The morning after the Armand dinner, Seraphina awoke with her throat aching and her body heavy, as though she had carried the weight of the entire ballroom on her shoulders. She had barely spoken the night before, but every whisper, every glance, had etched itself into her skin. She could still feel them, the eyes that devoured her misery, as if she were a story told for their amusement.
She sat up slowly, her head pounding. Marcelline had fallen asleep in the chair by her bedside, chin tucked against her chest, hair tumbling loose. The sight twisted Seraphina's chest — her sister was fighting this battle with her, even when she had no reason to carry the burden.
Seraphina rose quietly, her bare feet soft on the rug, and walked toward the mirror. Her reflection startled her. She looked less like a woman recovering and more like a ghost: cheekbones sharper, eyes shadowed, lips cracked. The velvet gown from last night still hung over the chair where she had dropped it, the smell of smoke and perfume clinging to it.
She touched the glass, tracing the faint outline of her face. "Who are you now?" she whispered.
A knock interrupted her. A hesitant, measured knock that did not belong to Marcelline.
She froze, every muscle tense. For a moment, she hoped it was no one, just the house settling. But the knock came again, firmer this time.
Marcelline stirred in the chair, yawning. "I'll get it—" She blinked when she saw her sister standing rigid, fear already written across her face. "Sera? Do you want me to send them away?"
Another knock, followed by a voice.
"Seraphina. It's me."
Lucian.
Her heart slammed against her ribs, a betrayal of her will. His voice — rich, deep, the one that had once been her anchor made her knees weak. For two nights she had cursed him, replayed those photos until she felt flayed open, and still, still, his voice summoned a part of her that wanted to believe.
Marcelline's face hardened instantly. "Don't open it. He doesn't deserve—"
"Let him in." The words slipped out before Seraphina could stop them. Her throat tightened as she said them, her body trembling.
Marcelline hesitated, glaring at the door as though she could burn a hole through it. But when Seraphina repeated, softer this time — "Please, Marcy" she sighed, crossed the room, and unlocked it.
Lucian stepped inside.
He looked nothing like the polished groom she had left at the altar. His suit was wrinkled, his tie loosened, the faintest stubble shadowing his jaw. His eyes green, once so bright were bloodshot. He closed the door gently behind him, as if afraid that a sound too sharp might shatter what little remained between them.
"Seraphina." Her name broke in his mouth, half a plea, half an apology.
She did not answer. She stood by the mirror, arms folded tightly, watching him as though he were a stranger trespassing in her home.
Lucian ran a hand through his hair, restless. "I needed to see you. They won't stop talking — the papers, the families, everyone. But none of that matters. You matter. Only you."
Her laugh was brittle, hollow. "Is that what you told her too? That she mattered?"
He flinched. "It wasn't like that."
"Don't." The word snapped from her lips, sharp enough to slice. "Don't you dare stand in this room and try to make it smaller than it was. I saw the photos, Lucian. The way you touched her. The way you kissed her. That wasn't nothing."
His jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "I was weak. I was drunk. I was angry at something stupid. It happened once, Sera. Once. It didn't mean—"
"Once?" she interrupted, her voice rising. "It doesn't matter if it was once or a hundred times. You chose her. You chose her over me. Over us."
Her chest heaved as the words broke loose, each one cutting deeper. For days she had been trapped in silence, drowning in grief. Now it came spilling out like a river breaking its dam. "Do you have any idea what it felt like? Standing there in front of everyone, holding that phone, while you smiled at me like the perfect groom? Do you know how it feels to realize that my best friend — my sister in all but blood — was in your bed while I was planning our vows?"
Tears blurred her vision again, hot and relentless. She hated that he could still make her cry.
Lucian stepped closer, his voice desperate. "Sera, I love you. I've always loved you. I made a mistake, but it doesn't erase what we are. Please, don't throw it all away. Don't throw us away."
She backed up until her spine pressed against the mirror. "Us?" The word was poison on her tongue. "There is no us. You killed it. You killed it the moment you touched her."
For a long moment, silence thickened the air. Lucian's shoulders slumped, his façade cracking. He looked almost broken, but she could not let herself believe it.
Marcelline, who had been silent until now, stepped forward, her eyes blazing. "You should leave. Haven't you done enough?"
Lucian turned to her, his jaw clenched, but then his gaze returned to Seraphina. "Just… think about it," he said quietly, voice raw. "Please. Don't let this be the end."
Her heart twisted painfully at the sound of his plea. For one irrational second, she wanted to run to him, to bury herself in his arms and pretend the photos had never existed. But the images surged again, searing, undeniable. She shook her head, tears sliding down her cheeks.
"Get out, Lucian," she whispered.
He lingered a moment longer, as if waiting for her to take it back. When she didn't, he exhaled shakily, then turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him.
The silence that followed was suffocating. Seraphina slid down the wall, her body trembling, her sobs raw and broken. Marcelline dropped to the floor beside her, wrapping her arms around her sister, whispering soft, fierce comfort.
But no comfort could erase what had just happened. Lucian was gone, but his shadow remained, a ghost that clung to her chest.
And Seraphina knew with a sick certainty: this was only the beginning of the haunting.