I was going home. I still couldn’t believe that bitch had drugged me. I kept thinking about what might have happened if she’d succeeded—how I would ever explain it to Elara. I didn’t even want to go there.
I slid into the backseat of the SUV, feeling a bone-deep, sick exhaustion from the drugs still in my system. I hadn’t slept. I leaned my head against the cool glass, trying to replace the memory of Seraphine’s hands with the thought of Elara’s face.
“Sir.”
Klaus’s voice pulled me back. He was holding a slim satellite phone over the seat. The screen was active, showing a live video feed. “Your mother said you should see this.”
I took the phone. The feed was high-definition. It showed a luxurious bedroom—not mine. In the center of the frame stood Vivienne in another impeccable suit. And on her knees in front of her, disheveled and weeping silently in a silk robe, was Seraphine.
The audio was crystal clear.
“...smart enough, pretty enough, rich enough to play fair. I don’t play these games,” my mother was saying, her voice conversational as she paced a slow circle around the trembling woman. “Fair exchange is never robbery,ma chérie. But whatyou attempted tonight was not business. It was not even seduction. It was predation. Predators should be put down, but we live in a world of laws, and one of those laws says do unto others as they do unto you.”
Seraphine tried to speak through a choked sob. “My father—”
“Your father is currently on the phone with my lawyers, signing over his five percent stake in his company as a gesture of good faith,” Vivienne cut her off. “He understands the cost of poor parenting. He either didn’t teach you not to do sinful things, or didn’t teach you not to get caught. Now, we discuss your lesson.”
The camera panned to Seraphine’s face. The arrogant heiress was gone, stripped bare.
“Klaus,” I said, my voice rough. “Tell her to stop. It’s done. Let it go.” I wasn't doing it for Seraphine—I was doing it for my mother. She didn't need any more enemies.
Klaus spoke into his earpiece. On the screen, my mother stopped pacing. She seemed to listen to a voice I couldn’t hear, and a faint smile touched her lips. She looked directly into the hidden camera lens, her emerald eyes connecting with mine.
“I heard you,mon cœur, but no,” she said softly. “You have your father’s heart. It’s a good heart.” Her gaze flicked back to Seraphine. “But she drugged you. She tried to violate what is ours. The Hale name. Your future. Your choice.”
I don’t know why I tried to stop her. This was who she was. She protected our family no matter what. She didn’t play games. Once, when I was too young to understand power, she told me...The first concession is the road to surrender.
I watched her lean down, bringing her face inches from Seraphine’s. What she whispered next was too low for themicrophone, but I saw Seraphine’s eyes widen in sheer, unadulterated terror before she squeezed them shut.
Vivienne straightened, brushing a non-existent piece of lint from her sleeve. She gave a final, dismissive glance at the woman on the floor and turned to the camera.
“I love you, baby,” she said, her tone shifting back to the warm cadence I knew. “Go home to your Elara. I’ll balance the ledger here.”
The screen went black.
I sat in the silence, the phone heavy in my hand. I saw my mother’s face—a perfect mask of loving vengeance. I felt the chill of her world seep into my bones.
I had wanted to ruin Alastair Ashworth through contracts and clauses, to break him cleanly with the law. My mother had just demonstrated the difference between us.
I sought justice. She delivered consequences.
Maybe I needed to be more like her.
Chapter 20
Elara
“Elara Vance, if you don’t stand your bougie ass up and hug me—”
I stood so fast I nearly knocked over my mimosa. After I’d told her a fraction of what had happened, Shayna had flown in on a red-eye, declaring via text that my "imploding life" required a week of her presence and emergency mimosas. She pulled me into a hug that squeezed the breath out of me.
Shayna had been the only other Black girl at our private school. She was the girl who was unapologetically Black no matter the room. Her family was old-money rich, and she loved to tell the story of her great-great-great-grandmother who sold fried chicken to folks on trains—a venture that led to a restaurant empire across the South.
She was tiny, maybe five feet tall, but her presence was massive. Her Andrea Iyamah dress fit her like it was painted on. She’d been the one to grab my shoulders after the wedding announcement years ago.“Don’t do this. Come to D.C. with me. Live in Chocolate City. Breathe. Don’t get lost in this dynasty drama. It will eat you alive.”
I hadn’t listened.
“You look tired,” she said, her eyes searching mine. “Not regular tired. Soul tired.”
