Chapter 24
Seraphina
I’ve been staring at the back of my father’s head for twenty minutes while he pretends to read some bullshit file. The leather chair beneath me is stiff and uncomfortable, just like this entire house—all perfect angles and cold surfaces that never felt like home.
My father finally closes the manila folder with a deliberate slowness that makes me want to scream. He sets it on his mahogany desk, places his reading glasses on top with perfect precision, then folds his hands like some villain in a bad movie. The signal that I can finally speak.
“Well?” he says, his voice devoid of emotion. “You said it was urgent.”
I take a deep breath, steadying myself. I waited until my mother left for her weekly tennis match—three hours of guaranteed absence—to corner him alone. No more lies. No more half-truths.
“I need to tell you something important,” I say, leaning forward in my chair. “And I need you to be straight with me for once.”
His eyebrow quirks slightly—the closest thing to an actual expression I’ve seen on his face in years. “Go ahead.”
I take a deep breath. “I know about Vincent Devereux. I know Mom had an affair with him, and I know that whispers say he is my biological father.”
My father’s face remains completely impassive, which is fucking infuriating. I’ve just dropped what should be a nuclear bomb, and he’s sitting there like I told him it might rain tomorrow.
“And?” he prompts when I don’t continue immediately.
“And? Are you fucking kidding me?” I explode, my voice bouncing off the wood-paneled walls. “Your wife had an affair with one of the most powerful men in Black Crown, let you believe her child was yours, and your response is ‘and’?”
He sighs, like I’m being a dramatic teenager instead of a grown woman who’s had her entire identity shattered. “Is there more to this story, Seraphina? Because so far you haven’t told me anything I don’t already know.”
I feel like I’ve been slapped. “You knew? This whole time?”
“Of course I knew,” he says, his tone maddeningly calm. “Your mother isn’t nearly as discreet as she thinks she is.”
I sit back, stunned into temporary silence. My father—the man who once upon a time taught me to ride a bike, who checked my closet for monsters despite my mother’s objections—has known all along that I might not be his.
“Then why...” I trail off, not even sure what I’m asking.
“Why did I raise you as my own?” he finishes for me. His expression softens slightly. “Because you are mine, Seraphina.”
I stare at him, my mouth hanging open like a fucking idiot. “How are you not freaking out about this? Your wife fucked another man and passed off his kid as yours.”
He leans back in his chair, studying me with those calculating eyes I’ve always both admired and feared. “Because you are my daughter, Seraphina.”
“But the DNA—”
“Even without a test,” he cuts me off, “you’re a spitting image of my grandmother.” He reaches for a silver frame on his desk I’ve never paid much attention to before, turning it so I can see. “Seraphina Maria Carvelli, your namesake.”
The photo shows a young woman from the 1940s, her dark hair styled in vintage waves, but it’s the eyes—my eyes—and the shape of her face that makes my breath catch. It’s like looking at myself in some sepia-toned alternate universe.
“Holy shit,” I whisper, reaching for the frame. He hands it to me, and I trace the glass with my fingertip. Same slight asymmetry to the lips, same everything. “This is fucking wild.”
“Language,” he says automatically, but there’s no heat behind it.
“But Mom said—“
“Your mother says many things,” he interrupts, taking the frame back and setting it down with careful precision. “Some true, some not. Her affair with Vincent was real. Her claim that you’re his biological child was well a choice.”
“Did you ever confront her? About the affair?” I ask.
He leans back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin. “We had...discussions. Your mother has always been ambitious, Seraphina. Vincent Devereux represented power she thought she deserved.”
“So you just forgave her?” I can’t keep the incredulity from my voice.
“Forgiveness implies I ever held it against her.” A small, almost sad smile plays at the corners of his mouth. “Marriage is complicated, especially in Black Crown. You’ll understand that someday.”
I think about Lucien, about the complicated, fucked-up dance we’ve been doing. “I’m not sure I want to understand it.”
“Yet here you are, Chosen by Lucien Devereux.” He raises an eyebrow. “The very son of the man you believed to be your father.”
Heat rushes to my face. “That’s different.”
“Is it?” He leans forward. “We’re drawn to power, Seraphina. It’s in our blood. Your mother sought it. I seek it, even you yourself seek it. It’s not shameful to be ambitious. Your mother has to deal with the consequences of her actions.”
I shake my head, trying to process everything. My mother’s ambition I knew about, but I never imagined my father was so...accepting of it.
“Do you think she knew?” I ask suddenly, my voice smaller than I intended. “That I wasn’t really his—Vincent’s, I mean.”
My father’s eyes meet mine, steady and unflinching. “Yes, I do.”
The certainty in his voice hits me like a punch to the gut. I grip the arms of the chair to steady myself. “And Vincent? Do you think he knew the truth too?”
“No, I don’t think so,” he says, shaking his head slightly. “If he did, he wouldn’t have cared about you getting tangled up with his son. The fact that he’s fighting so hard against the choosing tells me he genuinely believed you’re his daughter.”
“So my mother’s been playing everyone,” I say, a bitter laugh escaping me. “She let Vincent believe I was his, let me believe Vincent was my father, all while knowing neither was true.”
“Your mother plays a long game,” my father says, and I detect a hint of what might actually be admiration in his voice. “She always has.”
“Lucien had a test done. Even if I didn’t look like your grandmother, I can prove we aren’t related.”
“He’s not stupid,” my father says. “and he has resources. The DNA test he mentioned in that council meeting must be one in the same.“
“Wait, what council meeting?” I interrupt, my head snapping up.
My father looks momentarily surprised. “He didn’t tell you? Vincent called an emergency session of the Thirteen to try to dissolve your choosing bond, claiming you were half-siblings.”
“That fucking asshole,” I seethe, pacing now. “When was this?”
“Two days ago,” my father says, watching me carefully. “Lucien shut it down rather spectacularly, from what I hear. Defending both you and his mother. Quite a tale Vincent tried to spin. I hear your Chosen was almost quite terrifying.”
“Why wouldn’t he tell me about this?” I mutter, more to myself than to my father.
My father studies me with that clinical gaze of his. “Perhaps he didn’t want to worry you. Or perhaps he enjoyed handling it himself. Men like Lucien Devereux prefer to fight their own battles.”
“That’s bullshit,” I snap. “This involves me directly. I had a right to know.”
“Did you?” My father raises an eyebrow. “What would you have done had you known?”
I open my mouth to argue, then close it again. What would I have done? Stormed the council meeting? Confronted Vincent myself? I don’t even know where these meetings happen or who sits on the council besides the obvious players.
“That’s not the point,” I finally say. “He should have told me.”
“Perhaps.” My father picks up his reading glasses, a clear signal that our conversation is wrapping up. “But ask yourself this, Seraphina—are you angry because he didn’t tell you, or because he handled it without needing your help?”
The question hits closer to home than I’d like to admit. I’ve always prided myself on fighting my own battles, on never needing anyone else. The thought that Lucien might have protected me without my knowledge or permission is both infuriating and...something else I’m not ready to examine.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say, standing up. “I need to go.”
My father nods, already opening another file folder. “One more thing, Seraphina.”
I pause at the door, hand on the knob. “What?”
“Be careful with how you confront him.” My father doesn’t look up from his papers. “Men like Lucien Devereux don’t respond well to accusations. Especially when they believe they’ve acted in your best interest.”
I almost laugh at that. “I think I know how to handle Lucien.”
Now my father does look up, his eyes meeting mine with an intensity that makes me uncomfortable. “Do you? Because from where I’m sitting, he’s several moves ahead of everyone on the board. Including you.”
“This isn’t chess,” I say, my hand tightening on the doorknob.
“Everything is chess in Black Crown,” he replies, his voice softening slightly. “And Lucien was raised to be a grandmaster.”