The glass doors of Elysian Prep gleam like mirrors, polished until not even a smudge dares to mar their surface. Which is fitting. Nothing about this place allows for imperfection. Not the banners overhead, not the manicured gardens outside, not the students who file in like they are walking a runway.
And certainly not me.
I pause at the threshold, letting them look. They always look. Juniors clustered on the steps with wide, hungry eyes. Teachers straightening their ties, as if they were about to meet a board of investors. Even the security guard, who pretends he is above it all, shifts just slightly when he sees me.
Seraphina Valmont.
I tip my chin—not a smile, not quite acknowledgment. Queens do not smile at courtiers. They let others read the tilt of their head, the flicker of their gaze, and decide for themselves what it means.
Inside, the rotunda waits. The heart of Elysian Prep, under a dome of glass that splinters sunlight into a hundred fractured beams. Eleven banners hang in perfect symmetry, stitched in gold thread. Valmont. Montrose. Devereux. Harrington. Astor. Rousseau. Sinclair. Cross. Blackwell. Laurent. Duval.
Each crest represents a dynasty, a fortune, a history carved into the bones of this city. Together, they are the Eleven—the families who rule Elysian as surely as kings once ruled kingdoms.
And me? I am their crown jewel. The proof that perfection can be bred and polished, sculpted into human form.
The twelfth banner is missing, of course. Always missing. Just a blank patch of marble where the D'Arclays once hung. I don't look at it long. That family's ashes are a bedtime story, whispered to frighten children into obedience. I'm too old for fairy tales.
A voice cuts across the rotunda. "Seraphina Valmont."
I don't turn, don't need to. My name ripples through the crowd like a match dropped into gasoline. The whisper becomes a current, heads swiveling, eyes following. And then—because power thrives on witness—I move.
My heels click against marble as I ascend the staircase, past the banners, past the sea of students parting like waves. The air smells of polish and wealth, that particular sharp-clean scent of money.
This is my kingdom.
And like any queen worth her crown, I survey it carefully.
The Eleven Assemble
The first familiar voice calls out as I reach the mezzanine.
"Sera! Darling, you're radiant." Penny Astor twirls into view, all champagne-blonde curls and a laugh that could carry across the Hudson. She's already holding a paper cup of coffee, though I'd bet my Cartier cuff she didn't fetch it herself. Penny thrives on chatter the way others breathe oxygen—gossip, rumors, the currency of social war.
"Penny." I kiss her cheek, air only. "Still thriving on lattes and secrets?"
"Of course." She smirks. "And you'll never guess who spent the summer in Ibiza with a minor royal. I have receipts."
"Later." I let the word slip like a promise and a dismissal all at once.
Further down the hall, Mia Rousseau leans against the railing, dark hair perfectly smooth, her expression carved from marble. She's dressed in soft gray cashmere, understated but lethal. If Penny is champagne bubbles, Mia is vintage Bordeaux—aged, complex, too much for most palates.
Across from her, Izzy Harrington scrolls through her tablet, brows drawn in thought. Always studying, always perfecting. Izzy's brain is the blade her family wields, and she sharpens it daily.
Cass Devereux slouches nearby, blazer sleeves shoved to her elbows, tie already missing. If perfection is armor, Cass has set hers on fire.
Lila Montrose lingers at the edge of the group, posture too stiff, smile too wide. New money doesn't wear as comfortably as old, and she knows it. Still, she's clawed her way this far.
Aria Sinclair drifts into place, her voice soft as she greets each of us. The peacemaker, the good girl, but even good girls have sharp edges.
Jules Cross follows, notebook tucked under one arm. Always observing, always turning the world into a story only she knows how to tell.
Eva Laurent sweeps in next, her beauty a weapon honed to a lethal sheen. Boys trip over their tongues when she walks by. Girls do too, though they'd never admit it.
And then, as though she's been there all along, Celeste Duval steps from the shadows near the staircase. Her presence is quieter, softer—like candlelight in a hall of chandeliers. She doesn't need to demand attention; she simply waits, and the silence around her becomes its own power. Hidden strength, veiled in serenity.
And last—Selene Blackwell.
Her heels announce her before her voice does, a click like a metronome, precise and commanding. Selene moves like she owns not just the hallway, but the school, the city, the very air we breathe. Her smile is sharp, her eyes sharper still.
The Blackwells are feared more than loved, respected more than admired. And Selene wears that weight like it was tailor-made for her shoulders.
"Seraphina." She inclines her head. Not too low, not too high. Just enough to say we are equals.
I return the gesture. Barely.
The Eleven have assembled.
And just like that, the year begins.
-----
The rotunda doors swing open again.
The sound echoes—an interruption, a fracture in the smooth surface of perfection. Every head turns.
And he walks in.
Sebastian Blackwell.
The air changes. It always does when someone breaks the rules, when someone steps outside the script.
He shouldn't be here. Not on the first day of senior year. Not after a year in exile. Rumor said Switzerland, then Monaco, then a private island no map dared to print. Wherever he was, it wasn't here.
But now he is.
Taller. Sharper. The kind of sharp that cuts.
He doesn't wear the school blazer correctly—collar open, tie loose, cuffs rolled just enough to suggest rules don't apply to him. His dark hair falls into his eyes, and the smirk tugging at his mouth is half challenge, half invitation.
Our gazes collide across the rotunda.
The banners overhead seem to still. Even the empty marble space where the D'Arclays used to be feels heavier, more present, as though watching.
"Blackwell," I breathe.
His smirk widens, like he heard me.
-----
Assembly begins in the auditorium, the principal droning on about legacy, honor, tradition. Words older than the marble we sit on. I should be listening. Instead, I'm aware of him.
Sitting two rows back, lounging like the chair is his throne. Every tilt of his head, every shift of his shoulders—defiance dressed in designer wool.
When the speech ends, applause scattered and polite, we're herded toward our first class. Economics, of course. The subject of dynasties.
The professor clears his throat. "This year, we'll begin with a debate. Miss Valmont, Mr. Blackwell—front and center."
The room hums. Of course. The golden girl and the exile. The perfect queen and the dangerous heir.
I step forward, spine straight, mask flawless. He saunters up beside me, grin lazy, eyes alive with mischief.
"Question," the professor intones. "What sustains a dynasty longer—wealth, or reputation?"
"Wealth," Sebastian says instantly. No hesitation. His voice is smooth, rich, a blade hidden in velvet. "Money buys everything—power, silence, forgiveness. Without it, reputation crumbles."
I let the silence stretch a beat before answering. "Wrong. Reputation sustains wealth. Fortune without respect is rot. You can buy loyalty for a season, but legacy is built on belief. The moment your name loses its shine, your fortune follows."
The professor nods, pleased. The room watches, rapt.
Sebastian tilts his head toward me, smirk deepening. "Funny. I thought your family specialized in both."
A spark of laughter runs through the class. My blood simmers.
I smile, slow and deliberate. "And yours specializes in forgetting which rules apply to them."
The laughter shifts, turning sharper, closer to a gasp.
Sebastian's eyes glitter. Challenge accepted.
-----
By the time the bell rings, the war has begun.
I walk out of class with Penny and Mia flanking me, voices buzzing with excitement about the showdown. But my mind is elsewhere. On him. On the smirk that promised he isn't done, not by far.
This year was supposed to be mine.
My crown.
My throne.
But Sebastian Blackwell has other plans.
And if he wants a war…
He'll get one.