“You’re coming to my game tonight.”
I freeze mid-turn. “Excuse me?”
“The championship qualifier. You’re coming.” His eyes remain fixed on his screen, fingers typing steadily. “Marcus will pick you up at seven.”
The casual command makes my blood boil. “Is that an order, Your Highness?”
Now he does look at me, those green eyes narrowing slightly. “It’s an expectation. As my Chosen.”
“Have you considered, I don’t know, asking me if I want to come instead of telling me I’m going to be there?”
He sighs like I’m being deliberately difficult. “Do you want to come to my game tonight, Seraphina?”
“That’s not the point,” I snap. “The point is you just assume I’ll do whatever you say, whenever you say it. Like I don’t have my own life or plans.”
“Do you have plans tonight?” He raises an eyebrow, knowing damn well I don’t.
“Maybe I do,” I counter, lifting my chin. “Maybe I was going to study with Courtney.”
“Bullshit. You haven’t spoken to Courtney in weeks.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Just say you don’t want to come.”
“I don’t want to be ordered around like one of your minions!”
“This isn’t ordering you around,” he says, his voice deceptively calm. “This is me expecting my Chosen to support me at an important game.”
“You could have just asked nicely, Lucien. ‘Hey, Seraphina, I’d really like it if you came to my game tonight. It would mean a lot to me.’ Is that so fucking hard?”
His jaw ticks—that little muscle jump that tells me I’ve hit a nerve. “Fine. Don’t come. I don’t give a shit.”
“That’s not what I?—“
“No, you’ve made yourself clear.” He turns back to his laptop, effectively dismissing me. “You don’t want to be there. Message received.”
“Jesus Christ, you are such a fucking child.” I throw my hands up in exasperation. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t go. I said ask me properly instead of commanding me like I’m your fucking servant.”
“I don’t beg, Seraphina.” His voice is ice cold now. “Not for anything, and certainly not for you to do what any normal girlfriend would do without question.”
The word “girlfriend” immediately freaks me the fuck out. So I do what anyone else would do in this situation, I turn around and leave because I can’t deal with any of this right now. Fuck it, I’m gonna go get a facial.
I’m staring at myself in the mirror like a fucking idiot, a black eyeliner pencil clutched in my hand. What am I even doing? After storming out this morning, I swore I wouldn’t go to his stupid game. Yet here I am, drawing his number on my cheek like some lovesick groupie.
“Fuck,” I mutter, tracing the final line of the “23” and pulling back to examine my work. It looks good—bold and defiant against my skin. I’ve gone all out tonight, despite telling myself I wouldn’t. The jersey hangs off one shoulder, exposing mycollarbone and the faint marks Lucien left there two nights ago. My black skinny jeans hug every curve, and the red bottoms of my Louboutins match my lips perfectly.
I look hot, and I hate myself a little for caring so much.
My phone buzzes with a text from Marcus.
Outside when you’re ready.
Of course he’s early. Lucien’s people are always punctual, like being late would trigger the apocalypse or something. I take one last look at myself, smoothing my ponytail braid and adjusting the jersey. The fabric smells like Lucien. We are not going to examine the fact I grabbed his cologne and sprayed it on. No one needs to know that. I’m taking it to my grave.
I grab my phone, checking that I have my ID and lip gloss, then head for the door. The sleek black Bentley is idling at the curb exactly as promised. I grab the door and slide into the backseat and within seconds we’re driving past the gate and toward campus.
I scroll through socials mindlessly, pausing on a makeup tutorial I’ll probably never try. The partition between me and Marcus is closed, which is fine by me.
A notification pops up—my mom again. I swipe it away. Whatever crisis she’s manufacturing today can wait until after the game.
Something feels off. I glance up from my phone and frown. We just passed the west entrance to campus.
