The rain hadn't stopped all night.
It streaked down the windows, blurring the city lights below. From inside, the world looked like an oil painting melting beneath water. Soft. Almost peaceful. Almost.
But Serena didn't feel peace.
She sat at the edge of her bed, still dressed in the clothe she'd worn to the class that evening. The same style Clara had tried to copy — unsuccessfully. The same night Serena had dropped her next weapon in silence.
A folder left "accidentally" in the university press inbox. Anonymous.
Inside: edited screenshots of Clara's past private chats with multiple faculty members — flirtations, veiled threats, manipulation. Nothing outright damning… yet. But enough to plant doubt. Enough to make people whisper.
And whisper they did.
By morning, Clara would wake to rumors again. Her name back in people's mouths. Her halo cracking at the seams.
Serena had watched her from across the ballroom, standing by Aaron with that same brittle smile. Clara had tried so hard to seem untouchable. But her eyes had darted too much. Her hands had trembled when she reached for her glass.
She was unraveling. Just like she had planned.
And yet… why didn't it feel like victory?
Serena rubbed her arms as if trying to shake something off. The storm outside seemed to seep into her bones. She felt restless. Cold. Empty.
Her phone buzzed once.
[Aaron]
Why did you do that to her?
She didn't respond.
Another buzz.
[Aaron]
You're not who I thought you were.
She tossed the phone across the room.
"I'm exactly who I had to become," she whispered.
But her voice cracked.
She stood up and walked barefoot to the mirror. The woman staring back at her had sharp cheekbones, red-painted lips, eyes like knives.
She didn't look like Serena.
Not the girl who once dreamed of being loved, of safety, of softness.
This Serena was fire and steel — forged in grief, shaped by vengeance.
"I don't even know who I am anymore," she whispered to her reflection.
The mirror really didn't lie.
But she had won.
The headlines spoke for her :
"Clara Ashford's Scandal Deepens."
"Allegations Surface Against Socialite Heiress."
"Serena Vale's Boutique Empire Rises Amidst Controversy."
Clara hadn't been seen in public for days. Her last attempt at damage control — a desperate video denying everything — had backfired. Her voice shook. Her makeup cracked. She looked unhinged.
And Serena had leaked something new that morning — something Clara thought she'd buried forever.
A voice note.
Late-night. Slurred. Laughing with a married senator's son about blackmail.
Serena hadn't even had to edit it.
She just… waited.
Now, Clara was spiraling. Publicly. Beautifully.
And yet.
Serena pressed a hand to her chest.
It ached — not with guilt, but with emptiness.
There was no applause. No moment of satisfaction.
Just silence.
"You should be celebrating," came a voice behind her.
She didn't turn.
"I don't feel like it," Serena whispered.
Ellion stepped beside her, his presence as ethereal as ever — part shadow, part starlight. His black shirt clung like smoke, and his smirk was too knowing.
"You won," he said softly.
"I broke her," Serena replied, eyes still fixed on her reflection. "I did everything I came back to do."
"But you're still bleeding."
She said nothing.
Ellion reached forward and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "You thought revenge would fill the hole in your chest."
"It hasn't," she admitted. "But I didn't know what else to do."
He met her gaze through the mirror.
She finally turned to him, and something inside cracked.
All this time, he had watched her become colder, crueller — and never looked away. Never judged.
And now… she was so tired.
Serena stepped forward and pressed her forehead to his chest. His arms wrapped around her with surprising tenderness.
"I don't even know who I am anymore," she whispered.
Ellion kissed the top of her head. "You're still the girl who wanted justice. You just forgot to save a piece of yourself in the fire."
She closed her eyes. "It's too late, isn't it?"
"No," he murmured. "It's not. Not if you let me in."
His words were gentle, but they sank deep. And for the first time, Serena leaned into him not out of power or performance — but because she needed to be held.
When she finally pulled away, her eyes were wet.
"I can't undo what I've done."
"I wouldn't ask you to," Ellion said. "But you can choose what you become next."
He smiled. And for once, she smiled back — soft, human.
"You know," he said.
"I warned you this path would consume you," he said gently. "And yet here you are."
"I'm not done," Serena said. "Not yet."
Ellion stepped closer. "But you're breaking. Even if you can't feel it yet."
Her breath hitched.
"I don't know how to stop," she admitted, voice small. "Even if I wanted to."
Ellion reached out and took her chin in his hand, making her look up.
"You're falling," he said, eyes softening. "But not into darkness."
"Then into what?"
His thumb brushed a tear she hadn't realized had slipped down her cheek.
"Into me."
Serena shuddered.
He leaned in close, forehead against hers, voice a whisper against her skin.
"You've spent so long hating, surviving, fighting. Maybe it's time you learned how to live again."
She closed her eyes. "I don't know if I can."
"Then let me show you."
She didn't answer — not with words. But her hand rose, trembling, and curled into his shirt.
And for the first time in a long time, Serena let herself be held.
Not as a weapon. Not as a queen of ash.
But just… a woman. Broken. Tired. Human.
And in Ellion's arms, she let herself grieve — not just for what she'd lost, but for what she'd become.
The storm raged outside. But for a moment, she didn't hear it.
Only the beat of her own heart.
And the one beside it, steady and eternal.
For the first time, she dreamed of something other than vengeance.
A home.
A small garden.
A quiet laugh in a world that didn't expect blood for every mistake.
She had scorched the earth.
Now, she wondered if something could grow from the ash.