Chapter 5
Seraphina's POV
The last thing I remembered before darkness was the acrid smell of smoke and the crushing weight of defeat. Now, gentle hands were pulling me from the flames.
"Hold on, Sera. Just hold on."
That voice. Deep, familiar, cutting through the chaos like a lifeline.
"Sebastian...? Is that...you?" My words came out as barely a whisper, my throat raw from smoke.
"You're safe now. Sleep, everything will be different when you wake up."
Strong arms lifted me, carrying me away from the inferno that should have been my grave.
The last thing I saw before unconsciousness claimed me was a pair of intense dark eyes filled with something I couldn't quite name.
Three days later, I woke up in what looked like a five-star hotel room disguised as a hospital.
"Miss, you're very lucky to be alive. Someone paid for all your medical expenses." The nurse's voice was professional but kind.
I struggled to sit up, my body protesting every movement. "Who? Who saved me?"
"I'm sorry, but they asked to remain anonymous. They left this for you."
She handed me a sleek black card and a folded piece of paper. The card was heavy, expensive-looking. The paper contained nothing but a password and bank details.
"Why would someone do this for me?"
The nurse just smiled. "Some people believe in second chances, I suppose."
Two weeks later, I was standing in JFK airport with a new passport that read "Sera Fine" and a one-way ticket to Paris.
The irony wasn't lost on me. Seraphina Vincent was officially dead, burned alive in a factory fire. The newspapers had already run the story. My family had mourned appropriately for the cameras.
'Good,' I thought, watching New York's skyline fade through the terminal windows. 'Let them think they won.'
"Ms. Fine, would you like anything to drink?" The flight attendant's voice was cheerful.
"Just water, thank you. I'm starting fresh."
As the plane lifted off, I pressed my face to the window and watched America disappear below me. Somewhere down there, Isadora was probably celebrating my death.
'Seraphina Vincent is dead,' I told myself. 'Tonight, a new woman is born.'
Two years in Paris changed me.
I worked in a small atelier in the Marais district, learning from Madame Laurent, a shrewd businesswoman who'd built her reputation on discovering raw talent. My skills sharpened under her guidance, my designs evolving from desperate creativity to calculated brilliance.
"Sera, your work is extraordinary. You should have your own atelier," Madame Laurent said one spring afternoon, examining my latest sketch.
"I'm not ready yet, Madame Laurent. I'm still... learning."
"Learning?" She laughed, the sound rich with amusement. "You could teach us all, ma chérie."
But I wasn't ready. Not yet. I was still gathering strength, still becoming the woman I needed to be.
That morning started like any other.
I was sitting in my favorite café on the Left Bank, reading the international section of The New York Times while sipping café au lait. The spring sun filtered through the plane trees, dappling my table in gentle light.
Then I saw the headline that changed everything.
"Fashion heiress Isadora Vincent marries investment mogul Sebastian Cole in lavish ceremony."
The coffee cup slipped from my hands, shattering on the cobblestones.
Apparently, she dumped Jesse.
Sebastian. The man who once filled me with hope was now the husband of the woman who took my life.
But that wasn't the worst part.
The wedding photo showed Isadora in a stunning gown that made my breath catch in my throat. It was my design—the centerpiece of my "Rebirth" collection, the dress I'd sketched a hundred times in my attic room.
"Mademoiselle, ça va? You look pale." The concerned voice of another patron barely registered.
"She... she's wearing my dress. My fucking dress." The words tasted like poison.
I stormed back to my small apartment, the newspaper clutched in my trembling hands.
Standing before my bathroom mirror, I studied the woman staring back at me. Gone was the frightened girl who'd begged for scraps of affection. In her place stood someone harder, sharper, forged by fire and betrayal.
"She took everything from me. My designs, my life, even my savior."
I gripped the sink until my knuckles went white.
"But I'm not the same weak girl anymore. I'm stronger now."
The reflection in the mirror smiled back—cold, calculating, dangerous.
"Time to go home, dear sister. Time to collect what's mine."
Three months later, I stood in the shadows outside a Upper East Side mansion.
The Cole family estate was exactly what I'd expected—all marble columns and perfectly manicured gardens. Through the vast windows, I could see the life Isadora had built on my ashes.
I'd spent weeks learning their routines, their security patterns, their weaknesses. Tonight was reconnaissance. Tomorrow, I'd begin dismantling her perfect world piece by piece.
"Living in luxury built on my pain. Not anymore."
I slipped through the garden like a ghost, my heart steady and sure.
This was different from the desperate girl who'd run into a burning factory.
This was calculated. Professional.
I followed the sound of running water to a palatial bathroom where warm light spilled through French doors.
There she was.
Isadora lounged in a clawfoot tub that probably cost more than most people's cars, humming contentedly as bubbles danced around her shoulders.
"I'm Mrs. Cole now. I have everything I ever wanted," she sang softly to herself.
'Everything you wanted was never yours to take.'
My hand found the razor-sharp fabric knife in my pocket—a tool of my trade that could cut through the finest silk, or flesh, with equal precision.
I stepped closer, my breathing controlled and silent.
Isadora remained blissfully unaware, her eyes closed in contentment as she enjoyed her stolen paradise.
The knife trembled in my hand as I held it inches from her exposed throat.
This was it. The moment I'd been building toward for two years.
All I had to do was press down.
Just one quick motion, and everything would be mine again.