The ballroom glittered with chandeliers, crystal glasses, and false smiles. For a moment, Seraphina Vale believed she was standing at the center of her fairytale—the perfect fiancé, the perfect dress, the perfect night.

Then everything shattered.

Her fiancé, Gregory Hale, pulled another woman into his arms and kissed her. Right there, in front of hundreds of guests, in front of Seraphina’s father, in front of the press cameras.

The world tilted. Laughter and whispers filled the air like daggers.

“You never meant anything to me, Seraphina,” Gregory sneered when he finally let go of the woman clinging to his arm. His voice carried through the speakers, cruelly amplified. “This marriage was nothing more than a deal. Did you really think I wanted you?”

A hush fell across the ballroom. And then came the murmurs.

“She’s been rejected…”

“Humiliated—what a disgrace.”

“Poor little Vale girl. No one wants her.”

Seraphina’s vision blurred. Her chest rose and fell, fighting against the sobs clawing their way up her throat. She wanted to scream, to claw at Gregory’s smug face, to demand why he destroyed her in front of everyone. But her voice betrayed her; all she managed was a trembling whisper.

“…how could you…”

No one heard it. Or maybe they just didn’t care.

Her father’s cold stare met hers across the room. He was furious—not because his daughter’s heart had been broken, but because the deal he brokered had collapsed.

That was it. That was the moment Seraphina understood: no one in this hall wanted her. Not Gregory. Not her father. Not anyone.

Her fists clenched against the satin of her gown. Her heart felt like it was cracking open, piece by piece. She refused to let them see her break.

She turned on her heel and pushed past the crowd, past the judgmental stares, past the cameras that captured her humiliation. She burst through the double doors and into the storm.

Rain poured down like the heavens themselves had turned against her. Her gown clung to her body, heavy and suffocating. She stumbled down the marble steps, shivering, mascara streaking her cheeks.

She didn’t know how long she wandered. Her heels clicked against the empty streets, the storm drowning her sobs. Champagne still burned in her veins. Her humiliation, her fury, her heartbreak—it all spun together until she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

She found herself in a hotel bar. She didn’t remember walking in. She didn’t remember ordering the drink. She only remembered the way it burned her throat and numbed her pain, if only for a moment.

“Drinking alone?”

The voice was low. Calm. Dangerous.

Seraphina turned, and her heart skipped.

He was tall. Impeccably dressed. Eyes the color of steel—sharp, unreadable, merciless. She knew his face, though she had never spoken to him. Lucian Veyron. The billionaire people whispered about in fear, the man rumored to ruin businesses with a word, the devil of the city.

“Leave me alone,” she muttered, gripping her glass tighter.

He didn’t. He slid into the seat beside her, his presence filling the space like a shadow. “Men like Gregory Hale don’t deserve women like you.”

Her lips trembled. “And what would you know about it?”

Lucian’s gaze held hers, unwavering. “Enough to know that fire doesn’t belong in a cage. He tried to dim you. He succeeded—for tonight.” His voice dropped, smooth as ice. “But I see the flames in your eyes, Seraphina Vale.”

Her breath caught. No one had ever said her name like that before. Like it was both a challenge and a promise.

She should have left. She should have pushed him away. Instead, her anger, her heartbreak, and the alcohol tangled together into recklessness.

“Then prove it,” she whispered.

The night blurred after that—heat, fury, and desperate fire clashing against Lucian’s cold control. She didn’t remember how she ended up tangled in silk sheets, only the way his eyes never softened, even when his touch set her ablaze.

And in the morning, when the storm had passed, reality returned like a blade to her throat.

Lucian Veyron stood at the window of the hotel suite, immaculate once more in his black suit, untouched by the chaos of the night before.

“Good morning, Mrs. Veyron.” His tone was cool, mocking.

Seraphina sat upright, clutching the sheets to her chest, her pulse racing. “What did you just call me?”

He turned, eyes like ice. “You think I let last night happen without purpose?”

Her heart stopped.

Lucian’s lips curved in the faintest smile, cruel and knowing.

“You belong to me now, Seraphina. And I never give back what I claim.”