Carrington Estate. 7:00 p.m.
"—And we're live in three… two…"
Red light on.
Seraphina smiled, slow and confident, as city lights glittered behind her in the podcast set. Headphones on. Matte-black Carrington blazer worn like armor. Across from her sat Riva Voss, the sharp-tongued host with wild edgy curls, watchful eyes and a voice built for scandal.
"Heiress. Style icon. Chaos queen," Riva said, leaning in. "Seraphina Carrington, welcome to Studio Reverb."
"Chaos keeps me awake." Seraphina said, smirking.
"I figured." Riva flicked a glance at the producer's screen where the live chat rolled fast:
@bloodofelites: she wore the jacket. savage.
@anonrebelX: she's totally SilverSwan77.
@hushGeneva: raymond's gonna need a drink.
"You've been quiet publicly," Riva said, turning a page. "But the internet hasn't. Rumors say you're the voice behind a certain anonymous podcast calling out the elite."
Seraphina held her gaze, leaning closer to the mic, amused. "Rumors are free. Opinions, too."
"So... not a yes?"
"Not a no either."
Laughter trickled from the producers' booth.
"Hypothetically," Riva pressed, "if someone were leaking secrets. Naming names. Why do it?"
Seraphina tapped a manicured finger against her glass. "Maybe they're tired. Tired of fake applause. Tired of watching people suffer while the rich keep smiling. Maybe they're not saving anyone. Maybe they're just done pretending the empire smells like roses."
The room fell quiet for a beat.
"Risky," Riva finally said. "Especially if your father's empire is part of the world being burned in those episodes?"
"Danger is perspective," Seraphina said, smile sharpening. "Some of us were raised in fire. We just stopped pretending it's warm."
The live chat detonated:
@royalsdownfall: Chess with gasoline.
@carringtonshadow: This isn't Thea's lane. Seraphina is surgical.
@rivasbackroom: Riva's asking real questions. She better lock her doors tonight.
Riva raised a brow. "One last hardball..."
A beat.
"Do you think your family's legacy should survive… unchallenged?"
"Legacies built on silence and buried bodies deserve an earthquake," Seraphina said—low, smooth, and cold.
Jane Hayes — Hotel Suite, 7:10 p.m.
The clock flipped to 7:00 as Jane checked herself in the mirror. The red bodycon hugged her like it had been cut on her skin. Tiny silver flecks caught the light when she moved.
After she and Jace got back from the conference that day, two boxes had arrived in her room an hour later—one red dress, one black. They were delivered by the concierge with a small handwritten note in Jace's neat handwriting:
Make your choice.
She had.
She slid on silver heels, lifted her small black purse, misted perfume on neck, wrist, behind the ear. A quick ritual that steadied her breath.
Confident. Elegant. A little nervous. Ready.
She pressed the elevator button. The doors opened at once. On the way down, her heartbeat kept a quiet count.
Hotel Lobby — Moments Later
Jace waited outside the lobby beside a sleek black car. Fitted black suit. White shirt. "Tie knotted like an afterthought.". No phone. No distractions. Just waiting.
The second Jane stepped out, his eyes found her—down to the silver heels, up to her mouth, and back again. Whatever he'd imagined when he sent the dresses, reality outdid it.
She walked to him, steady on the pavement. He lifted a small black box from a gift bag and opened it: a slim silver necklace, stones winking under the streetlights.
"May I?"
She nodded, turning her hair aside. His fingers grazed the back of her neck, warmer than the metal, lingering a second longer than necessary.
Facing him again, she teased, "How'd you know I'd pick red?"
"I trusted my instinct."
She smiled, softer now. The necklace locked the look together: dress, heels, the way he was staring.
He offered his hand. "Shall we?"
She slipped her hand into his. They walked toward the car, the cool night air wrapping around them like a loaded secret.
This wasn't just dinner. Not with how he looked at her. Not with how her heartbeat skipped when his fingers found hers.
Not with everything waiting to be said.
Raymond's Hotel Room, 7:26 P.M.
The door slammed.
Raymond Carrington paced the marble floor, a half glass of whiskey in one hand, his phone glowing in the other. The screen pulsed with chaos—missed calls, breaking banners, messages from people who usually feared him.
"Carrington Heiress Drops Bombshell in Live Interview." "Is Seraphina the Voice Behind SilverSwan77?" "Whispers and Bloodlines: The Carringtons Under Fire."
The whiskey burned. A board member called.
He let it ring. The room phone buzzed next.
He snatched it. "What?"
"Mr. Carrington," said a tense voice. "Investors are panicking. The Singapore fund is threatening to withdraw..."
"Tell them what they want to hear," Raymond growled. "Their money is safe. Their names are safer."
He dropped the receiver without waiting for a reply. He stopped pacing. Silence pressed in.
Across the room, a tablet showed Seraphina's paused livestream. Her smirk. Her voice. That line:
"Legacies built on silence and buried bodies deserve an earthquake."
He grabbed the tablet and slammed it face-down. The crack hit like a shot.
"Foolish girl."
Another call. He didn't check the name. He answered.
"No, Alan! Drown the tag. Flood search with paid recaps. Spin it as a campaign. DMCA anything we can on the podcast clips. Get three friendlies to run exclusives by morning. Hell, call it fashion activism if you must. But bury it. You hear me?"
He paused.
"And make sure her name never trends again." Ice tapped the side of the glass. He finished the whiskey and stared into the night.
Carrington Estate — Seraphina's Wing, 7:45 PM
Thea didn't knock. She burst in.
Seraphina sat cross-legged on the floor, still in her signature jacket, scrolling through comments with a satisfied smile—like she'd lit the match and now wanted to watch the blaze.
"What the hell, Phina? Do you realize what Father will do? He'll make you a ghost."
Seraphina looked up, unfazed. "Evening to you too."
"You went live and blew up the family name."
"Someone had to."
"This isn't a joke." Thea stepped closer. "He'll cut you off, this time for real. No trust fund. No lawyers. You're still bouncing between rented apartments and fake brand deals. You need him."
Seraphina laughed, dry and mean. "That's rich. Your head's the one on the block."
Thea blinked. "What does that mean?"
A buzz. Seraphina's phone lit up on the bed. She glanced at it and smiled.
"Speak of the devil."
She put it on speaker.
"Seraphina," Raymond said. Calm. Worse than angry.
"Daddy dearest," she said. "Enjoy the interview?"
"Damage control, Now."
Thea's breath hitched. "He's serious," she whispered.
Seraphina didn't flinch. "You really think I'll walk it back?" She asked. "Spin it into PR?"
"You didn't just cross a line," Raymond said. "You declared war."
"No," she said. "I told the truth."
A pause. Then: "Leave the estate before I return tomorrow," he said, colder. "You are not untouchable."
Seraphina met Thea's eyes as she answered, voice steady. "Neither are you, Father."
She ended the call.