Jill Warren – POV
The sight of her almost made me spill my mimosa.
It was supposed to be a perfect brunch.
A rare, hard-won buffer day between the suffocating demands of my parents and the endless circus of wedding planning with Jack — my Jack. Well, formerly her Jack.
I'd been telling myself for months that I'd won. That I'd taken everything from Seraphine that mattered — the golden boyfriend, the glossy circle of friends, the position she'd built for herself. That I'd left her with nothing but quiet rooms and bitter memories.
And for a while, I truly believed it.
Because Seraphine was fragile. Always had been. The kind of girl who wilted if you stared too hard. She needed people like me — people who could tell her what to wear, where to stand, how to act. Without that… I'd pictured her crumbling, alone, replaying the night I'd pulled the rug out from under her.
I thought I'd stolen everything precious from her.
And gods, that thought was sweet.
But then I saw her.
Laughing.
Not the soft, hesitant kind she used to manage in between glances for approval — but a real laugh. Loud, full, effortless.
And she wasn't alone.
Vivien Hartwood.
Vixzen Kazehana.
Liora Castille.
Not just friends — women with names that carried weight. Women whose influence could crack glass. Women who shouldn't have been anywhere near her.
It made no sense. That was supposed to be my role — the one collecting powerful allies like jewelry.
My mimosa soured.
Still, I told myself there had to be an angle. Maybe they pitied her. Maybe she was clinging to them the way she used to cling to me. Maybe she was still broken under all that polish — a pretty ruin waiting to be toppled.
I smiled, syrup-sweet and poisonous, and moved toward her table. Time to remind her exactly who had taken her place.
"Seraphine," I purred, feigning delight. "I almost didn't recognize you. You look… outdoorsy. It's good to see you finally leaving the house. People were starting to wonder if you'd gone into hiding."
She just smiled back — calm, unreadable. Not even a flicker of shame.
I kept going. "You know, I still think about that birthday party I threw for you. Before you… started avoiding me and Jack. I mean, I know I'm not a professional like you — and, yes, it was a little rude, the way you took over — but I thought we were closer than that. Ghosting your friends? So unlike you."
Vivien's voice cut in like a silk blade. "We're more than friends, dear. We're a support system. The kind you choose. The kind you can actually count on."
The table was a wall — steel around her. Protective. Unmoving.
Vixzen stared at me like I was gum on her boot.
Liora didn't even look up when she told me, flatly, "No," after I tried to angle into a conversation.
And that's when I felt it — the shift.
She wasn't the same Seraphine I'd dismantled piece by piece.
She wasn't looking for approval. She wasn't clinging to anyone. She had power now. Power I couldn't see the edges of.
I forced a brittle laugh, said my goodbyes, and turned too fast. My heel caught on the floor.
Every step away from that table tasted bitter. Because the truth was gnawing at the edges of my certainty:
I hadn't stolen everything from her.
She'd built something I couldn't touch.
And the worst part? I wanted it. The freedom. The loyalty. The love she wore so easily. The very things my parents had denied me my whole life.
My phone was already in my hand, nails digging into the glass.
Fine. If she'd found a way to survive me…
Then I'd just have to make sure she didn't survive what was coming next.
My phone was already in my hand, nails denting the glass as I typed.
Saw Seraphine today. Surrounded by people who think they can protect her. Acting like she's untouchable. You might want to reel in your little slut before she embarrasses us both.
I hit send before I could second-guess it.
If she thought she could thrive without me, she was in for a brutal correction.
---
Jack Smallcock POV
The phone buzzed once on my desk. I ignored it.
It buzzed again.
Annoying.
I glanced over.
[Jill Warren: She's out. With them. I told you.]
There was a photo.
I tapped it open.
Seraphine.
Smiling.
Not the forced little twitch of the lips she used to give me when she was trying to act fine. Not the hollow, polite version she wore like armor.
This was something else.
Joy.
Real joy.
She was with them, of course. That Castille brat—no tact and too much power. The Hartwood heiress—glorified money in heels. And the Kazehana girl, who probably spells boundaries with a virus.
They stood around her like a coven. Arms too close. Eyes too soft. Like she was theirs now.
I stared at the screen too long. As if the pixels might correct themselves.
I set the phone down like it might explode. My pulse was too loud in my ears.
She wasn't supposed to look like that.
She wasn't supposed to look… free.
She was supposed to be grieving. Regretful. Realizing, slowly, that no one else could understand her—manage her—the way I did.
She was supposed to be alone.
Not in a cruel way.
In a necessary one.
I gave her stability. I gave her structure. She needed rules. She needed someone to say no. Someone to protect her from what she was.
And now she was—what?
Shopping? Laughing in silk? Acting like her power wasn't something to be ashamed of? Like it wasn't dangerous?
Like she didn't belong to me.
I stood and paced.
Hated how fast my heart was pounding. Hated the taste in my mouth.
Five years.
Five years I kept her grounded. Safe.
She begged me to stay, once. Cried because I wouldn't sleep next to her.
She said it hurt. Said she needed me.
And I knew then—she couldn't survive without boundaries.
Without me.
The problem wasn't her chaos. The problem was that she thought she could be more than what she was.
A supernatural.
Gods, my father would laugh if he saw this mess.
"No matter how pretty the dog, Jack, it's still a mutt."
That's what he'd say.
He taught me early—supernaturals weren't made for freedom.
They were built to serve.
To obey.
To be handled.
And I believed him. Still do.
Mostly.
But Seraphine…
Seraphine was different.
I didn't just control her.
I understood her.
I fixed her.
That pain she felt when I pulled away? That hunger? That was proof. She needed me.
But now she's pretending like she doesn't? Pretending she can walk among elite humans like she's one of them? Pretending she can make friends like she deserves them?
She doesn't understand.
This isn't just about jealousy.
This isn't about love.
It's about correction.
I sat back down, staring at her photo on the phone.
The smile in it was too bright. Too unguarded.
I needed to remember who she really was—how she looked when no one else was watching.
I opened the drawer.
Pulled out the old file.
Not because I needed to know where she'd be.
I already did. I had people watching her—wedding security, officially. My eyes and ears, unofficially. Jill's messages were just one of many feeds.
This file wasn't for tracking.
It was for remembering.
Photos I'd taken when she didn't know.
The way her mouth went slack when she slept.
The curve of her bare shoulder after a shower, steam still clinging to her skin.
The way she clutched the sheets when she dreamed.
Prints of her laughing, crying, dressing, undressing—moments no one else had the right to see.
Because control is planning. Control is possession.
Not obsession.
Proof she was mine.
I closed the file slowly, fingers lingering on the cover, the paper edges warm from my hands.
One day soon, she'd remember what it felt like to be seen like that—fully, completely, without escape.
And when she did, she'd understand there was never really a choice.
---