Four Years Later

POV: Seraphina

---

The flashbulbs exploded like tiny supernovas.

I blinked behind my oversized sunglasses, the familiar weight of them pressing against the bridge of my nose. The black frames covered half my face, but they couldn't hide the smile I'd perfected over four years. The smile that said: I'm fine. I'm happy. I'm exactly where I want to be.

The lie tasted like honey on my tongue.

"Seraphina! Over here!" "Is it true you're dating your co-star?" "Seraphina! Look this way!"

I turned toward the voice, tilting my chin just so. The cameras loved me. They always had. Four years of modeling, four years of acting, four years of building a fortress around my heart.

Four years since I'd walked out of Blackthorn Academy with cum in my hair and a stranger's jacket on my shoulders. Four years since I'd seen Damian Blackthorn's face.

I pushed the thought away. I'd gotten good at that—pushing things away. Burying them so deep that even I couldn't find them.

"Thank you!" I called out, my voice light, practiced. "Thank you all for coming!"

The fans screamed. The cameras flashed. Bodyguards flanked me on both sides, their massive frames creating a bubble around me. Hands reached out—fans desperate to touch me, to feel a piece of the fantasy.

The black sedan swallowed me whole. The doors slammed shut, and the world outside disappeared. No flashbulbs. No screaming fans. No desperate hands reaching for me. Just the hum of the engine and the weight of the silence pressing down on my shoulders.

I pulled off my sunglasses. The black eye was still there, hidden beneath layers of concealer. The bruise was fading, but not fast enough.

"You're lucky it's not worse," Xander had said last night. "If you'd just listened to me, I wouldn't have had to—" I'd stopped listening. I always stopped listening when he started making excuses.

Four years. Four years of building a new life. Four years of running. And I still can't outrun the things that chase me.

My phone buzzed. Father: When are you coming home? I stared at the message. I didn't answer.

My phone buzzed again. Father: I know you're there. I saw the premiere photos. You looked beautiful. But I can see the bruise, Seraphina. Even under the makeup. I can always see.

I closed my eyes. He can always see. That was the thing about my father. Alistair Blackwood, the most powerful man in the city. And he couldn't protect me from the one person who was hurting me. Because I wouldn't let him. If my father found out about Xander—if he knew what was happening behind closed doors—he'd burn the world to the ground. He'd start a war. And I'd be responsible for all of it. So I stayed silent. I smiled for the cameras. I let the bruises heal in private. And I kept running.

The hotel was a palace of glass and steel. I walked through the lobby, my heels clicking against the marble floor. Everyone wanted to be seen with me, to claim a piece of Seraphina Blackwood's spotlight.

I hated them all. Not because they were cruel. Because they were kind. Because they smiled at me like I was something precious, something worth protecting. And I knew it was a lie. I'd learned that lesson four years ago.

I stepped into the elevator. The doors slid shut, enclosing me in silence. I pressed the button for the penthouse—the penthouse, because I'd earned it. Because I'd clawed my way out of nothing and built something that made the world stop and stare.

But it still wasn't enough. I could still feel his hands on me. Damian's hands. Rough and demanding and somehow, impossibly, the most tender I'd ever been touched.

I shook my head, pushing the memory away. The cum in my hair. The blood on my thighs. The way he'd said my name like a prayer. I'd heard him whisper it in my dreams for months after I left.

The penthouse was cold. I slipped off my heels. My feet ached. My shoulders ached. Everything ached. I walked to the bathroom and stared at my reflection in the mirror. The makeup was still perfect. The smile was still in place. But underneath it, I could see the cracks. The black eye. The hollow cheeks.

Four years since I became unforgettable. And I still don't recognize myself.

I reached for the hem of my dress, ready to strip it off and fall into bed. But my hand froze mid-motion. I saw something in the mirror. A shadow. A figure. I spun around. The room was empty.

But I could have sworn I'd seen him—tall and dark, his ice blue eyes fixed on me with the same intensity I remembered from that night.

I pressed my hand against my chest, feeling my heart pound. "I'm losing my mind," I whispered.

Or maybe, a treacherous voice whispered back, you're losing the battle you've been fighting for four years.

I didn't know which was worse.

---