Shadows Beneath the Crown
The Alaric estate had always been a fortress of luxury—polished marble, vaulted ceilings, whispers laced into silk. But tonight, it felt like a mausoleum.
Kaia stood at the top of the grand staircase, a black velvet gown clinging to her like second skin, shadows trailing in her wake as she descended. Every eye in the ballroom tracked her like a hunter's instinct sensing danger. And they were right.
She was danger.
And tonight was the first of many bloodless executions.
Damon was hosting an engagement gala—for a woman he didn't love, to a crowd he couldn't trust.
And Kaia had just walked in uninvited.
The moment her stilettos clicked on the marble, the music stuttered. Faces turned. Mouths parted.
And then his voice—
"Stop the music."
Damon stood across the room like a storm contained in a tuxedo, his ice-blue eyes slicing through the crowd until they landed on her. She felt them like a slap and a kiss all at once.
He moved toward her slowly, his gaze unblinking.
"Kaia." Her name was a threat and a prayer.
She didn't blink. "Did I miss my invitation, darling?"
A murmur rippled through the room.
His jaw ticked. "You shouldn't be here."
"No," she purred, "but neither should your lies."
Gasps. A few cameras lifted—Alaric scandals were oxygen to the city's elite.
Damon stepped in close, so close her breath caught. He leaned in, his voice low enough to melt steel. "What are you doing?"
"Setting the stage," she whispered, "for your downfall."
Then she smiled sweetly and turned to the crowd. "Congratulations to the happy couple."
The moment shattered into chaos. Security stirred. Whispers surged. But Damon didn't move.
He stared at her like a man who'd just seen the weapon that could end him.
Because he had.
She turned on her heel, letting the slit of her gown reveal just enough thigh to haunt him. Let him remember. Let him burn.
But before she could exit the hall—
His hand shot out. "You think you can walk in, light a match, and leave me to burn?"
Kaia's smile was venom. "No, Damon. I plan to watch."
---
Ten minutes later, she stood in the courtyard, sucking in the cold night air, heart thundering. She had meant every word. Every goddamn word.
Until he followed her.
Damon stormed into the courtyard like vengeance itself.
She didn't even turn. "Call off your dogs, Alaric. I'm not in the mood to be manhandled."
"You just detonated a bomb in my ballroom."
She finally faced him. "You detonated me first."
His eyes flashed. "You came to ruin me?"
"No," she hissed. "I came to remind you that I'm still the storm you buried."
He didn't speak—just closed the distance between them in three hard steps. His hand shot out, gripping her waist, dragging her flush against him.
Her breath hitched.
"You want vengeance?" he growled. "You want truth?"
"Try me."
He kissed her like war. Like surrender and retribution tangled together.
Kaia fought him—but not enough.
She slammed him against the courtyard wall, hands in his hair, mouth brutal. His jacket dropped to the floor, her nails scraped his chest, and for a moment—just a moment—she forgot why she hated him.
Because all she felt was need.
The heat between them was violent, desperate.
His mouth found her neck. Her gasp turned into a curse.
"I hate you," she breathed.
"I know," he said, dragging his mouth lower. "But you still want me."
She shoved him back, trembling. "You don't get to win this time."
And then she dropped something into his coat pocket. A flash drive.
"Everything you buried," she whispered, eyes burning. "Your turn to burn, Alaric."
And just like that—she was gone.
---
Inside the ballroom, his phone buzzed.
One message.
From an unknown number.
"You should've stayed dead, Seraphine. You were never meant to rise."
---