Chapter 8
Seraphina
I’m dissociating so hard I can barely remember my own fucking name. It’s like my brain has packed its shit and gone on vacation, leaving my body to deal with the absolute clusterfuck that is today.
The October air bites at my face as I stand in line at the campus coffee cart, my eyes fixed on nothing. The Choosing Ceremony is tonight. In twelve hours, I’ll be walking into the Devereux mansion like a lamb to the slaughter.
“Large iced coffee, two pumps of maple,” I tell the barista when it’s finally my turn. My voice sounds distant, like it’s coming from someone else’s mouth. “Extra shot of espresso.”
I need the caffeine to function, but honestly, what I really need is a fucking lobotomy. Or maybe a one-way ticket to anywhere that isn’t here.
“Ten dollars,” the barista says, and I hand over my card without even blinking at the price. What’s ten dollars when your entire life might be going up in flames tonight?
I’m waiting for my drink when I feel it—that distinct shift in the air that happens when someone from The Society enters your space. It’s like a pressure change before a storm. My spine stiffens automatically.
“Venti iced caramel macchiato with almond milk and an extra pump of vanilla,” says a cool, controlled voice I vaguely recognize. “And a grande chai tea latte.”
I glance sideways and immediately wish I hadn’t.
Valentina De la Cruz stands at the counter, her long black hair falling in a perfect curtain braid down her back.
Of course she’d be here, looking like she just stepped off a fucking runway in her tailored dress and heels while I’m in leggings and an oversized hoodie, trying to become invisible.
The Society has a hierarchy, and the De la Cruz family sits right at the top with the Devereuxs. Old money, old power, old blood. They don’t just participate in Black Crown. They fucking created it.
Next to her stands a girl I don’t recognize. Tall, blonde, with sharp features and watchful green eyes that seem to catalog everything. She’s dressed almost as impeccably as Valentina, though her style is softer, more understated. Still expensive as hell though.
I grab my coffee when they call my name, planning to make a quick escape before they notice me. No such fucking luck.
“Seraphina?” Valentina’s voice stops me in my tracks. “Seraphina Carvelli?”
I turn slowly, plastering on my best fake smile. “Valentina. Hi.”
She smiles back, and it’s genuinely warm, which throws me off. I’ve only ever seen her at Society functions, always surrounded by an impenetrable wall of breeding and privilege. We’ve never actually spoken beyond the obligatory greetings.
“I thought that was you,” she says, accepting her drink from the barista with a nod.
“I’m back for the semester,” I say, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. I want to bolt, but something in Valentina’s expression keeps me rooted to the spot.
“That’s wonderful! We’ve been wondering where you disappeared to.” She gestures to the blonde beside her. “This is Ophelia Benedetti. Ophelia, this is Seraphina Carvelli.”
Ophelia extends a manicured hand; her grip firm when I take it. “Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” I mutter, already planning my escape route.
“Ophelia’s mother just married Aaron Crawford a few months ago,” Valentina continues casually, stirring her drink with her straw. “You know Asher’s father, right?”
I nearly choke on my coffee. “Wait, what? Asher’s dad remarried? What happened to his mom?”
The question hangs awkwardly between us for a moment before Ophelia answers.
“Cancer. Two years ago.”
“Shit, I—I didn’t know.” I feel like an asshole now. “Sorry.”
Valentina takes a delicate sip of her drink. “It was all very sudden with the wedding. Quite the scandal, actually. Mr. Crawford marrying outside The Society...”
My brain short-circuits as I process this information. Aaron Crawford—Society member, Black Crown legacy, fucking pillar of their inner circle—married someone who wasn’t part of their twisted little club? That’s practically treason in their world.
“So your mom isn’t...” I trail off, looking at Ophelia.
“Part of your little secret society?” Ophelia finishes, one eyebrow arched perfectly. “No. Just a regular rich families daughter from Boston.”
There’s an edge to her voice that tells me she knows more than she should about Black Crown. I wonder how much Asher has told her, or if she’s pieced it together herself.
“That’s...unexpected,” I say lamely, because what the fuck else can I say? The founding families don’t mix with outsiders, ever. It’s practically their golden rule.
“Isn’t it?” Valentina agrees, something unreadable flickering across her perfect features. “Anyway, we’re having a little get-together at my apartment before the event tonight. You should join us.”
My stomach drops through the floor. She knows. Of course she fucking knows about the Choosing Ceremony. Everyone in The Society probably knows by now.
“I don’t think—“ I begin, but Ophelia cuts me off.
“You should come,” she says, her green eyes assessing me and it makes me wonder why she’s going to be there.
“Why the fuck would you torture yourself with that shit?” I ask, wrapping my fingers tighter around my coffee cup. “You’re not part of this fuckery luckily.”
Ophelia rolls her eyes and takes a slow sip of her chai.
“I can see why you would think that, but Mr. Crawford specifically told me I was to attend. Apparently being his stepdaughter is now cause for being part of this whole thing.” She swirls her cup around, the liquid inside sloshing dangerously close to the rim.
“Wait, you’re going to the Choosing Ceremony?” I stare at her in disbelief. “But you’re not—“
“Part of your little cult? No. But apparently marriage brings certain...obligations.” Her mouth twists into something between a smirk and a grimace. “Asher nearly had an aneurysm when his father announced I’d be attending.”
Valentina shifts uncomfortably beside her. “The Society has certain traditions that are difficult to explain to outsiders.”
“Oh, I think I’ve figured out the gist,” Ophelia says dryly. “Rich boys pick their future arm candy in some archaic ceremony that’s one step removed from buying cattle at auction.”
I choke on my coffee, coughing as the cold liquid goes down the wrong pipe. Holy shit. She really just said that out loud. To Valentina De la Cruz, of all people.
But instead of looking offended, Valentina’s lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile. “It’s more complicated than that, but not entirely inaccurate.”
“So what’s your stake in this?” I ask Ophelia, suddenly curious. “Why show up to a ceremony you clearly think is fucked up?”
“Because I want to see what kind of twisted shit my new ‘family’ is into,” she says bluntly. “And because I’m not giving Asher the satisfaction of thinking he scared me off.”
There’s something in her eyes—a hardness, a determination—that I immediately recognize. It’s the look of someone who’s been through enough shit to know how to stand their ground.
“Fine,” I say, surprising myself. “What time?”
Valentina’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows shoot up. “Really? You’ll come?”
“Yeah, why not? If I’m going to walk into that snake pit tonight, might as well do it with a buzz.” I take a long sip of my coffee. “What time and where?”
“Seven. Penthouse at The Heights.” Valentina pulls out her phone. “Give me your number. I’ll text you the details.”
I recite my number, wondering what the fuck I’m getting myself into. Pre-gaming the ceremony that might ruin my life with the Society princess and the new girl who doesn’t know what she’s in for.
The walk back to my dorm is a blur. I’m so deep in my own head I nearly get hit by some asshole on a longboard who yells “Watch it, bitch!” as he zips by. I flip him off without breaking stride.
By the time I reach my building, I’ve convinced myself to skip Valentina’s little soirée. What’s the point? I’m not friends with these people. I’m not even in the same stratosphere as Valentina fucking De la Cruz with her perfect life and designer everything.
All I want is to collapse on my bed, put on some mindless reality show, and pretend the world outside doesn’t exist for a few hours.
When I push open my door, I freeze mid-step.
There’s a large, thin black box sitting in the center of my bed. Glossy, expensive-looking, with that same gold filigree that was on the invitation. My heart slams against my ribs so hard I think it might crack bone.
What the actual fuck.
I approach the box like it might bite me, which, given who likely sent it, isn’t entirely outside the realm of possibility. The box is about three feet long, maybe a foot wide, tied with a blood-red ribbon that looks like liquid silk.
I know exactly who it’s from. And I know I should throw it out the window without opening it.
Instead, I reach out with trembling fingers and tug at the ribbon. It slides off with a soft hiss, pooling on my comforter like spilled blood. I lift the lid and immediately feel my stomach drop.
Inside, nestled in black tissue paper, is a dress.
The most beautiful fucking dress I’ve ever seen.
I lift it carefully from the box, letting it unfold in my hands.
Black silk that feels like water between my fingers, with a neckline that plunges deep and a slit that rises high.
It’s the kind of dress that’s designed to make men forget how to breathe.
For My Little Sinner. Wear this tonight. Or wear nothing at all. The choice is yours. —L
I watched hours of prisoners finding “love” after being locked up before showering the bed rot off me because I’m not showing up to the De la Cruz penthouse looking and smelling like a dumpster fire. I’d prefer only my life choices are referred to as such.
I’ve just finished blow-drying my hair when my phone lights up with my mother’s face. Literally, what could she possibly be calling about to ruin my already shitty ass night about? I debate whether to let it go to voicemail, but she’ll just keep calling until I answer.
“What?” I snap, tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder as I rummage through my makeup bag.
“Is that any way to greet your mother, Seraphina?” Her voice drips with that familiar disappointment. “I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”
“I’ve been busy.” I uncap my eyeliner, leaning closer to the mirror to draw a perfect wing. My hand is steady despite the anxiety churning in my gut.
“Too busy for your family? Your father and I were discussing—“
“Let me guess. Another setup with some boy whose daddy has the right connections?” I smear on eyeshadow, making my eyes look darker. “Pass.”
“Don’t be crude. The Whitmores’ son is perfectly—“
“Perfectly boring,” I cut in. “And has the personality of wet cardboard.”
She sighs that martyred sigh that makes me want to throw my phone out the window. “You’re being deliberately difficult. This attitude of yours is exactly why—“
I tune her out as I apply mascara, watching my lashes grow thicker, longer.
Making myself into someone who can face tonight without falling apart.
My mother’s voice becomes background noise.
It’s the same lecture she’s given a thousand times about duty and appearances and what’s expected of a Carvelli daughter.
“—and the fundraiser next month requires your attendance, so I’ve already had Marissa set aside three dresses for you to try—“
“Are you even listening to me?” she suddenly snaps.
Something in me breaks. Maybe it’s the stress of tonight, or maybe I’m just fucking done pretending.
“No, I’m not,” I say flatly. “I’ve got to go. I’m going to be late.”
“Late?” Her voice sharpens with suspicion. “For what? You don’t have anything to do tonight or any night unless I force you.”
I apply my lipstick—blood red, like the ribbon on the box—and smile grimly at my reflection. “Oh, you didn’t hear? My presence was demanded for this year’s Choosing Ceremony . I’d rather stick needles in my eyes, but you know what they say. When they call, we must listen. Isn’t that right, Mother?”
The silence that follows is so complete I check my phone to make sure the call hasn’t dropped. Then I hear it—a sharp, ragged inhale that sounds like genuine fear.
“You can’t go,” she whispers, her voice suddenly stripped of its usual polish.
“What?” I frown, pausing with the lipstick tube halfway to my mouth. “What do you mean I can’t go? I’ve already been summoned. You know what happens if I refuse.”
“Seraphina, listen to me.” My mother’s voice has lost all its usual haughtiness, replaced by something I’ve never heard before—raw panic. “You need to leave campus right now. Pack a bag and go to the lake house. I’ll have Davis meet you there with—“
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I laugh, but it sounds hollow even to my own ears. “Run away? That’s your brilliant solution? They’d just hunt me down, and you know it. Black Crown doesn’t issue invitations you can RSVP ‘no’ to.”
“You don’t understand.” Her voice cracks. “There are...complications.”
“No shit.” I cap my lipstick with more force than necessary. “Being paraded in front of Lucien fucking Devereux like a prize heifer isn’t exactly my idea of a good time, but what choice do I have?”
“He can’t choose you.” The words burst from her like she can’t contain them anymore. “He can’t, Seraphina. It’s forbidden.”
“Since when does Black Crown care about consent?” I snort, gathering my hair into a high ponytail. “Pretty sure that’s not in their bylaws.”
“It’s not about consent.” She takes a shuddering breath. “It’s about blood.”
My hands freeze in my hair. “What are you talking about?”
“Vincent Devereux is your father.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. I stumble backwards, my legs hitting the edge of my bed as I collapse onto it.
“That’s not—“ My voice sounds strange, distant. “That’s not possible.”
I hang up because my mother just took everything I knew and flipped it.
There’s no way we’re related as I stare at myself in the mirror. We look nothing alike, not a single feature I look at looks familiar.
She’s wrong, she has to be. There is no other option.
I’m showing up tonight and I’m getting answers and getting Lucien Devereux off my back for good. No matter what it takes.