Whispers in the Dark

The night outside pulsed with life—music, laughter, the reckless abandon of youth surrendering to indulgence. But within the shadowed halls of the bar's VIP section, something far darker stirred.

Seraphina's breath was uneven as she staggered down the dim corridor, her pulse thrumming against her skin like a bird caged in its own terror. The world spun, a dizzying blur of neon lights and muffled voices. Her limbs felt heavier with each step, the effects of spiked liquor seeping into her bloodstream like an insidious whisper.

She had been careless.

One moment, she had merely excused herself to the restroom, seeking a moment of solitude away from the suffocating throng. The next, she found herself ensnared in a nightmare.

Hands, foreign and greedy, had reached for her the moment she turned the corner. A dark chuckle. The sickening stench of cheap cologne and ill intent. She had barely managed to wrench free from their grasp, her hazy mind screaming for clarity as she stumbled through the labyrinth of corridors.

Astrid.

Seraphina gritted her teeth as realization dawned—her best friend had lured her into this. A twisted betrayal masked beneath saccharine smiles and well-timed laughter. The thought sliced through her, sharp as glass, but she could not afford to dwell on it. Not now.

Somewhere behind her, she could hear them—footsteps, drunken laughter growing impatient.

Run.

Summoning the last dregs of her strength, she tore through the darkened hallway, hands outstretched as she fumbled for escape. A door. Any door.

And then—

Relief.

Her fingers met the cool metal of a handle, twisting it open just as the sound of her pursuers grew near. She stumbled inside, the heavy door clicking shut behind her, swallowing her whole into the abyss of another unknown room.

The air was thick with the scent of musk and aged liquor. The lighting was poor—golden lamps casting elongated shadows against the velvet-draped interior. And there, sprawled across the massive bed, was him.

Lucian Drax.

He was draped against the silk sheets, his black button-down half-undone, the sharp ridges of his collarbones peeking through. A bottle of whiskey sat abandoned on the nightstand, half-empty—a testament to the evening's indulgence. His friends had left him to revel in whatever temptation awaited him, a girl arranged as a careless afterthought.

But no girl had arrived.

Only Seraphina.

She moved forward, her movements sluggish, her body aching from the frantic escape. Her knees hit the edge of the bed, her breath uneven as she all but collapsed onto the space beside him. The scent of jasmine swirled through the air—a delicate contrast to the sharp burn of whiskey and the storm that lingered behind Lucian's half-lidded eyes.

He stirred at the intrusion, his mind swimming between inebriation and an unshakable sense of familiarity. He had expected some nameless girl, an empty distraction from a past he could never quite outrun. But the scent that now surrounded him was different.

Jasmine.

Like a memory too soft to hold, yet too powerful to forget.

His thoughts drifted, spiraling back to a time long before the darkness had settled into his bones. He was a boy again, standing at the gates of the Vale estate, trailing behind his mother as she exchanged pleasantries with the ever-graceful Evangeline Vale. And then—

A girl.

Golden-haired, wide-eyed, a creature of silk and quiet defiance. She had stared at him, unblinking, as though seeing straight into the very fabric of his being.

Seraphina.

The ghost of her name lingered on his lips, but the weight of the present dragged him back under. He couldn't see her clearly now—only the delicate curve of her silhouette, the way her breath hitched as she settled beside him, the soft scent of jasmine invading his senses.

A mirage. A cruel trick of fate.

Seraphina, meanwhile, allowed herself a fragile moment of respite. She had escaped. That was all that mattered. And here, wrapped in the warmth of a stranger, she could finally breathe.

Her fingers brushed against the fabric of his shirt, the heat of his skin seeping through. The action was instinctual—born not of lust, but of longing. Of safety. He stirred beneath her touch, a sharp inhale as his fingers came up to ghost against her wrist, trapping her in place.

The room pulsed with something unspoken, a current that neither of them could name.

But neither resisted.

Because in this moment, they were not Seraphina Vale and Lucian Drax. They were not the heirs of warring legacies, nor the remnants of childhood memories wrapped in broken dreams.

They were merely two souls, lost in the echo of something far greater than themselves.

And so, beneath the cover of night and the weight of unspoken truths, they surrendered to the inevitable.

A night that neither of them would remember.

Yet one that would change everything.

—

Meanwhile, across the bar, Isolde Veyne's vision blurred, the edges of her consciousness fraying like unraveling silk.

She had been moments away from searching for Seraphina when the dizziness struck—a sudden, unrelenting wave that pulled her under. The glass in her hand slipped from her fingers, shattering against the floor in a rain of crystal shards. Around her, voices warped and melted, an eerie lullaby pulling her into forced oblivion.

And just before darkness consumed her, a whisper.

Astrid.

Then—nothing.