Serena knew the Circle didn't issue invitations out of nostalgia. Tonight was a test.
And the next one had just arrived—in the form of Lucien Vale.
He was tall, feline, and almost cruelly beautiful. His suit was white as bone, mask silver as moonlight, and his smile held the sharpness of secrets that didn't need knives to wound.
"May I?" he asked, extending a gloved hand toward her.
Damon tensed beside her. Serena felt it in the way his fingers brushed her lower back—brief, grounding.
Her gaze never left Lucien's.
"You always did like theatrics," she said. "Still dancing with daggers, Lucien?"
He leaned in, voice a velvet rasp. "Only for the ones who might cut back."
She accepted his hand.
Not because she trusted him.
But because to refuse would be seen as weakness.
And tonight… there would be no cracks.
The ballroom lights dimmed slightly as a haunting waltz began, slow and pulsing. They moved together across the polished floor, steps careful, elegant—too precise to be anything but calculated.
"You've grown sharper, Serena," Lucien murmured, spinning her gently. "The last time we danced, you cried."
She smiled tightly. "The last time we danced, you stepped on my foot and whispered threats in my ear."
"Did I?" His eyes glinted. "Well, at least I've improved one of those."
"Your aim was always good. Just never your heart."
He dipped her low. Too low. Her spine arched, her pulse skimming the edge of control.
And when he pulled her back up, his lips grazed her ear.
"You're not here just for closure," he whispered. "You're here to finish something."
She didn't blink. Didn't breathe.
And then she smiled. "Maybe I am."
He tilted his head. "Then be careful what strings you pluck, darling. Some of us are waiting for a reason to snap."
They parted at the crescendo of the song, and the applause that followed masked the tension still crackling between them.
---
Damon was across the room before she could speak. His expression unreadable. But she could feel it.
The worry.
The fury.
The restraint.
"He touched you," he said quietly.
Serena exhaled. "It was a dance, Damon."
"It was a message."
She nodded. "I know."
He looked at her. "What did he say?"
She hesitated.
"That I'm not the only one who remembers how it all ended."
His eyes darkened. "He knows something about your father."
Serena didn't answer. She didn't need to.
---
Later that night, back in the villa, silence wrapped around them like a second skin. Serena sat by the fireplace, fingers laced tightly in her lap, gown still untouched. As if undressing would make her more vulnerable than tonight had already demanded.
Damon poured a glass of wine, set it untouched on the table, and then knelt before her.
Not with worship.
But with the kind of weight that came when a man no longer wanted to hold back.
"Talk to me," he said.
"I saw it in Lucien's eyes," she whispered. "He knows where the body is."
Damon stilled.
Serena's voice broke.
"They never buried him. My father. They burned the records. Made it look like a suicide… but there was no funeral. No ashes. Nothing."
Damon's hand moved to hers. Warm. Grounding.
"Why would Lucien know?"
"Because he was there. That night. The night the Circle turned on him."
Damon swore under his breath. "Then we'll make him talk."
"No," she said. "He wants me to chase the truth. Because he thinks it'll destroy me."
Damon's gaze locked with hers. "Then let me help you carry it."
She looked at him like he was the only safe place left in the world.
"You already do," she said.
And then she kissed him—not out of desire, but out of desperate, aching gratitude. The kind that tasted like survival. Like history. Like belonging.
He deepened it slowly, one hand tangling in her hair, the other slipping beneath the edge of her gown, not out of lust—but out of need to feel she was still here. Alive. Whole.
When they pulled apart, he didn't ask her to stop.
He asked:
"Do you still want this? Us?"
Her answer was soft.
"But I never stopped."
---
Outside, the wind screamed through the cypress trees. And somewhere far away, a phone lit up with a message:
"She's coming for it."
"Let her. She'll bleed before she gets close."