Chapter 27
Seraphina
The stupid fucking toothpaste cap is missing again, and I swear to god it’s a metaphor for my entire situationship with Lucien.
Something small that shouldn’t matter but drives me absolutely insane, because who the fuck just leaves the cap off and lets the toothpaste dry out? A psychopath, that’s who.
“Lucien!” I yell, knowing he can hear me even from his office down the hall. “Where’s the goddamn toothpaste cap?”
No response. Of course.
I stomp down the hallway in nothing but his St. Augustine Athletics t-shirt, which hits mid-thigh and smells like him.
The door to his office is cracked open, and I can see him hunched over his laptop, phone pressed to his ear.
He’s wearing glasses—the ones he refuses to wear in public because they “ruin his image” or some bullshit.
They make him look like a hot junior professor, which only pisses me off more.
He glances up when I appear in the doorway, those green eyes flicking over my bare legs before returning to his screen. He holds up one finger in the universal “wait a minute” gesture that makes me want to bite it off.
“Yes, I understand the implications,” he says into the phone, his voice that carefully controlled baritone he uses for business. “But they won’t back down on this, and frankly, neither will I.”
I lean against the doorframe, crossing my arms over my chest. The toothpaste cap seems trivial now that I’m watching him work.
There’s something fascinating about seeing Lucien in his element.
He’s not just an arrogant basketball player with a God complex.
He’s the fucking heir to The Sinners of Black Crown, groomed since birth to command and control.
“We’ll discuss it at the meeting tomorrow,” he concludes, ending the call with a tap of his finger. He sets the phone down deliberately, then removes his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“What’s so urgent that you’re interrupting my call?” he asks, not looking up.
“The toothpaste cap,” I say, suddenly feeling ridiculous but too stubborn to back down. “You left it off again.”
Now he does look at me, one eyebrow raised in that infuriating way that makes my stomach flip. “And this couldn’t wait because...?”
“Because it’s the third time this week,” I snap. “It’s not that hard to screw a cap back on.”
“Is this really about toothpaste, Seraphina?” He leans back in his chair, studying me with those penetrating eyes. “Or is this about something else?”
I hate how he does that—cuts straight through my bullshit to the heart of things. It’s been weeks of fucking and fighting and this weird domestic arrangement, and he can read me better than anyone ever has and that's annoying the shit out of me.
“Yes, it’s about the fucking toothpaste,” I lie, crossing my arms tighter. “And no, it’s not about anything else.”
“Fine.” He puts his glasses back on and returns to his laptop. “I’ll try to remember next time.”
I stand there for a moment, feeling stupid and dismissed. This is what we do—argue about small things because the big things are too complicated to touch. I’m about to turn and leave when he speaks again without looking up.
“You’re coming to my game tonight.”
I freeze mid-turn. “Excuse me?”
“The championship qualifier. You’re coming.” His eyes remain fixed on his screen, fingers typing steadily. “Marcus will pick you up at seven.”
The casual command makes my blood boil. “Is that an order, Your Highness?”
Now he does look at me, those green eyes narrowing slightly. “It’s an expectation. As my Chosen.”
“Have you considered, I don’t know, asking me if I want to come instead of telling me I’m going to be there?”
He sighs like I’m being deliberately difficult. “Do you want to come to my game tonight, Seraphina?”
“That’s not the point,” I snap. “The point is you just assume I’ll do whatever you say, whenever you say it. Like I don’t have my own life or plans.”
“Do you have plans tonight?” He raises an eyebrow, knowing damn well I don’t.
“Maybe I do,” I counter, lifting my chin. “Maybe I was going to study with Courtney.”
“Bullshit. You haven’t spoken to Courtney in weeks.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Just say you don’t want to come.”
“I don’t want to be ordered around like one of your minions!”
“This isn’t ordering you around,” he says, his voice deceptively calm. “This is me expecting my Chosen to support me at an important game.”
“You could have just asked nicely, Lucien. ‘Hey, Seraphina, I’d really like it if you came to my game tonight. It would mean a lot to me.’ Is that so fucking hard?”
His jaw ticks—that little muscle jump that tells me I’ve hit a nerve. “Fine. Don’t come. I don’t give a shit.”
“That’s not what I—“
“No, you’ve made yourself clear.” He turns back to his laptop, effectively dismissing me. “You don’t want to be there. Message received.”
“Jesus Christ, you are such a fucking child.” I throw my hands up in exasperation. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t go. I said ask me properly instead of commanding me like I’m your fucking servant.”
“I don’t beg, Seraphina.” His voice is ice cold now. “Not for anything, and certainly not for you to do what any normal girlfriend would do without question.”
The word “girlfriend” immediately freaks me the fuck out. So I do what anyone else would do in this situation, I turn around and leave because I can’t deal with any of this right now. Fuck it, I’m gonna go get a facial.
I’m staring at myself in the mirror like a fucking idiot, a black eyeliner pencil clutched in my hand. What am I even doing? After storming out this morning, I swore I wouldn’t go to his stupid game. Yet here I am, drawing his number on my cheek like some lovesick groupie.
“Fuck,” I mutter, tracing the final line of the “23” and pulling back to examine my work.
It looks good—bold and defiant against my skin.
I’ve gone all out tonight, despite telling myself I wouldn’t.
The jersey hangs off one shoulder, exposing my collarbone and the faint marks Lucien left there two nights ago.
My black skinny jeans hug every curve, and the red bottoms of my Louboutins match my lips perfectly.
I look hot, and I hate myself a little for caring so much.
My phone buzzes with a text from Marcus.
Outside when you’re ready.
Of course he’s early. Lucien’s people are always punctual, like being late would trigger the apocalypse or something.
I take one last look at myself, smoothing my ponytail braid and adjusting the jersey.
The fabric smells like Lucien. We are not going to examine the fact I grabbed his cologne and sprayed it on.
No one needs to know that. I’m taking it to my grave.
I grab my phone, checking that I have my ID and lip gloss, then head for the door. The sleek black Bentley is idling at the curb exactly as promised. I grab the door and slide into the backseat and within seconds we’re driving past the gate and toward campus.
I scroll through socials mindlessly, pausing on a makeup tutorial I’ll probably never try. The partition between me and Marcus is closed, which is fine by me.
A notification pops up—my mom again. I swipe it away. Whatever crisis she’s manufacturing today can wait until after the game.
Something feels off. I glance up from my phone and frown. We just passed the west entrance to campus.
“Hey, Marcus?” I call out, tapping on the partition. “You missed the turn.”
No response. Maybe he can’t hear me over the sound system. I try to lower the partition, but it won’t budge. Weird.
“Marcus?” I call louder, knocking on the glass. Nothing.
I look out the window and realize we’re heading away from campus entirely, toward the highway.
“What the fuck?” I mutter, pressing the intercom button. “Marcus, you’re going the wrong way. The arena’s back on campus.”
The silence that follows sends a chill down my spine.
“This isn’t funny,” I snap, banging on the partition harder now. “Turn this car around!”
We’re definitely on the highway now, picking up speed as we merge into traffic. My heart starts racing, panic building in my chest. This isn’t right. Where the hell is he taking me?
Five minutes pass. Then ten. We’re heading north, away from the city.
I grab my phone, fingers shaking as I pull up Lucien’s contact. I type furiously.
Marcus is taking me somewhere besides the game. What the fuck is going on?
The message delivers, but there’s no response. Of course not. Lucien never takes his phone on the court. He’s probably warming up right now, completely unaware that I’m being kidnapped by his own fucking driver.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I mutter, running through my options. I could call 911, but what would I say? ‘Help, my not-boyfriend’s driver is taking me to a mansion against my will’? They’d laugh in my face.
I try the doors again, yanking on the handles hard enough that my shoulder aches. Nothing gives.
“Marcus, I swear to god, if you don’t turn this car around right now, I will make your life a living hell!” I shout, kicking the partition with my Louboutin. The glass doesn’t even vibrate.
I’m starting to feel sick. My hands are clammy, and my breath is coming in short gasps. This can’t be happening.
I scroll through my contacts frantically. Who would I even text? Cassian and Asher would be the best choices but both of them are on the court also.
Fuck. Valentina.
I pull up Valentina’s contact and hit call, holding my breath as it rings. Once. Twice. Three times.
“Come on, pick up, pick the fuck up,” I mutter, watching the miles tick by outside my window. We’re getting further from campus with every second.
Voicemail. Fuck.
“Valentina, it’s Seraphina. Something’s wrong. Marcus is taking me somewhere that isn’t the game. I’m trapped in the car and I can’t get out. Please find Lucien and tell him what’s happening.”
I hang up and immediately start typing a text, my fingers slipping on the screen.
EMERGENCY. Marcus is kidnapping me. Not going to game. Taking me north on highway. Please get to Lucien and tell him. He needs to track my phone. This is NOT a joke.
I hit send and watch the message deliver, then follow up with my location pin. My heart’s pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
“MARCUS!” I scream again, slamming my fist against the partition.
The car is slowing down now, turning off the highway onto what feels like a gravel road. My heart’s pounding so hard I can barely breathe. I try the door handles one more time, yanking with all my strength, but they won’t budge.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I mutter, looking around frantically for something—anything—I could use as a weapon. There’s nothing. The back of this car is immaculate, not even a stray pen or loose change.
We’re definitely on private property now. Through the tinted windows, I can see trees lining both sides of the road, dense enough that no one would hear me scream. The thought makes my stomach lurch.
I grip my phone tighter, praying Valentina got my messages. Would Lucien even notice I wasn’t at the game? Would anyone realize I was missing before it was too late?
The car comes to a stop in front of what looks like an old hunting lodge. No other vehicles in sight. Just woods and isolation.
“Marcus, I swear to god, if you don’t tell me what’s happening right now—“ My voice cracks, betraying my fear despite my attempt to sound tough.
I hear the driver’s door open and close, followed by footsteps crunching on gravel. They’re coming around to my side of the car. I press myself against the opposite door, heart hammering in my chest.
The lock clicks. The door swings open.
But it’s not Marcus standing there.
My breath catches in my throat as I stare up at the figure silhouetted against the fading daylight. This can’t be happening. This can’t be real.
“Hello, Seraphina,” they say, voice calm and measured like we’re meeting for coffee instead of in the middle of fucking nowhere after I’ve been essentially kidnapped. “I think it’s time we had a proper conversation, don’t you?”