SERAPHINA’S POV
I couldn’t speak. The words wouldn’t come—not because I didn’t know what I was supposed to say, but because everything in me rebelled at the idea of playing along with this twisted performance.
I’d been pushed into the spotlight like some reluctant understudy in a play I never auditioned for. I could feel the burn of every gaze on me—judging, waiting.
And then, on stage, I saw Kieran roll his shoulders, his stiff mask cracking. He cleared his throat. “I don’t think—”
A sharp crash shattered the moment.
A gasp rippled through the crowd, and everyone turned.
Glass had shattered near the corner of the ballroom. A wine table lay overturned, a pool of crimson spreading across the marble like spilled blood.
The staff scrambled, voices rising in panic as the perfect illusion cracked.
“Oh dear,” Lucian said smoothly, his voice loud enough to carry across the room. “That was entirely my fault.”
