Chapter 18: The Departure
Kian stood in front of the full-length mirror, buttoning the final clasp of the high-collared black shirt she had tailored for him. The fabric was smooth, cool against his skin, and the fit—flawless. Every piece she had left for him matched his body like it had been measured from memory. The collar rose high, concealing the constellation of bites and bruises etched across his neck and collarbone. The sleeves hugged his arms, the black slacks cut to precision around his frame.
He looked like someone else.
No—he looked like himself, refined through her eyes.
His fingers paused on the last button.
No one had ever clothed him like this before. Not a stylist. Not his mother. Not a lover. And yet here he stood, in a home no one knew existed, wearing a suit created by a woman who hadn't asked for his name, his past, or permission. She had taken what she wanted. And now she dressed him like he was hers.
He turned.
Seraphine was seated near the window, the morning light sharpening the edges of her features. Her robe had been replaced by a sleek black dress that left her arms bare—unapologetic power in the shape of a woman. Her legs crossed, one heel dangling idly from her foot. She hadn't spoken since he entered the room, nor looked at him directly.
He stepped closer, slowly.
"I disappeared in the middle of my own birthday party," Kian said quietly, his voice filling the silence that stretched between them like tensioned wire. "My father will assume it was a last-minute meeting or a decision to isolate—he won't question it too much."
She remained still.
"But Dmitri…" He let the name hang. "He drugged me. I don't know what he'll say to cover it, but I doubt it'll be subtle."
Still no reaction from her. Her gaze was fixed outside the window, indifferent, regal.
Kian watched her for a moment, then reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, silver key. He placed it on the black marble table beside her without ceremony.
"I spend most of my time in that house," he said. "Not the family estate. This one's mine. Until now, no one had the key. Only me."
She didn't look at it.
She didn't thank him.
He didn't expect her to.
He took a step back, then another, heading toward the door in measured silence. It was only when his hand gripped the handle—when he was just one second away from leaving—that her voice cut through the quiet.
"Wait."
He turned.
Seraphine rose from her seat, not hurried, not soft. Her steps were slow, controlled. Her fingers slipped into the folds of her dress and came out holding a key—small, matte black, and cold-looking even from a distance.
She walked to him without hesitation.
"This house," she said, voice sharp as a blade, "doesn't exist. No cameras. No names on records. Not even my parents know it stands."
He stared at her, caught somewhere between confusion and awe.
"I built it for myself," she continued. "Because I needed a space that belonged to no one else. No shadows. No eyes. No obligations."
She lifted the key.
"And now," she said, pushing it into his palm, "you have it."
Kian didn't speak.
Her fingers lingered for just a moment longer against his palm, then pulled away. The key was cool in his hand. Heavy in meaning.
But her face betrayed nothing.
She turned her back to him, already walking away before he could respond, her silhouette vanishing into the quiet of the hallway like a shadow that refused to be chased.
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
And Seraphine—cold, calm, unshaken—sat back down by the window. She didn't look at the door. Didn't watch him go.
She didn't have to.
Because if he was meant to return—he would.
And if not?
She could always take him back.