The glittering lights of the grand ball felt distant to Sera. Unlike Luna, who thrived under the sparkling chandeliers, Sera sought refuge in the shadows. High society was a foreign land to her, one that felt suffocating. Luna, however, uncharacteristically clung to her side, offering cool refreshments and playfully teasing her with the extravagant non-alcoholic concoctions.
As the night wore on, a strange sensation crept over Sera. A heavy drowsiness began to cloud her mind, making her movements sluggish and her limbs feel like lead. While her thoughts remained sharp, her body betrayed her, growing heavy and unresponsive. Luna, ever perceptive, noticed the struggle Sera fought to hide. With concern etched on her face, Luna suggested a retreat to their family's penthouse suite – a quiet haven on the top floor of the hotel – to escape the overwhelming throng and allow Sera to regain her senses.
Relief washed over Sera as they entered the luxurious suite. Little did she know, however, that a different kind of storm was brewing within its walls. The quick shove through the door, followed by the sickening click of the lock turning, sent a jolt of icy fear through her veins.
Plunging into the room, Sera squinted against the gloom. Relying more on the hesitant dance of her fingertips than sight, she navigated the space. Her touch snagged on the plush arm of an armchair. Seated there, bathed in the soft halo of a nearby lamp, was a figure. But not just any figure. This man, his very presence radiating an undeniable power, held a name so grand, so revered, it echoed even within Sera's world – a world that rarely intersected with the elite. Recognition flared in her gut – Elias Frost.
A gasp caught in her throat. His broad frame, usually impeccably adorned, seemed larger than life in the shadows. She might have allowed herself a moment to appreciate his chiseled features, if not for the disarming darkness clouding his eyes. He emanated an aura of barely contained rage, his knuckles white as they gripped the armrests of the chair. His meticulously tailored suit jacket lay discarded on the table beside him, the tie loosened in a display of barely controlled fury.
"Who are you?" his voice boomed through the room, a deep rumble tinged with a dangerous edge. "And who orchestrated this charade?" he asked.
Sera, a weak mess on the floor, could barely manage a whisper. Her hair cascaded down, shielding her face as she fought to maintain control of her failing limbs, her mind reeling. "No one," she rasped, her voice barely audible. But instead of easing the tension, her answer seemed to fuel his fury. A flicker of something menacing crossed his face.
"Very well," he muttered, a low growl escaping his throat. With a sigh of resignation, Elias rose from his chair and stalked towards her. Despite her debilitating state, a surge of primal fear jolted her. He scooped her up in his powerful arms, the heat of his body a stark contrast to her growing cold and threw her on the king-sized bed.
Sera's struggle was a whisper against Elias's strength. Her feeble attempts to push him away were met with a disgusted snarl. "Don't touch me," he spat, the words laced with venom. With a violent yank, he undid his tie, securing her wrists together above her head. He pulled her dress to her neck, plunging her into darkness. Then, with a sickening rip, her underwear met the same fate.
There was no tenderness, no preamble. He was a storm, entering her with a fury that spoke of anger, not desire. The pain was a searing brand across her flesh, each thrust a violation. Through gritted teeth, Elias hurled accusations, his voice a cruel counterpoint to her ragged breaths. "Drugs", he hissed, demanding to know what she'd fed him. But Sera was a puppet on broken strings, her mind trapped in a silent scream as her body endured the brutal assault.
He contorted her into one degrading position after another, his rage leaving its mark in angry bruises and humiliating bites. The rhythmic pounding on her backside echoed the relentless assault on her spirit. Finally, mercifully, oblivion claimed her.
She awoke severally to the sound of his harsh breathing, only to be yanked back into the nightmare by renewed torment. This cycle of brutal awakening and excruciating violation continued throughout the night. Exhaustion finally overpowered her, leaving her a broken doll discarded on the bloodstained sheets dyed red by her lost girlhood.
When she stirred again, the bindings were gone, replaced by a suffocating wave of panic. Ignoring the raw ache that tore through her core, she fumbled with her dress, the crimson stain on the sheets a stark reminder of her stolen innocence. The room was a testament to the horror she'd endured, the welts and hickies mapping the path of his cruelty.
A creak from the bathroom door sent a fresh wave of panic crashing over her. She had to escape. Her heart hammered in her chest as she lunged for the door, only to have it swing open, revealing a tableau that froze her blood.
Luna Lark, Benjamin Lark, Clara Lark, and several others stood on the threshold, their faces etched with shock and dawning comprehension. But it was the fury in her father's eyes that sent a fresh wave of panic crashing through her.
A voice, gruff with age, shattered the stunned silence. "Elias," the man boomed, "explain yourself." It was Maximus Frost, Partiach of the Frost Family, his face a mask of thunder. His piercing gaze held a curiosity.
Elias turned, his icy demeanour returning as quickly as it had vanished. "I was drugged," he stated, his voice laced with accusation that landed squarely on Sera.
"I also demand an explanation," he countered, his voice dripping with a chilling accusation.
"What drugs did you feed me?" His words were a dagger aimed at her that had sent tremors through her already shattered form. Shame burned in her eyes as she flinched under their scrutiny.
A gasp tore from Clara's lips, her disappointment a tangible weight in the room. Luna, eyes wide with horror, reached out a hand to touch Sera's shoulder, only to pull back hesitantly. "Sera, is it true?" her voice trembled. "Was that why you were asking about Mr Frost's room at the reception and left the party early?"
"You shameless slut!" Benjamin's reaction was swift and brutal. He lunged at her, a slap ringing through the tense silence. The world dissolved into a chaotic blur of raised voices and accusing stares.
Through the haze of pain and humiliation, only two figures remained silent. Maximus Frost, Elias's grandfather, watched the scene unfold with a stoic expression and Elias Frost, whose narrowed eyes, never wavered from her, his gaze a cold, accusatory fire.
A desperate need for solace, for cleansing, washed over her. Scrambling to her feet, she ignored the throbbing pain in her body and stumbled towards the bathroom, the voices fading into a muffled roar behind the closed door.
She scrambled to the shower, turning the knob with a trembling hand. Fully clothed, she stepped under the stinging spray, scrubbing her skin raw with a desperate need to wash away the violation, the shame. But no matter how hard she rubbed, the feeling of filth clung to her.
This was a set-up, a cruel game she knew her family had orchestrated. Memories surfaced an unwelcome ghost from her past – her uncle's lecherous advances, a constant reminder of the darkness she seemed to attract. She was already dirty, already tainted. But this, this was the ultimate betrayal.
The dam within her, so valiantly held back for so long, finally gave way. A tidal wave of despair, thick and suffocating, crashed over her, dragging her down into its churning depths. "Succubus," the word echoed in her mind, a cruel label that felt like a noose tightening around her throat. A constant source of temptation, a plaything for others' desires, destined to be used and discarded like a wilted flower. What was the point? What purpose did she serve in this world that only saw her as a source of sin?
A chilling finality settled over her. With a strength born of despair, she slammed her fist against the mirror. The glass shattered in a deafening explosion, a symphony of her shattered spirit echoing through the room. It was a battle cry, a desperate attempt to drown out the cacophony of voices arguing outside the door, oblivious to the war raging within her. The throbbing pain in her hand was a distant echo, barely registering against the storm of emotions threatening to tear her apart.
Ignoring the sting of the wound, she reached into the spiderweb of cracks, her fingers brushing against a shard of glass that gleamed like a shard of ice in the dim light. This, this was the key. They had won. If they wouldn't allow her to control her own life, to find a sliver of meaning in her existence, then she would control her own demise.
With a resolute breath, her eyes hardening with a newfound determination, she pressed the shard against the pale skin of her wrist. A crimson bloom erupted, blossoming outwards, staining the cascading water a macabre red.
The world blurred the sound of pounding on the bathroom door almost a distant memory, a final flicker of defiance in her eyes before succumbing to the darkness. But life, it seemed, wasn't quite finished with her yet.