The color drains from her face. “He can’t prove anything.”
“He doesn’t need proof,” I say, enjoying her discomfort more than I probably should. “He just needs suspicion. And in Black Crown, suspicion is often enough.”
I turn to leave, but her voice stops me at the door.
“Seraphina.”
I pause, but don’t turn around.
“You think you’ve won,” she says, her voice steadier now. “But this game has only just begun. And I’ve been playing it much longer than you have.”
I glance back over my shoulder, taking in her perfect posture, her flawless makeup, and the cold determination in her eyes. And I realize with sudden clarity that she’ll never change. She’ll never apologize. She’ll never be the mother I needed.
“You keep telling yourself that,” I say softly. “But remember—I learned from the best. And I’m not nearly as bound by your rules as you think I am.”
I walk out without looking back, closing the door on the woman who gave me life but never truly gave me a mother. The weight of our confrontation settles on my shoulders, but it’s not the crushing burden I expected. Instead, it feels like I’ve finally cut away a tumor I’ve been carrying for years.
I pull out my phone and text Lucien.
It’s done. I’m ready to come home.
His response is immediate.
I’m waiting.
I slide into the passenger seat of the Bentley, watching my childhood home grow smaller in the window as we drive away. I don’t feel triumphant. I don’t feel vindicated. I just feel...free.
And for now, that’s enough.
Chapter 33
Lucien
The roar of the crowd hits me as I stand at the mouth of the tunnel, my heart hammering against my ribs. The championship game. Everything we’ve worked for comes down to the next forty minutes.
Coach is barking last-minute instructions behind me, but I’m barely listening. My mind keeps drifting to my father—to the quiet, efficient way I dismantled him. No grand speeches, no dramatic confrontations. Just a series of calculated moves that stripped him of everything he valued.
That’s what kills a narcissist like Vincent—not the public humiliation, but the quiet erasure. The way his name has already started to fade from Black Crown’s records, his influence evaporating like morning dew. He’s still breathing for now, but he’s already dead to the world that matters.
“Deveurex!” Coach snaps, jolting me back to the present. “You with us?”
I nod, rolling my shoulders as the adrenaline floods my system. “Let’s fucking do this.”
The team forms up behind me, a wall of red and black jerseys ready to storm the court. I can feel the weight of the momentpressing down on me. The culmination of four years of blood, sweat, and sacrifice.
I take a deep breath, then lead the charge out of the tunnel.
The noise is deafening. Thousands of voices blend into a single roar as we burst onto the court. The arena lights are blinding after the darkness of the tunnel, but my eyes adjust quickly, scanning the crowd automatically.
And there she is.
Front row, center court.
My jersey hangs off her shoulders, the “DEVEREUX” stretched across her back in bold white letters. My number is painted on her cheek in red, a perfect match to the ribbon tied in her hair with the same number. She’s marked by me everywhere, claimed for everyone to see.
Our eyes lock across the court, and something primal stirs in my chest. She’s mine. Fucking mine. And she’s here, wearing my name, my number, my colors. Just like she always was supposed to be.
I don’t smile, but I give her a single, deliberate nod, and the corner of her mouth quirks up in response. She knows what that nod means. She knows what I’m thinking.
