Chapter 4 Red Means War

SERAPHINA's POV:

The light flickered softly as Seraphina turned another page in the book she wasn't reading.

It was well past midnight, but sleep refused to come. The room was too quiet, her thoughts too loud. She sat curled on the armchair beside the fireplace, one leg tucked beneath her, the other bouncing restlessly.

Zayden hadn't come back.

Of course he hadn't.

And yet... she'd waited. Like a fool.

The sound came softly-a subtle scrape beneath the door. She froze, spine going straight, heart leaping into her throat.

Footsteps. Faint. Then nothing.

She rushed to the door and pulled it open.

No one was there.

But at her feet, lay a white envelope.

Her name was written in a sharp, deliberate hand. No greeting. No flourish.

Just:

Seraphina.

She picked it up slowly, her pulse thrumming in her ears. It wasn't sealed, but somehow, opening it still felt invasive-like stepping into something forbidden.

She slid the paper out and read the short message:

You'll be expected at the gala this Friday.

Wear something red.

-Z

That was it. No explanation. No apology. Just a command.

Her fingers tightened around the note.

Red.

Not white. Not gold. Not the pastel shades the press would expect from a newlywed bride at her first public appearance.

Red.

The color of fire. Of defiance. Of blood.

He was sending a message-and she was the weapon.

The next morning, Seraphina stood in front of the walk-in closet she hadn't dared open yet. A staff member had neatly arranged designer gowns in every shade imaginable. Reds included. Crimson, cherry, wine, scarlet-every tone of boldness was accounted for.

She ran her hands over the fabrics, then stopped on a fitted red silk dress with thin straps and a plunging neckline.

It wasn't her style.

But maybe it had to be.

Genevieve's words from yesterday echoed in her mind:

"He never meant to love you."

Maybe that was true.

But Seraphina had loved once. Once was enough to teach her what it felt like to be someone's pawn. And she'd promised herself never again.

She would wear the red dress.

But not for him.

For herself.

The days leading up to the gala passed slowly, each moment stretching with quiet tension. Zayden didn't return to the estate. He didn't call. No text. No voice. Just silence.

The staff were polite, robotic. Trained to serve and say nothing. It was a house full of ghosts-echoes of power, footsteps of legacy, and invisible rules no one dared break.

Still, Seraphina found herself walking the halls each day, learning its corners. She returned to the library once, but the ledger had vanished. Hidden. Removed. Zayden knew she had seen it.

That wasn't a mistake.

It was a warning.

But if he expected her to retreat, he'd picked the wrong girl.

Friday evening arrived like a final drumbeat.

The estate buzzed with preparation. Florists filled the grand ballroom. Chefs clattered in the kitchen. The staff moved like shadows-dressed in black, voices low.

Seraphina stood in front of the mirror as one of the house stylists zipped up her gown. The deep red clung to her curves like liquid flame. Her hair was swept into an elegant chignon, a few curls left loose to frame her face. A diamond pendant rested at her collarbone-a gift from her father on her twenty-first birthday. She hadn't worn it in years.

The stylist stepped back and whispered, "You look powerful, ma'am."

For once, Seraphina believed it.

When she descended the staircase, every head turned. Gasps followed. Even Genevieve, who had returned that afternoon, blinked once-impressed, maybe, or surprised.

Then he appeared.

Zayden.

At the bottom of the stairs, dressed in black and charcoal gray, sharp lines and sharper eyes. He looked up at her like a king watching a queen enter battle.

They didn't speak.

He simply extended his hand.

And she took it.

Not because she forgave him.

But because she wanted the world to see what power looked like when it wore lipstick and didn't flinch.