Kaiden's POV
Sera's still wiping her eyes when her phone buzzes again. One glance at the screen, and her smile fades like someone just swapped champagne for flat soda.
"Jill," she mutters.
I brace myself. You'd think after last time, Jill would take a week off to lick her wounds, maybe invest in a sturdier phone. But no—apparently her next attack is ready for launch.
"She's… hired a singer," Sera says slowly, like she's translating a message from an enemy spy. "Not just any singer. Veloura Blaze."
The way she says it, capital H, tells me this is about to get personal. "Alright, I'll bite. Who's Veloura Blaze?"
Sera looks at me like she's debating whether to tell me or just set something on fire. "Long story short? She's famous for being talented, unreliable, and petty. Years ago, I called her out on being late to her own show. She's held a grudge ever since."
"And Jill's plan is… what, have her sing off-key until your ears bleed?"
Her mouth tightens. "The plan is to humiliate me. Publicly. Veloura doesn't just perform—she uses the stage like a courtroom."
---
By the time we pull up outside the club, it's clear this isn't some fancy venue—it's her personal kingdom. The place hums with bass, cigarette haze, and people who'd kill you for cutting in line.
Sera squares her shoulders and walks in like she owns the place. I follow, partly for backup, partly because I'm curious what "infamous" looks like up close.
We find Veloura Blaze onstage mid-rehearsal, belting out a note that rattles my molars. Sera waits for the set to end, then approaches with all the poise in the world.
"Hello," she begins, voice professional but warm.
Up close, I notice the signs of the last few weeks catching up to her—subtle shadows under her eyes, hair pulled back more for function than style, the faint slump of someone running on coffee, fumes, and possibly whispered prayers. And still… somehow she looks like she could walk onto a magazine cover and own it. The woman could make exhaustion look expensive.
"I'm here about the wedding booking—"
Veloura doesn't even let her finish. "I don't deal with cubs," she snaps, her eyes flicking over Sera's outfit like it's an act of personal offense. "Or unfashionable wimps. Get out."
She turns on her heel, tossing her mic onto the stool like she just signed the final decree.
Sera storms back to me, eyes sharp, jaw tight. She stops a few feet away, takes a deep breath through her nose, and visibly wrestles the urge to spin around and stab someone with her heel.
---
"You okay?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
"I can solve my own problems," she says briskly.
"Good. Because I'm on Jack's payroll, remember? Technically, that means I'm not helping you. I'm just… following orders." I'm already dialing my office.
Her glare could melt chrome. Which, in this lighting, is adorable. I reach over and boop her nose. She swats my hand away, but she's hiding a smirk.
"Get me dirt on Veloura Blaze," I tell my staffer when they pick up.
Sera raises an eyebrow, and I can see the moment the realization clicks.
---
She sighs. "I hate asking for help, but…" Her voice trails off like she's weighing her pride against the sweet, sweet relief of getting this wedding over with. Shoulders slump. Defeat. "Fine."
Then she pulls out her phone again. "Hi, Papa… how's Mom?"
That perks my ears right up. Calling her parents? This is new.
"Actually," she says, "I called to ask if you can help me with something. You know Veloura Blaze, right? Which agency? When does the contract end? No, don't cancel it—yet. Can you send me a copy?"
When she hangs up, I'm ready to demand answers, but she beats me to it.
"Your plan is devious," she says, "but mine's just plain evil. I hate asking favors—but no one calls me unfashionable. Especially not a wimp. Can you get me to Allure Management? I need a makeover."
When Sera says "I need a makeover," I expect… I don't know. A new lipstick. A nice dress. Something you can hang in a closet.
What I don't expect is for her to march us straight into Allure Management, her parents' empire, and start issuing instructions like a general planning an invasion. The place smells like money, ambition, and perfume you probably need an appointment to even smell.
She doesn't even look at the receptionist — just breezes past with a, "Tell the stylists it's for me." No last name. No explanation. Just me. Like the building understands it owes her something.
---
A few minutes later she walks out of those double doors and almost causes a traffic accident. Literally — one guy on a scooter forgets how brakes work. There's already a small crowd gathering, half gawking, half filming on their phones.
She's in a full-length black dress with an off-the-shoulder neckline, sheer flowing sleeves, and a slit high enough to make the dress nervous. Black stockings, garter, heels, gold bracelet — every detail deliberate. Her posture is so confident it feels rehearsed, but the kind of rehearsal where you break mirrors just to see if your reflection will still behave.
And because fate loves me, she heads straight for my bike.
"Hope you haven't flashed anyone yet," I mutter as she swings her leg over. She left her own ride back at the club, so this is a me and her pressed together situation. I gun the engine before I start having more thoughts that will ruin my ability to drive.
She dismounts at the club without tripping in the heels, which is witchcraft. I notice the tail though — wrapped tight around her thigh, betraying the confident act.
"Tail's out," I comment.
"Stylists insisted," she says, and then takes a deep breath. The tail slowly uncoils, and in that instant it's like watching a shapeshifter step into their true form. Now she looks like she owns the club — and is currently pissed her singer's late.
---
We push inside. Veloura's at the bar, swirling a drink like she's auditioning for "World's Most Important Sip." She takes one look at Sera and mutters, "Ugh. With the way you walk, why not just go on stage now?"
Sera raises an eyebrow. "You really want me to? I've never considered joining the entertainment sector, but I can call a few favors…"
Veloura shuts up mid-sip.
Sera smacks a long envelope on the bar — no label, just the word Contract written like a threat. Veloura's face drains of color.
"We do this here or somewhere private?" Sera asks, voice dropping into something colder. "Unlike you, I have principles."
Veloura swallows, snatches the envelope, and scurries toward her dressing room. We follow, and I swear Sera's hips are narrating a story I'm not allowed to hear.
---
"Nice place," she says, stepping inside. No — strutting inside. She looks around like she's already picking out furniture to replace.
She sits on the vanity, leaning back, while Veloura sits upright like a kid about to get detention.
"Hand me," she orders without looking. I pass her the folder my people pulled together — the scandals, the dirt, the skeletons Veloura probably forgot were still in the closet. She drops it onto the vanity with a thud that makes Veloura flinch.
"Does this mean you're my bitch now?" Sera asks casually, not expecting an answer. "Make sure I see your ass three hours early and sober before your performance. For every minute you're late, I'll send out another scandal. By the end, the only venue you'll be singing in is a loony bin. Kapesh?"
Veloura nods faintly.
Sera slams her hand down on the papers.
"Yes ma'am!" Veloura squeaks.
Her smug hmph is lethal. My knees? Gone. I didn't know you could fall for the same person this many times in one week.
---
We head for the door, and she tosses a final grenade over her shoulder. "If you're a good girl, maybe I'll see what I can do about that contract."
Veloura's eyes widen. "Really?"
Sera nods once and leaves. I trail behind, still processing the fact I might be in love with a supervillain. And honestly? I'd sign up for minion duty.
---
In the elevator, I can't stop glancing at the envelope. "What's in it?"
"She's signed with what the industry calls a black agency," Sera says. "That's why she's working in a club instead of on real stages."
"And you offered to get her out?"
"I offered to help her escape and sign with an agency that knows their artist's worth."
I grin. "Knew it. Underneath all the claws and couture, you're a softie."
She smirks back. "And underneath all your sarcasm, you're still staring at my legs."
Caught.
And yeah… I absolutely am.
---