CHAPTER FOUR : The velvet lineage

The book sat on Olivia's kitchen table like a sleeping animal—silent, but alive. The Velvet Lineage. The title itself pulsed in her mind like a warning. She hadn't opened it since the night before. She hadn't slept either.

Even now, under the watery grey of the London morning, the book radiated something—heat, energy, memory?

She paced in front of it, cradling a mug of cold coffee she'd forgotten to drink. Her phone buzzed with messages from Lila, wondering why she hadn't shown up at the gallery. She didn't answer.

Eventually, Olivia sat down and ran her fingers across the cracked leather. It felt like skin—old, worn, familiar. The first page creaked as she opened it.

The sketches were what shook her most.

Not just the floating woman again—this time surrounded by wolves—but others too. Women with long braids and bare feet, eyes like moons. Women dancing in circles of flame. Women painting with blood and ash. All of them bore resemblance to her in some way. In the cheekbones. In the tilt of the head. In the eyes.

It was like staring into mirrors that spanned centuries.

The written text was even stranger.

To the daughters of fire, born of ash and desire.

You who dream in gold and bleed in light.

You are not made to be loved.

You are made to be remembered.

Her breath caught.

She flipped faster.

There were names—Seraphina, Isolde, Maren, Liora, Evangeline—and beneath each name: a date, a location, and a single phrase that read like a curse.

Burned in Florence.

Buried in Prague.

Vanished in New Orleans.

Drowned in the Thames.

Swallowed by shadow.

And then, right at the bottom of the last page:

Olivia.

London.

To be chosen.

Her hands trembled.

"I'm not part of this," she whispered aloud, as if speaking it might undo the words on the page. "This isn't me."

But deep down, in that place dreams came from, she knew it was her.

She just didn't know how yet.

**

By afternoon, Olivia had bundled the book into a scarf and shoved it into the bottom of her wardrobe. If she didn't see it, maybe it wouldn't be real. She forced herself to shower, get dressed, and head out.

The streets of Shoreditch bustled with weekend energy—vintage markets, street food vendors, young couples clutching each other's hands like lifelines. She felt like a ghost among them, moving but not present.

She ended up at a small rooftop café Lila had once taken her to. It had wooden benches and fairy lights and a view of the city that made everything feel less heavy.

She didn't expect to see him.

Aiden.

Again.

He was seated in the corner, alone, stirring something in a glass—whiskey, maybe. His eyes were closed, but when she stepped onto the rooftop, he opened them like he'd been waiting for her.

"Stalking me now?" she asked, heart thudding.

"No. You're the one who followed the thread."

She blinked. "What?"

He motioned for her to sit. Against her better judgement, she did.

"I saw the book," she said after a moment. "The Velvet Lineage."

He didn't flinch. "I thought you might."

"Is any of it true?"

"All of it."

"And Seraphina—was she one of them?"

"She was the first."

Olivia looked out at the city. "Why me?"

Aiden's voice was low, solemn. "Because the line has been dormant for a hundred years. No daughter has awakened. No one has heard the fire whisper since Seraphina. Until you."

"I don't want fire," Olivia snapped. "I want my life back. I want sleep without visions. I want—"

"Answers?" he finished.

She met his gaze.

He looked almost…sad.

"I didn't ask for this," she said.

"No one ever does."

They sat in silence, the noise of the city humming below. Then Olivia asked the one question she'd been afraid to voice.

"Who are you, Aiden?"

He sighed, his fingers tightening around the glass. "I was Seraphina's lover. In another life."

She laughed, bitter and sharp. "She lived a hundred years ago."

"I've lived longer."

She stilled. "What are you saying?"

"I was cursed by her magic—bound to the line. Every time a daughter awakens, I am pulled back. To guide her. To warn her. To love her, if she lets me."

The word love struck something in Olivia. It felt too close, too soon, too dangerous.

"And what happens when I burn out?" she asked quietly.

He didn't answer.

"Tell me."

"You die," he said. "Or you destroy everything around you."

Olivia stood. "Thanks for the warning."

She turned to leave.

But his voice followed her like a shadow. "This time can be different, Olivia. You're different."

She didn't look back.

**

Later, in her flat, she pulled the painting out again—Seraphina in Ribbons.

She studied the expression on the woman's face. Power. Hunger. Sorrow.

And in her eyes—something Olivia hadn't seen before.

Hope.

Beneath the frame was a smudged signature. She took a cloth and gently wiped it.

Her stomach dropped.

It wasn't Seraphina's name.

It was hers.

Olivia Sinclair.

She stepped back in horror.

"I didn't paint this."

But the date beside the signature said otherwise.

1999

The year she was born.