Morning comes without sleep.
Light bleeds through the thin curtains, too pale, too clean, like it's never seen what was said in this apartment last night. My head throbs from too many thoughts and absolutely no rest.
The envelope still sits on the desk where I left it. Black. Small. Patient.
I watch it for a long time, waiting for it to do something impossible—burn, fade, vanish—anything that ends with me not stepping into a car tonight. It doesn't move. Of course.
Eventually, the smell of coffee creeps under my door.
They're awake.
I pull on jeans and a sweater, fingers clumsy on the fabric. Clothes feel wrong on my skin, like costumes. I open the door to the hallway.
Voices drift from the kitchen—low, urgent, cut off whenever they approach my name. The air in the corridor feels heavier than it did yesterday. Maybe it's just me.
Evelyn stands at the counter when I walk in, hair pinned up, mascara smeared under her eyes like she tried to fix it and gave up halfway. Two mugs wait on the table. Marcus sits at the far end, elbows on his knees, dress shirt wrinkled, tie hanging loose around his neck.
They both look up at the same time.
No one knows how to say good morning.
"Coffee," she manages, pushing a mug toward me.
"Thanks."
My voice sounds rusty.
I sit. The chair scrapes louder than usual, the sound scraping along my nerves. The three of us gather around the table like it's any other day before work, before classes, before normal.
Nothing about this is normal.
"We need to talk about what happens tonight," Marcus says.
"Finally," I reply.
His jaw tightens, but he nods. "We leave at nineteen hundred. They said transport would arrive, but—"
"But they'll be watching all day," I cut in. "They already are."
He glances toward the window. The blinds are half-closed, slats tilted upward to show only sky. Not the street. Not the car I know is sitting there.
Evelyn's hands worry a napkin into smaller and smaller pieces. "We thought it might help if we—if we got you something to wear. For tonight."
Only then do I notice the garment bag hanging off the back of the nearest chair. Plain. Black. Zipped to the top.
A bitter laugh tries to claw its way up. "Let me guess. Something neutral. Nothing flashy. "Appropriate," right?"
Her shoulders curl inward. "We just… we don't know what they expect. We wanted you to have a choice that isn't… theirs."
My gaze lingers on the bag. "You couldn't give me a choice about anything else. Might as well start with this."
Silence.
It lands heavy, pushing down on all of us.
"I deserve that," Marcus says quietly.
"Yes," I answer. "You do."
His eyes meet mine. There's a flinch there, but he doesn't look away. For the first time since the emissary stepped over our threshold, he looks less like a CEO caught in headlights and more like a man who knows the exact price of what he's done.
"We can't change the contract," he says, each word forced out. "But we can control some details. How you arrive. How you're seen. That matters."
"To them," I say. "Does it matter to me?"
Evelyn leans forward. "It might. Those people live on impressions. Optics. You're not going in there as a girl from… from nowhere. You're going as Quinn collateral. That's already a weapon. Let it be a sharp one."
It's the closest she's come to speaking about The Council like she knows them. Like she's watched them from the edge of something darker for years.
A shiver runs through me.
"How long have you been waiting for this?" I ask. "Honestly."
Her lips part, close, part again. "Since you were born," she says finally. "Some years we thought they'd forgotten. Some years we'd feel… watched. More calls from lawyers we never met in person. Anonymous donors keeping the company afloat when it shouldn't have survived. Every good thing came with that seal stamped somewhere small."
I remember scholarships that appeared when I needed them most. Contracts that fell into Marcus's lap right when the business was failing. Anonymous benefactors. A "guardian investor" he never named.
"Every time we caught our breath," she whispers, "we knew we were breathing someone else's air."
My coffee has gone cold.
I push the mug away and stand, walking to the garment bag. The zipper sounds too loud as I drag it down.
The dress is simple. Black. Knee-length. Clean lines. No sparkle, no lace. The fabric is heavier than it looks, smooth under my fingers, like something you'd wear to court or a funeral.
It will look good on you, a clinical part of my brain notes. The color anchors your skin. It says I know this is serious. It doesn't say please.
"They'll provide jewelry," I mutter. "How thoughtful."
"Refusing it would be seen as disrespect," Marcus says. "Their rituals—"
"Don't call it that," I cut him off. "Ritual makes it sound like it means something."
"It means everything to them," he replies. "That's the problem."
I hang the dress back up.
Time drags and rushes at the same time.
Daylight shifts across the floor. The television stays off. Phones buzz with messages we don't answer. I catch glimpses of movement through the blinds—dark shapes near the curb, a car that never leaves, the faint glint of a camera lens up the block.
For once, the city noise feels far away, muted by something thicker than glass.
When the clock on the microwave hits seventeen-thirty, the apartment feels like it's holding its breath.
I shower. Hot water beats against my skin, but the chill underneath doesn't melt. In the fogged mirror, my reflection looks like someone I might pass in a hallway and not recognize. Same brown eyes. Same dark hair. Different gravity.
I pull the dress over my head.
It slides into place like it was made for me. Maybe it was. The thought sends a cold shiver down my spine.
Evelyn knocks once before stepping into my room. Her eyes soften and widen at the same time. "You look… older," she says.
"Good," I answer. "Maybe they'll think twice before talking down to me."
"They won't," she says, a bitter edge under her softness. "But you need to believe they might."
She steps closer, fingertips hovering near my shoulder but not touching. "Turn."
I obey.
She smooths the fabric down my back, adjusts the neckline, tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. Her hands are cold, and I wonder how long she's been hiding that kind of chill.
"You don't bow," she murmurs. "Not to any of them. You stand straight. You look at whoever speaks to you. But don't interrupt. They hate interruption."
"Anything else?" My tone is light, but the air isn't.
"Don't show them fear," she whispers. "They feed on it."
We both know that's impossible. Fear is already coiled inside me, tight and alive. But maybe I can wear it under the dress instead of over it.
The knock comes at exactly nineteen hundred.
Not the hesitant kind. Not the neighbor kind.
Three measured beats.
We all freeze.
Marcus moves first, this time less like a man walking to his punishment and more like he's decided to at least walk straight into it.
He opens the door.
The emissary stands there again, same suit, same tie, same forgettable face. No envelope this time. Just duty.
His gaze flicks over my appearance, lingering for a fraction of a second.
"Acceptable," he says.
I want to slam the door in his face.
Instead, I pick up my coat and say nothing.
Marcus steps forward. "I'll be accompanying her to the Hall."
The man nods. "One representative is permitted. Keep your distance during the presentation. You understand the boundaries."
The warning is clear: observer, not defender.
We follow him down the hallway. Every step away from our apartment feels like a step off the edge of something.
Neighbors' doors stay shut. Either they don't know what's happening in 4B, or they know enough never to look.
Downstairs, the building lobby is empty. Even the mailboxes look nervous.
Outside, the air bites my bare legs. A black sedan idles at the curb, windows tinted so dark they turn the inside into an absence. The watcher from last night is gone; a new man leans against the front fender—broad shouldered, crew cut, expression blank. Security, obviously. His eyes flick over me with clinical efficiency, like he's noting exits, obstructions, weaknesses.
The emissary opens the rear door. "Miss Quinn."
Not Sera. Not anymore.
I slide into the leather interior. The smell of clean upholstery and faint cologne hits me—quiet, expensive violence.
Marcus gets in on the other side. The emissary takes the passenger seat up front. The driver is a shadow with hands. The door shuts with a soft, final thump.
We pull away from the curb.
The city moves around us, unaware. Or pretending to be. Neon signs blink. Restaurants glow warm behind glass. A couple laughs on the sidewalk, oblivious to the car gliding past with a girl inside being delivered like a sealed package.
My phone buzzes in my bag.
I flinch.
The emissary doesn't turn around, but his hand lifts, palm up. "Devices."
"You're already monitoring everything," I say. "What's the point?"
"Protocol," he answers. "Please."
I take the phone out and set it on the console between the front seats. Marcus does the same.
"You will receive them back when the Council deems it appropriate," the emissary says. "If at all."
Of course.
We merge onto a wider road. The buildings grow taller, shinier. Glass facades rise like mirrors pointed at the sky. This part of the city belongs to people who never had to wonder how they'd pay rent.
Somewhere in these towers, someone is watching our progress on a screen, checking a box. Quinn collateral: in transit.
"You're quiet," Marcus murmurs.
"What should I say?" I ask. "Thanks for the ride?"
He swallows. "I know I have no right to ask, but—try not to hate me forever, okay?"
I stare out at the passing lights.
"I'll start with tonight," I say. "I'll work my way up from there."
The emissary's reflection watches us from the window. His eyes give away nothing, but his shoulders are a shade tighter than before. Listening.
Traffic thins as we climb a hill. The driver turns down a side street lined with trees that don't look like they've ever had to fight for sunlight. Security cameras wink from stone pillars. Ahead, gates rise. Iron. High. Closed.
The car slows.
Two guards step forward, dressed in black. No logos, no insignia. They might be private security. They might be something else.
The emissary lowers his window slightly, says something too low for me to hear. One guard glances at me through the tinted glass, then nods and gestures.
The gates open.
We drive through.
Inside, the world shifts.
Gravel paves the circular drive. Lights spill over manicured hedges, a fountain that doesn't spray water so much as sculpt it. At the center of it all rises a building so polished it looks almost unreal—stone and glass and shadow.
The Selection Hall.
My heart bangs against my ribs.
The car stops at the base of the stairs.
The emissary steps out first. A second later, he opens my door.
Cold air rushes in, sharper here, as if it's been trained to keep secrets.
I swing my legs out. My shoes crunch lightly on gravel. The Hall towers above, windows dark on the upper levels, light spilling from the grand entrance like a spotlight aimed inward.
"From this point," the emissary says, tone formal, "everything you do will be observed. Remember that."
I lift my chin.
"I figured that out when you took my phone," I reply.
He almost smiles. Almost. It doesn't reach his eyes.
Marcus gets out on the far side. His face is pale, but his spine is straight. He looks like a man walking into a hostile boardroom with no shares left.
The emissary nods toward the doors. "They are waiting."
They.
The word punches cold straight into my center.
For a heartbeat, my body wants to refuse. To turn, run, fall to my knees on the gravel and refuse to move another step toward the people who think my life is a line item in an old ledger.
But the gates behind us are already closing.
Evelyn's voice echoes in my head. Don't show them fear. They feed on it.
I force my feet onto the first marble step.
One. Then another.
With each step, my world narrows to the sound of my own heartbeat and the faint echo of our footsteps under the arched ceiling ahead.
At the top, the doors stand open.
Light spills out. Voices drift from somewhere inside—low, cultured, edged with power.
Somewhere beyond that threshold, five heirs stand in a room, knowing my name, waiting to decide what I'm worth.
I square my shoulders.
And step through.