IVY'S POV
Seraphina found me in the hallway before I could slip past unnoticed.
I hadn't realized how slowly I was moving until she stepped directly into my path, forcing me to stop.
Her gaze swept over my face with a precision that felt less like concern and more like assessment, as though she was reading something in my exhaustion I had never agreed to reveal.
"You look terrible," she said, one brow lifting slightly. "Those eye bags don't suit you."
I swallowed, unsure whether to answer or retreat.
There was something in the way she looked at me that made words feel both unnecessary and dangerous.
"You should rest," she added, her tone softening just enough to dull the edge. "You're not as indestructible as you think."
Her gaze lingered, waiting for a reaction I refused to give. I didn't trust my voice enough to risk what it might reveal.
"I'll be heading out," she continued, adjusting her sleeve with quiet precision. "I'll return later."
Something inside me shifted at that,not fear, not pain, but something sharper, like a thread pulled too tight beneath my ribs.
"Be… careful," I said before I could stop myself, and immediately felt how wrong the words sounded coming from me.
Her eyes flicked back to mine, surprised. She didn't question it, only offered a small, unreadable smile before stepping past me, her presence lingering long after she disappeared down the corridor.
"I really don't know who you think you are now."
Layla's voice cut through the silence. I turned slowly to find her leaning against the wall, arms crossed, her expression balanced between amusement and cruelty.
"What happened to hiding your face?" she continued, pushing off the wall and moving closer. "Or are you done pretending now that Father's pathetic fiancée is giving you a taste of the mother you never had?"
Each word was deliberate, carefully aimed to land where it would hurt most.
I said nothing. Silence had become my only defense, and the only thing that seemed to unsettle her.
She scoffed, irritated, then brushed past me, her shoulder hitting mine just hard enough to remind me she could have chosen worse.
"I won't forget what you did to me, Ivy, you know damn well I don't forget"
Marcus!
I didn't turn immediately. I could feel him behind me, too close, his presence pressing in with a familiarity he hadn't earned.
"You're only alive because I let you," he said, voice low. "Remember that."
I turned slowly. The moment our eyes met, the air between us tightened.
Before he could step away, I caught his wrist—not tight enough to provoke panic, not loose enough to dismiss. Just enough to hold him there.
"Look into my eyes, Marcus," I said quietly, my voice steadier than I felt.
He stilled. Something unreadable flickered across his face as he obeyed.
"I beleive you know me well enogh step brother, dont you?"
The question hung between us, and for a moment, something in him shifted, something dangerously close to hesitation.
"And you know damn well, i never ever forgive,"
He let out a low laugh, brushing it off as childish, and pulled his wrist free like my grip meant nothing.
"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, already turning away. "Maybe focus on surviving what's coming."
His lips curved slightly, not quite a smile.
"Being stripped, Ivy… that's what you should worry about."
Then he winked and walked away.
The house settled into silence, but it wasn't normal silence. It felt heavy, like the walls themselves were holding their breath.
I waited, listening, measuring the absence of sound. When nothing shifted, I moved slowly at first, then with purpose slipping through corridors the servants rarely used.
They didn't walk like ordinary people. They moved on instinct, sharp and aware, always noticing what didn't belong.
Layla's door stood slightly open. That alone felt wrong. She never left it that way.
I stepped inside just enough to scan the room. Nothing seemed out of place.
My attention shifted to the window instead, where the garden stretched beyond the glass in broken fragments of hedges and old stone pillars.
Father stood there.
Not alone.
An elder faced him, posture rigid, presence heavy even from this distance. Their conversation carried weight—the kind that didn't belong to anything ordinary.
My stomach tightened. Something about the stillness between them felt wrong.
My trial. The full moon.
Was this about that?
I leaned closer, straining for sound, but distance swallowed their words.
Too far.
My gaze drifted toward the lower wing of the mansion, toward the narrow balcony half-hidden behind carved stone and overgrown vines. Servants avoided it, claiming it carried echoes that didn't belong to the present.
I used to hide there as a child, when disappearing felt safer than being seen.
My feet were already moving.
Down the stairs. Through the corridor. Past the blind corner where the floor creaked if you weren't careful.
I slipped onto the balcony without sound, pressing low against the stone railing, keeping to the shadows.
From here, it was closer. Clearer.
"…you should have ended it when you had the chance," the elder said.
Not Father. Older. Sharper.
"I made a decision," Father replied evenly. "And I stand by it."
A pause stretched between them.
"That girl carries her."
Something in me tightened instantly.
Carries… who?
"Be careful how you speak," Father said, quieter now, but far more dangerous.
"I'm not the one pretending this ends well," the elder returned. "You told them she ran. That she chose a human over her blood. Do you know how convenient that sounds?"
My breath caught.
Ran. A human.
The words pressed against something inside me, refusing to settle into meaning.
"It was necessary," Father said.
Necessary.
The word sank deeper than it should have.
"She wasn't stable," he continued. "You remember that."
"That's not what I remember," the elder said quietly. "I remember you being afraid."
A sharp sound followed, glass striking wood too hard.
"I was never afraid of her."
"Not of her," the elder corrected. "Of what she could pass on."
My grip tightened against the stone.
What where they talking about and who?
"She made her choice," Father said finally.
A pause.
"No," the elder replied. "You made it for her."
The meaning refused to settle, shifting just out of reach. But it felt wrong, deeply, instinctively wrong.
Movement below. Chairs scraping.
I stepped back into shadow as footsteps approached.
Closer.
The door opened.
I barely had time to straighten before Father stepped inside.
His gaze found me immediately.
Of course it did.
It always did.
"How long have you been standing there?" he asked.