SERAPHINE POV
I delete Theron's message without reading it.
It's been 729 days since I left Edevane City. 729 days since I opened that email and discovered the DNA test results were fake—a cruel joke, or maybe a warning. 729 days since I boarded a plane and never looked back.
And every single day, Theron sends the same message: "Day [number]. Still waiting. Come home."
I used to read them. Used to cry over them. Used to wonder if I'd made a mistake leaving the only family I'd ever known.
Not anymore.
"Earth to Sera!" My coworker Gemma waves a hand in front of my face. "You're doing that spacing-out thing again."
I blink, forcing a smile. "Sorry. What were you saying?"
"I was saying your campaign for the organic tea company is brilliant. Martin wants to see you in his office—I think you're getting promoted!"
My heart lifts. A promotion. Based on my own work, not my last name. Not because I'm an Aldric, but because I'm good at what I do.
"Really?" I try not to sound too excited, but I can't help grinning.
Gemma laughs. "Really. Go! He's waiting."
I grab my portfolio and head to Martin's office. My boss is a short, energetic man who actually cares about creativity, not corporate politics. He offered me this job two years ago when I showed up at his small marketing firm with no references and a fake last name.
I'm Seraphine Moore here. Not Aldric. Just... Moore.
Simple. Normal. Free.
"Seraphine!" Martin beams as I enter. "Sit, sit. I'll get straight to it—the tea company loved your work. They want you to lead their entire rebranding campaign. It's a huge account."
I can barely breathe. "Are you serious?"
"Dead serious. You've earned this." He slides a contract across his desk. "It comes with a raise and your own team. What do you say?"
I want to cry. Two years ago, I was a trophy daughter in a gilded cage. Now I'm building something real.
"Yes," I say. "Absolutely yes."
When I leave his office, I'm floating. I text Dashiell immediately: Big news! Meet for lunch?
His reply comes seconds later: Already at our spot. Celebrating with you is my favorite thing.
Our spot. We have a spot. We have routines and inside jokes and a future that doesn't involve corporate mergers or family obligations.
Dashiell is everything Theron isn't—kind, patient, respectful. He waited three months before even trying to kiss me. He's never once tried to control where I go or who I see.
He makes me feel normal.
I find him at the little café near my office, two sandwiches already ordered. When he sees me, his whole face lights up.
"There's my brilliant girlfriend," he says, standing to hug me.
I sink into his arms. Safe. This is what safe feels like.
We sit, and I tell him about the promotion. He listens like it's the most important thing in the world, asks questions, celebrates every detail.
"I'm so proud of you," he says, squeezing my hand across the table. "You've built an amazing life here, Sera. All on your own."
"With your help," I correct.
"No." His brown eyes are serious. "This is all you. Your talent. Your hard work." He pauses, then reaches into his pocket. "Actually, I've been wanting to talk about our future..."
My heart stutters. Is he—?
He pulls out a key. Not a ring. A key.
"My lease is up next month," he says. "And I was thinking... maybe we could find a place together? Nothing fancy. Just somewhere that's ours."
Move in together. A real relationship milestone. A normal one.
"I'd love that," I whisper.
He grins, relief flooding his face. We talk about neighborhoods and furniture and paint colors. Normal couple things. Things I never thought I'd have.
When lunch ends, he kisses me goodbye—gentle, sweet, respectful.
"See you tonight?" he asks.
"Definitely."
I walk back to my office feeling lighter than air. This is my life now. My choices. My future.
My phone rings.
I glance at the screen and freeze.
Mother.
Not "Mom" in my contacts. Mother. Formal. Cold. The way she always insisted I address her.
I haven't spoken to her in two years. Not since that last awful dinner when I announced I was leaving.
My finger hovers over the decline button.
But what if something's actually wrong? What if Father's sick? What if—
I answer. "Hello?"
"Seraphine." Her voice is clipped, emotionless. "Come home immediately. Family emergency. Tomorrow."
"What? What kind of emergency—"
"Tomorrow, Seraphine. I'm sending a car to your apartment at 8 AM. Be ready."
"I can't just drop everything—"
"This isn't a request. It's urgent." Her voice drops, and for the first time, I hear something beneath the ice. Fear? "If you ever cared about this family at all, you'll come home. Tomorrow."
The line goes dead.
I stare at my phone, my hands starting to shake.
Family emergency. The words Theron predicted two years ago.
"In three days, Mother and Father are going to call you home for a family emergency. And when you come back, everything will change."
How did he know?
My phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number:
"The car will arrive at 8 AM sharp. Don't make this difficult, little sister. It's time you learned the truth about who you really are."
Another text comes through before I can process the first:
"P.S. — Your boyfriend's architecture firm just lost its biggest client. Funny how these things happen. See you tomorrow. — T"
My blood turns to ice.
No. No, he wouldn't—
I call Dashiell. It rings once. Twice.
"Sera?" His voice sounds strained. "I was just about to call you. Something weird happened—"
"Your client?" I whisper, already knowing.
"Yeah. Morrison Industries just pulled out of our contract. No explanation. Six months of work, gone." He sounds confused, worried. "It doesn't make sense. Everything was approved—"
I close my eyes. This is my fault. Theron's sending a message.
Come home, or the people you love will suffer.
"Dash, I have to tell you something," I say, my voice breaking. "My real last name isn't Moore."
Silence.
"What?"
"It's Aldric. I'm from Edevane City. And my brother..." I can barely get the words out. "My brother is the CEO of Aldric Pharmaceuticals. And he just destroyed your client to force me to come home."
More silence. Then: "Sera, what are you talking about?"
"I have to go back," I whisper. "Tomorrow. Or he'll destroy your entire company. Your career. Everything you've built."
"No." Dashiell's voice is firm. "We'll fight this together. You don't have to face him alone—"
My phone buzzes again. Another message:
"The architect comes with you, and his firm burns to the ground. You come alone, and I'll restore his client by noon tomorrow. Your choice. You have ten seconds to decide."
Ten seconds to choose between my freedom and Dashiell's future.
Nine.
Eight.
Seven.
I look at my office, at the promotion paperwork on my desk, at the life I've built.
Six.
Five.
Four.
"I have to go," I tell Dashiell. "I'm sorry. I'll explain everything when I can."
I hang up before he can respond.
Three.
Two.
I text back one word: "Fine."
One.
A new message appears:
"Good girl. The car will arrive at 8 AM. Pack light—you won't be leaving for a while. And Seraphine? Welcome home."
My phone buzzes one final time. An image file.
I open it with shaking hands.
It's a photograph of a baby in a hospital nursery. Two babies, actually, lying side by side in plastic bassinets.
The hospital wristbands are visible.
One reads: "ALDRIC, FEMALE."
The other reads: "LOWE, FEMALE."
Below the photo, a message:
"Tomorrow, you'll meet your replacement. Sweet dreams, little sister."