattered. The fundraiser would be remembered as flawless, a jewel in Elysian Prep's crown.
But beneath the glittering surface, the air was taut with something unspoken. Too many gazes had lingered on her and Sebastian. Too many whispers curved like smoke in their wake. Selene's eyes still burned from across the room. Adrian's smile had cracked. Marcus's glass had stilled mid-toast.
Sera kept her mask in place until the very last bow, the very last hand clasped, the very last photograph taken beneath the chandelier light. Only then did she allow herself to leave, escorted through the marble foyer to the sleek black car waiting beyond the gilded doors.
The night air was sharp with winter, crisp against her flushed skin. As the car pulled away, she let her body sink against the leather seat, exhaustion curling in her bones like velvet. For the first time all night, she reached for her phone.
A single message blinked on the screen, from him.
Sebastian:Still breathing?
Her lips curved before she could stop them.
Sera:Barely. But we did it.
Sebastian:Correction—you did.
Sera:We. Always we.
A pause, then his reply.
Sebastian:See you tomorrow?
Sera:Of course.
Sebastian:Always.
The word glowed on her screen, brighter than the city lights outside. She closed her eyes, let the comfort of it settle into her chest. For one fragile moment, she believed in tomorrow.
Then the car slowed. Too soon. Too sudden.
Her lashes lifted. The driver stiffened, confusion flickering across the rearview mirror. Ahead, the street was blocked by a van idling at an odd angle. Shadows shifted where no one should be.
The doors opened.
Cold air rushed in. Rough hands. A muffled command. Her diamonds caught the streetlight as she twisted, fighting, but the world blurred—flashes of steel, the burn of chloroform against her skin.
Her phone slipped from her hand. The screen went black.
And Seraphina Valmont was gone.