It was supposed to be a quiet morning.
Serena stood in the center of Damon's kitchen, barefoot, his shirt hanging off one shoulder, her fingers wrapped around a warm mug of black coffee. The sun filtered lazily through the windows, casting long golden slants across the marble countertops and bare skin. She felt… at peace.
Something rare.
Something borrowed from a life she had never believed she deserved.
The night before, they'd made love without fear. Without shame. No secrets. No interruptions. Just heat and whispers and two broken people trying to write one honest story with their bodies. Damon hadn't left her side. Not even when the shadows grew long. Not even when the silence crept in.
It had been perfect.
Until the doorbell rang.
And everything unraveled.
Serena blinked, unsure she had heard it correctly. Damon looked up from the island where he was reading, his expression already darkening.
No one came here uninvited.
Not to this floor.
Not to this life.
The chime came again—low and insistent.
Damon stood, eyes sharpening. "Stay here."
But Serena was already moving.
Because the tone of that doorbell felt… familiar. Not in the sound. But in the weight. In the way it pressed against her spine like a name she'd buried.
She reached the foyer before him.
And when the doors opened—
She saw a woman.
Tall. Composed. Wearing a cream silk coat and heels that didn't dare echo against the marble. Her makeup was flawless. Her posture regal. And her eyes—those sharp, steel-gray eyes—mirrored Serena's almost exactly.
It was like looking into the future.
Or the past.
Or both.
Serena's voice came out hoarse.
"Mother."
---
Damon stood slightly behind her, shirt unbuttoned at the throat, expression unreadable.
Her mother looked him over, slow and surgical.
Then she returned her gaze to Serena. "You look well."
Serena blinked. "You're supposed to be in London."
"I was."
"How did you know where I—"
"You're in the papers, darling," her mother interrupted, breezing past the threshold. "Everyone knows where you are. Who you're with. What you're doing. The Harrow name never did escape scandal for long."
Serena's jaw clenched. "Don't pretend you care."
"I don't pretend," the woman said calmly. "But I do protect what's mine."
"I'm not yours," Serena snapped.
Her mother's gaze finally sharpened, just a flicker. "That's a lie you've told yourself for too long."
Behind her, Damon finally spoke. "This isn't a good time."
Her mother gave him a smile like frost. "I'm sure it's not. For you."
Serena stepped between them. "Say what you came to say, Mother."
There was a pause. A long, pregnant silence filled with old ghosts.
And then her mother said, voice clear as crystal—
"There's someone looking for you. Someone who knew your father. Someone who knows the real reason he died."
Serena's stomach turned.
Damon moved closer.
"Is this some kind of game?" Serena whispered.
"No, darling," her mother said. "This is the part where the past catches up. And you have to decide whether you're ready to know who you really are."
---
After she left, Serena stood at the window, her coffee long forgotten, cold in her hand.
Damon approached from behind, his arms wrapping around her waist.
"You okay?"
"No," she said. "But I'm still standing."
He kissed the back of her neck gently. "You don't have to face her alone."
"I know," she whispered. "But I think I want to."
She turned in his arms, eyes shining but dry. "I've spent so much of my life running from her. From what she turned me into. Maybe it's time I stop pretending I didn't come from her blood."
Damon nodded slowly. "Whatever's coming—we face it together."
Her voice trembled, but her spine did not.
"Then hold on tight."