The next blow came wrapped in silk — elegant, effortless, and cruel.
Serena uploaded the photo at midnight.
It was a blurry image, grainy, taken from an old phone, but the subject was unmistakable: Clara, laughing in a hotel corridor, wrapped in a man's arms. Not Aaron. Not anyone public.
But the timestamp in the corner told its own story — right in the middle of the investor gala back in 2018, when Clara had sworn to be "too ill" to attend the Cavanaugh family dinner.
The caption, posted anonymously, was simple:
"Missed more than just dinner that night."
It took three hours to spread. By morning, it was everywhere.
Clara's name trended — first on their campus, then city-wide. Her perfectly constructed image — charitable, ambitious, a clean-slate socialite — was beginning to splinter. The cracks weren't visible to everyone yet, but Serena could already see them spreading like spider veins beneath glass.
At her boutique, Serena sipped her coffee in silence, watching the storm unfold on her screen. The chaos didn't bring her peace — it never had. But it brought her a sense of balance.
Clara had tipped the scale once.
Serena was only evening it.
Evelyn hadn't called. Not since their last conversation. Serena could still hear her friend's voice echoing in her memory: "This isn't the Serena I knew."
Good.
That girl had died once already.
Clara slammed the door to her dorm, phone in hand, screen still glowing with another retweet of the photo.
Her fingers trembled as she threw the phone across the bed.
"WHY!"
"Wh-who? Who still had that photo?
She had buried that scandal. Paid to have it removed. Silenced the photographer. Crushed the gossip under threats of legal action. It shouldn't exist anymore.
Unless someone remembered.
Unless someone knew.
Her breathing came in shallow bursts. She clutched the edges of her vanity and stared at her reflection.
Perfect hair. Perfect skin. Perfect lies.
But even perfection cracked.
And in the cracks — madness whispered.
Her mind raced.
"Was it Aaron? NO!. He was too soft. Too noble. He couldn't…"
Her eyes narrowed.
"Serena."
Of course.
Clara had always known there was something off about her cousin's sudden reappearance in their social circles. Something calculating. Cold. She had dismissed it as jealousy — as pitiful desperation. But now…
Now, it felt like she was being hunted.
That afternoon, in the student union courtyard, Aaron approached Serena under the pretense of returning a borrowed book.
"You've seen the photo," he said without preamble.
Serena tucked her hair behind her ear. "What photo?"
Aaron gave her a look.
Her smile was faint, unreadable.
"Everyone's talking about it," he added. "Clara's furious."
Serena leaned back against the bench, her voice calm. "She should be careful. Anger makes people sloppy."
Aaron frowned. "What are you doing, Serena?"
"I'm living my life."
"And dragging people through the mud while you're at it?"
Her gaze turned sharp. "You think she's innocent?"
Aaron hesitated. "…No. But that doesn't mean she deserves to be publicly destroyed."
Serena stood slowly, her tone cool. "You think this is about one photo? One moment?"
She stepped closer. "Clara didn't just ruin a life. She buried it. She made sure no one even remembered I existed after what she did. So if she's feeling a little heat now, tell her to be grateful it's not a fire yet."
Aaron opened his mouth, then closed it.
He didn't recognize this version of Serena.
But he couldn't look away from her, either.
Later that night, Clara lay awake in bed, eyes wide open.
There was a sound.
Faint.
A whisper behind her ear.
She bolted upright, heart pounding.
No one there.
She checked the closet. The window. Under the bed.
Nothing.
And yet… the air felt cold.
Too cold.
She wrapped her arms around herself, fingers trembling.
Then she saw her phone, screen lit up again.
This time, it wasn't a photo.
It was a video.
From the same night.
Same hallway.
Only now… the man's face was visible.
Clara let out a strangled noise.
This wasn't just exposure.
This was war.
In the boutique, Serena stood at the back room mirror, her lipstick half-applied.
"I see you're enjoying yourself."
The voice made her pause — smooth, amused, and far too close.
Ellion leaned against the doorframe, eyes gleaming with mischief.
She didn't turn.
"You always show up when things start to burn," she murmured.
"I like fire," he said, stepping closer.
"Especially when it's lit by someone as pretty as you."
Serena smirked faintly. "You're not here to flirt."
"No," he agreed, gaze darkening. "I'm here because you're slipping."
She turned at that.
"I'm winning."
"You're unraveling," Ellion said, stepping close enough for her to feel the strange, electric pull he carried with him.
"And so is she."
"You're both becoming exactly what you hate. Two mirrors. Cracked…and bleeding."
Serena's jaw tightened. "I know what I'm doing."
"Do you?" he whispered, brushing a knuckle across her jaw. "Because it's starting to look like this isn't just revenge anymore."
Her silence was answer enough.
Ellion tilted his head, almost sadly.
"You burn beautifully, little queen. But even the brightest flame needs something to consume."
Then he vanished again — the air still charged, the mirror behind her trembling.
Serena stood there, breath uneven, heart pounding.
For the first time in weeks, she didn't know who was chasing who.