Chapter 17
Seraphina
The next morning comes without fanfare.
The Gala isn’t something I’d normally think twice about. I’ve smiled through them a dozen times, maybe more. Polished floors, champagne flutes, whispered deals over crystal and caviar. It’s just another night wearing the mask.
But this time… there’s something new curling under my skin.
Callum.
I stand at the mirror in my bedroom, tugging a brush through the lengths of my hair, smoothing it into loose, deliberate waves. It falls just enough to keep the earpiece hidden—but not so much that it looks like I’m trying to hide something. Every detail is calculated.
I shouldn’t be surprised he has someone like Reaper on standby, but I am. The name alone sounds like a hacker out of some gritty cyber-thriller. And yet, the tech he gave me is real. It’s in my ear. Right now.
I close my eyes for a second. He’ll be there. He’ll hear everything. He’ll respond if I need him to.
And god help whoever gives me a reason to call on him .
I step back, scan myself in the mirror. Sleek black gown. Understated jewelry. Perfect posture. Cool expression. Just Seraphina Vex, poised and pretty, playing the game.
I grab my clutch, double-check the contents—lipstick, ID, compact, nothing suspicious. Just in case. Then, I reach for the phone he gave me, the burner. I tap out a short message:
Heading out in a few. - S
Then I leave it behind on the table, continuing like always—controlled, untouchable.
The car pulls up to the entrance of the grand hall and I step out, heels tapping against the stone like a slow metronome. I glide through the doors, nodding at the familiar faces, offering a brief smile to the right people.
Then I feel it.
Security steps in front of me, polite but firm. “Ms. Vex. Routine bag check.”
My stomach dips.
They never check my bag.
I give them a look, cool and neutral. “Of course.”
The clutch is opened, examined, handed back. Nothing out of place. No questions asked.
But it’s enough to tighten something behind my ribs.
Thank god I left the phone.
I move deeper into the ballroom, the hum of conversation surrounding me like a living thing. I wait a beat, scanning the room like I always do, then lower my head slightly and speak just above a whisper:
“You hear me?”
For a second, nothing.
Then—
“I’m right here with you, little siren.”
His voice is low, velvety, dangerously close. So clear in my ear I could swear he was breathing against my neck.
I swallow. Hard.
And then I smile—just a little—as I step further into the room.
The music shifts, smooth and orchestral, as the lights above the ballroom dim slightly. That’s when I see him.
Damon Vale.
His approach is unhurried, confident—like he thinks the world will part for him just because he wants it to. In his perfectly tailored suit and with that infuriating smirk tugging at his lips, he looks every bit the spoiled heir he is.
“Seraphina,” he drawls, extending a hand. “Dance with me.”
Before I can form an excuse, my eyes flick instinctively across the ballroom—and I see Dominic. Standing near a group of politicians, glass in hand, watching me like a hawk. One sharp look—one silent command: Go .
I smile. It’s painted on, polite, practiced. The same one I’ve used a thousand times before.
“Of course.”
I let Damon lead me onto the floor, his hand at my back like he owns the privilege. The music wraps around us as he pulls me closer than necessary.
It’s just a dance, I remind myself. One song. One dance. One more damn favor for the man who calls himself Dominic.
I’ve done this before—been the bait, the accessory, the prize paraded for alliances and egos. I know how to breathe through it.
But tonight, with Callum in my ear, the weight of the earpiece tucked beneath my hair, everything feels sharper.
When the song ends, I give Damon a small, polite nod.
“Thank you.”
And I turn.
Heading for the bar, I feel his presence behind me like a shadow. I don’t look back.
“He’s tailin’ you,” Callum murmurs in my ear. “Creepin’ in like a dog sniffin’ after scraps.”
I nearly smile at that. But I don’t get the chance to respond before Damon is right beside me— in my space, close enough that I can smell the subtle tang of whiskey on his breath.
“Thirsty?” he says, all fake charm and smug confidence.
I stiffen, keeping my expression smooth. “Damon,” I say sweetly, “I’m going to ask you once—nicely. Back. The fuck. Off.”
His brows lift, amusement flickering in his eyes like I’m some amusing pet who nipped too hard. “Feisty tonight, aren’t we?”
His voice drops lower. “You might want to rethink the attitude, Seraphina. I’ve been talking to your father. I plan on asking for his approval to… pursue you.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. It darts out, sharp and cold.
“Pursue me?” I echo, like the words taste sour. “You really think I’m some deal to be made over a cigar and a glass of scotch?”
“I think your father sees the value in aligning with the Vale name. And you, darling, are part of the package.”
I set my now empty glass on the bar and smile—tight, brittle.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I say, turning away. “I need the restroom.”
As soon as I’m moving, I whisper into the mic, almost breathless:
“Bathroom. Now.”
I don’t run. Running would draw attention. But I walk with intent, gliding through the side hallway until I find the marble and gold-trimmed door marked PRIVATE .
I duck in. Lock it behind me.
And he’s already there.
Callum.
Leaning against the counter, arms crossed, all calm confidence and dark danger. Like he’s been waiting here for hours.
His eyes meet mine—and for the first time tonight, I breathe.
The moment the lock clicks into place behind me, the weight on my chest finally cracks.
I don’t realize I’ve stopped breathing until I exhale too hard.
Callum doesn’t say anything right away. He just watches me, unmoving, like he’s giving me the space to fall apart if I need to. But I won’t—not here. Not in front of him.
Still, I can't hide the tremble in my hands.
“I don’t…” I shake my head, eyes flicking up to meet his. “I don’t know what I’m doing right now. Damon Vale is up my ass like I’m already wearing his ring and I have no idea why.”
The words come out in a rush, too raw, too exposed—but I can't help it.
“The thought of him pursuing me—” I shudder. “It makes my skin crawl.”
Callum’s eyes darken—not with anger, but with something colder. Sharper. He takes a step toward me, deliberate and sure, and reaches for my hand.
At the same time his fingers curl around mine, the static inside my chest stills. Everything quiets.
He lifts our joined hands slowly, gaze never leaving mine.
“He will not be pursuing you,” he says, his voice low and smooth, laced with that unmistakable Irish cadence. “I’ll find out why he wants to, and he can think he’s going to—but it’s not happening. Not ever.”
I blink, surprised by the conviction in his voice. The way it wraps around me like armor I didn’t know I needed.
Then, softly, he brings my hand to his lips, brushing a kiss against my knuckles before lowering it again.
My breath catches.
I nod once. Curt, focused. “Okay.”
Then I inhale deeply, adjust my posture, and turn to go.
Right as I step out of the bathroom, I walk straight into a wall of tension—wearing a tailored suit and a hardened scowl.
Dominic.
I stop, spine straight, chin lifted. I don’t flinch. I don't ask why he's standing there like a waiting storm. I just wait.
When he doesn’t speak, I offer him nothing but ice.
“Is there something you need from me?”
He stares at me for a long beat. Then, “What did you say to disrespect Damon Vale?”
I arch a brow, letting the silence stretch before answering.
“I really hope,” I say, slowly, “that you’re not seriously entertaining the idea of letting him pursue me—when he ran to you like a child tattling on the playground. That doesn’t exactly scream ‘man in charge’ to me.”
His jaw tightens. “I will do what I damn well please with you,” he snaps. “This is my empire. You live in it. You exist because I allow it. And if you think you have a say in anything, you need to adjust your expectations.”
I smile—sharp and sweet and designed to cut.
“Don’t worry, Daddy ,” I say, turning away. “I wouldn’t dare dream of being more important to you than a business transaction.”
And I walk away—back into the golden-lit chaos of the gala, slipping my mask back on as easily as a second skin.
The evening presses on, and I keep dancing the part—laughing politely, exchanging pleasantries, making connections. The smile never quite reaches my eyes, but no one seems to notice.
As I finish a conversation with a well-known CEO from a defense firm, I touch the side of my face lightly, signaling to Callum that I’m alone again.
“We’ve been diggin’,” Callum’s voice says in my ear, low and deliberate. “Me and Reaper both. Damon Vale’s got skeletons, and not the kind that stay buried.”
My lips part slightly, but I don’t speak—not here, not with eyes on me.
“I’ll fill you in after the gala, little siren,” he adds. “But know this—whatever game he’s playin’, we’ve just flipped the board.”