POV: Seraphine
Months had passed since the Great Muffin Incident, but my friends still treated it like a cornerstone of our shared history. The way Liora told it, Theo had shown up at my door with baked goods like he was negotiating a hostage release, while Zaire stood behind him looking like a man personally wronged by cinnamon.
Which was cute — in hindsight.
Today, though, they weren't here for pastries. They were here because I'd spent the last three weeks drowning in the professional equivalent of slow torture: planning my ex's wedding to my ex-friend. Contractually obligated, professionally trapped, and now on a first-name basis with every self-important florist in the city.
So my friends staged an intervention.
"You need a break before you stab someone with a cake knife," Liora had declared over the phone.
Their cover story? They were here to help me find an outfit. The real mission? Get me out of my apartment, out of my head, and away from color-swatch hell.
"Do you think they'd panic-bake for us again?" Liora asked the second she stepped inside, grinning like this was a normal greeting.
"Not unless you plan to emotionally wound them again," Vivien replied, hanging her coat with suspicious elegance.
Vixzen flopped onto my couch like she'd just been felled by existential exhaustion. "Sounds like a challenge."
The door had barely shut behind them before the jokes started rolling, muffled only by the sound of them rummaging through the pastry box they'd brought as a peace offering. Coffee, muffins, tiny pastries shaped like hearts—because apparently subtlety was dead.
"Okay, but honestly," Vivien said, sipping her drink, "that whole muffin thing was adorable."
Liora raised a brow. "Adorable? Theo looked like he was going to cry if we didn't take them."
"Zaire looked like he already had cried," Vixzen added. "Flour trauma."
"I swear he flinched when I bit into the cinnamon twist," Liora said.
"They were good, though," Vivien admitted. "I'd let them trauma-bake for us again."
I groaned and buried my face in a cushion. "You're all the worst."
"You love us," Vixzen sang.
"Regretfully."
Vivien stretched like a cat who'd never known stress. "Alright. Girls' day. We're rescuing you from wedding purgatory."
"Retail therapy?" Vixzen offered.
"Chaos shopping?" Liora added.
I sighed. "Fine. But none of you have clothes. You left everything at your own places, remember?"
"Which is why we raid your closet," Liora grinned.
"Great. By all means, pillage my wardrobe like fashionable pirates."
Vivien tapped her chin. "Are your heels organized by height or kill potential?"
"They're sorted by mood and legally questionable outcomes."
"Neat."
---
Ten minutes later, my bedroom looked like it had been looted by color-coded raccoons.
Vixzen was holding up three dresses against her body, two backwards. Liora was pulling on a cardigan she clearly thought was a crop top. Vivien was browsing my closet like she was scanning case files for hidden evidence.
"This one's labeled 'don't talk to me unless you're hot, rich, and emotionally wounded,'" Vivien read from a hanger tag.
"Appropriate," I said.
Vixzen held up a sequined crop top that sparkled like glitter had a vendetta. "Do I wear this to brunch or battle?"
"Yes," I replied.
"This bra has spikes on it," Liora called from the floor.
"That's for date night."
"What kind of dates are you going on?!"
"The kind where you never have to fake a smile."
The room filled with laughter — real, stupid, unfiltered laughter.
We were chaos incarnate, and for a moment, it felt… good. No magic. No emergencies. No wedding spreadsheets. Just the four of us, making fun of each other, stealing my boots, and plotting a mall raid like it was a divine quest.
We got dressed. We fixed each other's makeup. We argued over earrings.
And then—
Vivien held something up. "Oh, Sera, this would slay on you."
I turned.
It was a backless top. Soft black velvet, long sleeves, but the kind that would bare my back completely — and with it, my tail.
Not a secret. They all knew. But knowing and seeing were two different things.
My tail coiled reflexively, a shiver of muscle memory from years of teaching myself to hide. The air seemed to tighten. My chest did, too. I hated that it still got to me, that showing that part of myself felt like peeling skin.
The others didn't flinch. Didn't push.
Vivien folded the top back up, casual, like it was no big deal. "It's a no, then. We'll find something better. Something lethal."
Liora nodded, tying her braid. "Something that says 'confident but might arrest you.'"
Vixzen nudged my arm. "Something with pockets."
I swallowed. Nodded. And just like that, the moment passed — not erased, but given space to breathe.
Maybe someday I'd wear something like that. Just… not today.
---
We emerged from my apartment looking like the live-action cast of Fashionably Armed & Dangerous.
Vivien wore a sleek, black two-piece set: high-waisted cigarette pants and a silk halter that made her look like she was about to sue a demon into financial ruin. Her lipstick? Perfectly matte. Her heels? Sharp enough to deflate egos.
Vixzen had declared, "Subtlety is for cowards," and it showed. She wore an oversized bomber jacket over a cropped mesh top that sparkled like glitter had beef with her clavicles. Her pants had enough chains to confuse airport security and enough attitude to get banned from three coffee shops.
Liora had somehow transformed into chaotic academia meets accidental rave. A fuzzy lavender sweater (stolen from me), plaid skirt with way too many straps, and a mismatched pair of earrings. She also wore goggles on her head. No one asked why. We all feared the answer.
Me?
Well, I went for damage-control chic: burgundy faux-leather pants, black corset top, my go-to thigh-high boots, and a very firm hope that no one would mention the top I didn't choose.
I slapped on some lip gloss like armor and walked out with my crew of dangerous misfits like we were auditioning to be the villainesses in someone else's redemption arc.
---
We made it to the shopping district—The Cauldron Mile.
It was part magical market, part cursed fashion playground, part Instagram backdrop. The signs floated. The buildings sparkled. Everything smelled like cinnamon and consumerism.
A talking mannequin near the entrance tried to offer us coupons. Vixzen flashed her claws, and it short-circuited with a noise like a deflating balloon.
Vivien sighed. "You didn't have to murder it."
"It offered me a 10% discount," Vixzen said, flipping her hair. "I'm worth at least 30."
Liora spun in a circle, eyes wide. "Is that a floating gelato cart shaped like a phoenix?!"
"Yes," I said. "And no, you don't need a flamethrower cone again."
"But it flambéed itself last time!"
"And nearly took out a toddler," Vivien reminded her.
---
First Stop: Hex Appeal — a boutique that promised Enchantments With Style.
Vivien found a blazer that shimmered like obsidian in moonlight. She tried it on, turned once, and nearly caused a small fire when the collar sparked.
"This one bites," she said, satisfied.
Vixzen dared Liora to try on an enchanted trench coat that whispered compliments to the wearer.
It worked too well.
Liora came out of the dressing room with her arms crossed, blushing, while the coat whispered: "Look at you, emotionally intelligent and delicious."
"TAKE IT OFF," she screeched. "IT JUST SAID I HAVE DREAMY WRISTS."
"You do," Vivien said helpfully.
We left before the coat could propose marriage.
---
Second Stop: Witch Stitch & Co.
A chaotic thrift store run by three gnomes and a gremlin in sunglasses. The store policy was: If it fits, you're cursed. We accepted the risk.
Vixzen found a pair of leather boots that refused to be worn unless you beat them in a staring contest. She won. Barely.
"They've chosen violence," she whispered, cradling them like newborns.
Vivien found a purse with teeth. It bit a salesgoblin. She bought it immediately.
Liora vanished for twenty minutes and returned holding a glowing umbrella and a cursed scarf that smelled like elderberries and vengeance.
I tried on sunglasses that made me look like I had a mortgage and a powerful secret.
We all agreed: unacceptable.
---
Third Stop: Glambush
This one catered to the chaotic neutrals with a color palette demographic. Neon lights. Music that made your molars hum. Walls made of glowing moss.
I picked up a jacket that shimmered with moving sigils. Vixzen grabbed a glitter crop top shaped like a fire glyph. Liora found a hat with tiny wings that flapped when you lied.
We tested it.
Vivien: "I like mornings."
Flapflapflapflap.
Vivien: "You little narc."
---
We left Glambush with our arms full of bags, our wallets lighter, and at least three questionable curses between us. Vixzen swore one of hers was humming. Liora's umbrella was glowing faintly, which she claimed was "normal."
By the time we spotted the floating tea café Sips & Spells, we were running on caffeine fumes and sheer chaos.
The café drifted lazily above the street, tethered by shimmering chains to a balcony covered in fairy lights. Inside, everything smelled faintly of honey and ozone, and the tables hovered just enough to make you feel like reality had taken a coffee break.
We finally collapsed into a round table by the window, surrounded by shopping bags and emotional damage.
Vivien sipped a cucumber elixir. "Well. We didn't die. That's new."
"I think my boots are growling," Vixzen said, nudging a bag gently.
"I think I'm in love with that cursed umbrella," Liora whispered.
I leaned back in my chair, wind in my hair, cheeks sore from smiling.
This… this was what healing looked like.
It wasn't big or dramatic.
It was laughter. It was friends. It was a scarf that insulted you gently but protected your soul.
It was mine.
And I was keeping it.
I was mid-sip of something fruity and fizzy, legs crossed, posture loose, smiling like someone who'd just remembered how to breathe again — when I heard it.
A voice. Sugar-coated and full of knives.
"Oh my gods, Sera! Is that you??"
The sound hit me like a brick to the back of the neck.
Every muscle in my body tensed. My jaw locked. The glass hovered an inch from my mouth, forgotten.
No.
No, no, no.
I knew that voice.
The girls looked up instinctively, sensing the sudden shift in my aura. I could feel the curiosity turning sharp.
I didn't need to turn around.
I already knew.
I forced a breath, forced a smile, and forced my body to move — slowly.
I turned.
And there she was.
Jill. Fucking. Warren.
Wearing a pastel pantsuit so tight it looked spray-painted on, holding a mimosa and fake smiling like it was an Olympic sport.
My ex-friend. My client. My own personal circle of hell in designer heels.
And from the glint in her eye, she'd just spotted fresh blood in the water.
---