SERAPHINA
I had a date with Roman tonight, but first, I had a little detour to make.
The moment I stepped through the front door of our estate, the familiar heavy silence wrapped around me. My father was home—somewhere—but not truly present. Down the hall, the soft murmur of staff coordinating dinner floated like background music, but the grand foyer felt vast and echoing, every marble surface polished to reflect wealth and emptiness.
I headed straight upstairs to my room.
The full-length mirror waited like an old confidant. I peeled off the school uniform and slipped into the black dress—sleeveless, hugging the bodice just right, with a soft flare at the hips and a hem that skimmed teasingly above the knee. Effortless on the surface. Dangerous underneath. I added the cropped black leather jacket—sharp shoulders, buttery leather that transformed "pretty" into something lethal.
I liked the contrast. Sweet and innocent from the front. Sharp enough to cut from the side.
A small chain-strap purse, a touch of perfume, and I was ready.
As I descended the staircase, Mrs. Dawn emerged from the side corridor, tablet in hand, her silver hair pinned with military precision.
"Miss Seraphina. Will you be requiring anything before you leave?"
"I won't be home for dinner. Don't wait up."
She inclined her head gracefully. "Very well. Enjoy your evening, miss."
I was nearly at the grand double doors when his voice cut through the quiet like a blade.
"Seraphina."
My fingers tightened on the cold brass handle.
Father stood at the top of the curved staircase, still in his charcoal suit, tie loosened, sleeves rolled once. He looked down at me with that familiar assessing gaze—never quite approving, never quite disappointed enough to say it outright.
"Where are you going dressed like that?"
"I have a date with Roman," I answered smoothly.
His eyes swept over the dress, the jacket, the heels, then returned to my face. A flicker of disapproval crossed his features, brief and tightly controlled. He never voiced it directly. He didn't need to.
"We'll be having a guest soon."
I arched one perfect eyebrow. "Who?"
"When they arrive, you'll know."
I let a small, deliberate eye-roll escape. "One of your girlfriends, I assume."
He didn't respond. Just watched me with that impenetrable stare that had intimidated CEOs and politicians alike.
I turned away without another word, opened the door, and stepped into the cool evening air.
The black Mercedes waited in the circular drive, engine purring softly. I slid inside, the leather seat cool against my thighs, and entered Noah's address into the GPS—the one I had memorized from his scholarship file the day I decided to tighten his leash.
The drive took longer than expected. Luxuria City transformed block by block: towering gated estates gave way to neat middle-class neighborhoods, then to narrower, older streets lined with faded brick buildings, peeling paint, and flickering streetlights. The kind of place where residents actually paused on their porches to watch a sleek Mercedes glide past like a shark in shallow water.
I didn't care.
I pulled up in front of a weathered three-story walk-up—chipped concrete steps, a single bare bulb burning bravely over the entrance. Stepping out with a small plain brown shopping bag in hand, I climbed to apartment 3B and pressed the doorbell.
The door opened almost immediately.
A woman in her late thirties stood there—dark hair pulled into a loose ponytail, wearing a faded university hoodie that had seen better days. Tired lines etched around her eyes, but they softened when she smiled. Noah looked so much like her: the same sharp jawline, the same guarded dark eyes, the same cautious warmth lurking beneath the surface.
She recognized me instantly. "Seraphina Voss."
I offered a small, warm, perfectly calibrated smile. "Hi, Mrs. Callaghan. I'm so sorry to drop by unannounced like this."
She blinked, surprised, then stepped aside graciously. "No, please—come in."
The apartment was small but impeccably clean. A worn couch hugged one wall, a small television sat on a mismatched stand, and a single lamp cast a soft, golden glow. The air smelled of garlic, fresh herbs, and laundry—honest, lived-in, warm in a way my own sterile mansion could never be.
She gestured toward the couch. "Can I get you anything? Water? Tea?"
"Water would be lovely, thank you."
While she disappeared into the tiny kitchen, I sat with careful grace and let my gaze sweep the room. A framed photograph on the side table caught my attention: Noah at around twelve, gap-toothed grin, arm slung proudly around his mother's shoulders at the beach. They looked happy. Simple. Safe.
Mrs. Callaghan returned with the glass. I accepted it with both hands, the picture of politeness. "Thank you."
We had barely exchanged a few pleasantries when she called down the short hallway, "Noah! Someone from school is here to see you!"
A door creaked open. Footsteps—quick at first, then slowing with suspicion.
Noah appeared in the hallway.
He froze the moment his eyes landed on me.
I looked up at him with a soft, polite smile, as if I were doing him the greatest favor in the world. "Hi, Noah."