Seraphina didn't wait for a response. She glided further into the room, her heels making no sound on the thick Persian rug. She stopped a few feet from me, her arctic blue eyes raking over me from head to toe. It wasn't a jealous look. It was an assessment. A butcher sizing up a piece of meat.
"So this is the new project," she said, her voice that same low, purring contralto. She circled me slowly, like a shark. "She's… soft."
Damien finally moved, stepping back from me. He went to the bar cart in the corner of the study and began to fix a drink,She's moldable. That's what matters."
"Moldable can be broken," Seraphina countered, stopping in front of me again. She reached out, not to touch me, but to pluck an imaginary piece of lint from the shoulder of my robe. Her fingers were long, their nails a perfect, bloodless red. "Daniel's methods were brute force. He left a mess. We'll have to clean her up first."
The way she said "we'll" sent a chill through me. She was already a part of this. A part of my imprisonment.
"Her training starts now," Damien said, not turning from the bar. He took a sip of his drink, the ice clinking in the glass. "Take her shopping. She can't wear my sister's hand-me-downs forever."
Seraphina's lips curved into a slow, predatory smile. "A field trip. Excellent." She looked at me, her head tilted. "We leave in an hour."
And with that, she turned and walked out of the study, leaving the scent of expensive perfume .
An hour later, I was standing in the marble foyer of the penthouse, wearing a simple black dress Seraphina's assistant had left for me. It was expensive, but it felt like a uniform.
Seraphina appeared at the top of the grand staircase. She'd changed into a cream-colored pantsuit that probably cost more than my parents' house. She looked like a queen descending to her subjects.
"Come," she said, her voice sharp. "The day is wasting."
The car was a sleek, black sedan that smelled of new leather and her perfume. We didn't speak as we drove through the city. I just watched the buildings blur past, my hands clenched in my lap. She was taking me to a place on the Upper East Side, a street lined with designer boutiques that I'd only ever seen in magazines.
We walked into one. The air inside was cool and smelled of money. A saleswoman, her smile a practiced, brittle thing, hurried towards us. "Ms. Petrov. Welcome."
Seraphina ignored her. She walked to a rack of dresses, her fingers trailing over the fabric. "The goal of seduction is not to make a man want you," she said, her voice low enough that only I could hear. "It's to make him believe he cannot live without you."
She pulled out a dark green slip of a dress. "It's a game of subtraction. You don't give him everything. You give him nothing. You make him work for every scrap of attention. Every glance. Every accidental touch of his hand against yours."
She held the dress against my body. "This color will make your eyes look bruised. Vulnerable. Men want to be heroes. Let him think he can save you." She tossed the dress at the saleswoman. "She'll take this. And the shoes to match."
We spent the afternoon like that. She'd point to a man in the store—a wealthy husband waiting for his wife, a bored security guard. She'd dissect them for me.
"See his watch?" she'd murmur, nodding towards a man in a bespoke suit. "It's a Patek Philippe. A classic. It means he values tradition, but he wants you to notice he can afford it. Don't compliment the watch. Compliment the strap. It's unique. It tells him you see the details, that you're different from the others who just see the price tag."
At one point, a young, handsome salesman approached me, his smile confident. "Can I help you with anything?"
Before I could even stammer out a no, Seraphina was there. She gave him a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "She's fine," she said, her voice smooth as silk. "But I'm not." She placed a hand on his chest, her fingers splaying possessively. "Find me a pair of those Louboutins in a size seven. The ones with the silver studs."
The man, who had been looking at me with interest, now looked at Seraphina with a mixture of fear and awe. He nodded quickly and practically ran to the back.
Seraphina turned back to me, her expression unreadable. "You see?" she said quietly. "Power isn't about being desired. It's about being the one who desires. You are not the prize. You are the judge."
By the end of the day, I was exhausted, my mind reeling with her lessons. We left the store with an armful of bags .
Back in the car, the silence was different. It was heavier. Seraphina watched me, her gaze analytical.
"You did well today," she said, breaking the silence.
I didn't say anything. I just looked out the window, at the city lights starting to blur together.
"You hate me," she stated. It wasn't a question.
I turned my head and looked at her. Her face was in shadow, but I could feel the intensity of her stare.
"I don't hate you," I said, my voice quiet. It was the truth. I didn't hate her. I was terrified of her. And a small, dark part of me, a part I was ashamed of, was fascinated by her.
A small, genuine smile touched her lips. It transformed her face, making her beautiful for a terrifying second. "Good," she said. "Hate is an emotion. It clouds judgment. What I need from you is clarity."
She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Damien thinks he's in control. He thinks he's the one molding you." She leaned back, her smile returning. "But we know the truth, don't we? A weapon is only as good as the hand that wields it. And you, my dear, are going to be a masterpiece."
The car pulled up to the tower. She left me there, in the backseat, surrounded by bags filled with beautiful, expensive clothes . I sat there for a long time, long after she was gone. I looked at my reflection in the dark window. I saw a stranger in a designer dress, her eyes wide with a new, terrifying kind of knowledge.
She was right. I didn't hate her. I wanted to become her.