The weeks blurred together in a relentless game of deception and precision. Every day was a performance, every interaction a carefully measured step in the intricate dance of manipulation. Seventeen played her role flawlessly, weaving herself deeper into the lives of the six. Serena D'Angelo was warm, approachable, a friend who always seemed to be in the right place at the right time. She listened with intent, responded with empathy, and crafted an illusion so seamless that even the most skeptical among them began to lower their guard.
But beneath the practiced smiles and easy laughter, the real Seventeen remained coiled in the shadows, sharp and watchful. She analyzed every conversation, every glance exchanged, every hesitation that might hint at suspicion. Every move was calculated, every word intentional. The deeper she embedded herself, the higher the stakes became. And with the upcoming gala, those stakes were about to skyrocket.
This afternoon, however, her challenge came in the form of Amelia Saint-Montclaire and Sablina Wysdomleaf. She had arranged to meet them for coffee, though she already dreaded the thought of the Seaside Cappuccino she would have to choke down in the name of consistency. The café, nestled near the hospital, was a familiar setting now—a place where pleasantries and politics intertwined over porcelain cups.
As she stepped inside, her Serena mask clicked into place effortlessly. The bell above the door chimed softly, and she moved with a lightness that suggested ease, familiarity. Amelia and Sablina were already seated by the large window, bathed in golden afternoon light. They looked up as she approached, offering polite smiles.
"Sorry to keep you waiting!" Seventeen chirped, infusing her voice with just the right amount of breathlessness and regret. "The hospital was a madhouse today."
"No worries," Amelia replied smoothly, her keen eyes flicking over Seventeen in that ever-assessing way. "We were just discussing the upcoming gala."
Seventeen tilted her head in practiced curiosity. ["Ah, the gala."] An event unlike any other—a gathering of the Zodiac heirs and their powerful families, a stage for influence and maneuvering. It was an opportunity wrapped in risk, a place where every glance, every gesture, every whispered word carried weight. More importantly, it was a chance to observe Draco without the suffocating tension of their usual encounters. A rare opportunity to see him when he wasn't constantly on guard against her.
She let out a bright, eager laugh, keeping her expression carefully open. "I'm so excited! It'll be my first time at something like this. What should I expect?"
Amelia smirked slightly, her tone edged with dry amusement. "Expect a battlefield disguised as a ballroom. It's less about celebration and more about posturing. Power plays hidden behind champagne flutes and polite conversation."
Sablina, who had been quietly observing, added in her soft, measured voice, "It's a game of perception. Who you speak with, who you avoid—everything is scrutinized."
["How poetic,"] Seventeen mused silently. ["Everyone pretending. Hiding their true motives behind carefully curated smiles."]
"That sounds… intense," she said with a small chuckle, keeping her tone light to mask the layers beneath. "I'll have to be on my best behavior."
Amelia leaned forward slightly, studying her with that piercing gaze. "You've handled everything so far with grace, Serena. I doubt you'll have any trouble."
Seventeen laughed, the sound warm and self-effacing. "I just follow the flow. You both make it sound easy."
The ritual continued. Just as they had the last time they met here, they ordered the same drinks, a tradition that fit their personalities all too well. And so, with a smile plastered on her face, Seventeen resigned herself once more to the cursed Seaside Cappuccino, swallowing down her distaste along with the bitter brew.
Their conversation meandered, dipping into lighter topics, but Seventeen's mind never strayed far from what truly mattered. The gala was a week away, and her performance there would need to be impeccable. This wasn't just another event—it was a different level of the game, where a single misstep could unravel everything. Too many eyes would be watching. Too many opportunities for Draco to catch the cracks in her disguise.
And yet, even as she planned her next moves, she could feel the subtle shift in the air between them. Amelia, once skeptical and testing at every turn, was beginning to ease into a tentative trust. Sablina, ever-watchful, was starting to let Seventeen see glimpses of the person behind the quiet exterior. It was happening. Slowly but surely, the walls around them were crumbling.
And Seventeen? She would be right there, smiling, waiting—ready to strike when the moment came.
※※※
Later that evening, Seventeen returned to her apartment, the weight of the day pressing down on her shoulders like a lead cloak. The moment the door clicked shut behind her, she let out a slow, measured breath. The mask of Serena D'Angelo slipped away, dissolving into the silence of her small, impeccably arranged living space.
The quiet was a relief, a rare moment where she didn't have to smile, didn't have to calculate every word, every breath. She leaned against the door for a moment, pressing her palms against the cool surface as she gathered herself.
It had been a close call. Too close.
Twice that evening, she had narrowly avoided running into people she had no intention of dealing with—two figures who, for entirely different reasons, could disrupt everything she had worked for.
The first was Samantha Vaughn, the strongest warrior of Twinscott, younger sister of Gwyn Vaughn, the district's leader, and the wife of Zane Doom—a man with a reputation dark enough to send even seasoned players into retreat. Samantha wasn't someone to be underestimated. Her instincts were sharp, her presence commanding. She had a way of reading people that made Seventeen uneasy, and if she ever took a real interest in Serena D'Angelo, it would be a problem.
The second was Corvos Nightshade, the enigmatic 24-year-old heir to the Scorpion district. He was the eldest son of Caelum and Nyx Nightshade, and unlike the other heirs, he rarely attended social events, preferring to remain in the shadows—literally and figuratively. His avoidance of the limelight made him unpredictable, difficult to track, and infinitely more dangerous. He was the one heir whose movements weren't meticulously documented, the one who chose when and where to appear. And tonight, he had almost been in her path.
Twice, she had turned corners only to catch glimpses of them. Twice, she had altered her route, adjusted her pace, feigned distraction. It had worked—this time. But next time, she might not be so lucky.
["They're wild cards, both of them,"] she thought, shrugging off her coat and tossing it onto the chair beside her desk. ["And wild cards can ruin everything."]
She crossed the room and moved toward the window, resting her hands on the edge of the sill as she gazed out at the city below. The skyline shimmered with a million lights, a sea of artificial stars stretching into the night. From up here, everything looked peaceful, orderly. But Seventeen knew better. Beneath the glow of the city lay an intricate web of power struggles, secrets, and silent wars fought in whispers and glances.
And at the center of it all was the upcoming gala.
A turning point. A stage where the six would be forced to play their parts before an audience that mattered. If she could deepen her ties to them during that event, if she could solidify her place within their inner circle, it would be a significant victory. But it also posed the greatest risk. The more eyes on her, the higher the chances of exposure.
Draco would be there. Watching.
Her grip on the windowpane tightened.
["He's getting too close."]
He wasn't like the others. He wasn't simply accepting Serena at face value. He was watching her, waiting for the cracks to show. And sooner or later, he would find one. Unless she threw him off.
["I'll have to misdirect him. Make him second-guess his own suspicions."]
Her mind churned through possibilities, mapping out the steps of an unseen game board. Every move she made had to be deliberate, every countermove anticipated before it happened.
The gala was still days away, but already, the pieces were shifting.
She had to be ready.
※※※
Draco stood before the towering, ornate mirror in his chambers, adjusting the silver cufflinks on his crisp white shirt. The fabric was smooth beneath his fingers, a stark contrast to the unease simmering in his chest. The gala was still a week away, but the weight of it was already pressing down on him. Preparations were in full swing, invitations had been sent, security arrangements were being finalized—every detail meticulously planned, just like every other year.
And yet, this year, everything felt different.
Because of her.
Serena D'Angelo.
Draco exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening as he ran a hand through his hair. No matter how much he tried to focus on other things, his thoughts always circled back to her. She was an enigma, a puzzle with pieces that didn't quite fit. On the surface, she was perfect—too perfect. Always saying the right things, always in the right place at the right time, effortlessly endearing herself to those around her. Even Amelia and Sablina, the two who should have been the hardest to fool, were beginning to warm to her.
It infuriated him.
["Why can't they see it?"]
His hands clenched into fists at his sides. It was like watching a slow-moving disaster, screaming for people to notice the cracks in the foundation, only to have them smile and admire the structure instead. Claus, Light, Hunter—all of them had started accepting her presence. And if that weren't frustrating enough, even Amelia, with all her sharp intellect, had begun trusting her.
["I am the only one who can see through her."]
It wasn't arrogance. It wasn't paranoia. He knew something was off. He felt it. Serena D'Angelo wasn't just some ordinary girl who had stumbled into their world. There was an unnatural polish to her, a precision in her actions that felt almost rehearsed. The way she laughed, the way she tilted her head just the right amount when listening, the way she mirrored emotions so flawlessly—it was all too calculated.
The worst part? He had no proof.
Every time he thought he had found a crack in her facade, she slipped through his fingers like sand. Every word she spoke, every movement she made, was so carefully measured that it left him chasing shadows. And the more he searched, the more she evaded him.
He stared into the mirror, his reflection betraying the tension in his posture, the storm brewing behind his eyes.
["She's playing a game."]
And it was working.
If he confronted her without proof, he would look like the unstable one. He would be the paranoid heir throwing baseless accusations at the charming, seemingly harmless girl everyone was growing fond of. And she knew that. He could see it in the way she looked at him sometimes—like she was daring him to figure her out, to put the pieces together before it was too late.
["I need to know what her endgame is."]
Draco turned away from the mirror abruptly, his mind already running through possibilities. He had time before the gala—time to watch, to wait, to bait her into a mistake. She wasn't invincible. No one was.
He would find the truth.
And when he did, Serena D'Angelo's perfect little act would come crashing down.
※※※
The days leading up to the gala blurred together in a whirlwind of preparation, calculated interactions, and relentless vigilance. Every move had to be measured, every word perfectly placed to ensure her cover remained impenetrable. And then, at last, the night of the event arrived.
Seventeen stood before her full-length mirror, the final piece of Serena D'Angelo slipping into place as she adjusted the delicate silver necklace resting against her collarbone. The muted blue gown draped over her like liquid moonlight, its soft fabric pooling elegantly at her feet. It was a carefully chosen ensemble—demure yet captivating, graceful yet forgettable in the grand scheme of the night. It allowed her to blend in just enough while still being noticed in all the right ways.
She tilted her head slightly, studying her reflection. Flawless. The picture of poise and warmth.
["Perfect,"] she thought, a small, satisfied smile curving her lips. ["No one will suspect a thing."]
The gala was set in one of the most prestigious venues in Downtown Zodiac—a grand ballroom perched high above the city, its sweeping windows offering a breathtaking view of the skyline. It was a place of opulence and power, where alliances were forged over crystal glasses of champagne, and where a single misstep could mean political ruin.
Everyone who mattered would be in attendance. The heirs. Their families. Key political figures. Influential citizens from across the archipelago. It was, undoubtedly, the most dangerous setting she had faced so far. But it was also her greatest opportunity.
Her heels clicked softly against the polished marble as she stepped into the ballroom. A wave of sound washed over her—laughter, the clinking of glasses, the low hum of a string quartet playing in the background. The air was thick with anticipation, with hidden agendas disguised behind polite conversation and well-practiced smiles.
Her eyes swept across the room, cataloging faces with the precision of a strategist surveying a battlefield. Claus and Light stood near the entrance, engaged in conversation with a cluster of dignitaries. Amelia and Sablina lingered by the grand staircase, their sharp gazes flitting across the crowd like sentries, ever observant. And then, there was him.
Draco.
Standing near the far wall, dressed in a sharp black suit that did nothing to soften his perpetual air of intensity. His posture was deceptively relaxed, a glass of deep red wine resting in his hand, but his gaze was fixed on her the moment she stepped through the doors.
["Always watching,"] she thought, suppressing the urge to roll her eyes. ["What an uptight fool. He never lets up."]
But tonight, she wouldn't let him get under her skin. Tonight, she would be untouchable.
She moved through the ballroom with practiced ease, her presence a gentle ripple rather than a crashing wave. She greeted guests, exchanged pleasantries, accepted compliments with a modest smile—all while keeping her real thoughts carefully hidden beneath Serena's warm, effortless charm.
As she neared the entrance, Claus turned toward her, his ever-sunny disposition radiating from his expression. "Serena! You look stunning. Blue is definitely your color."
["No, it's burgundy and black."]
But Seventeen only smiled, tilting her head just slightly—just enough to appear genuinely flattered. "Thank you, Claus. You're too kind."
Light, ever more reserved, studied her for a moment before nodding in approval. "The dress suits you."
Seventeen let out a soft, almost self-conscious laugh. "I wasn't sure at first, but I'm glad it worked out."
A meaningless exchange. A harmless conversation. And yet, beneath the surface, her mind never stopped working, never stopped calculating. Every moment was a move on the board, every word spoken was another thread woven into the web she was spinning around them all.
Because this wasn't just a gala.
It was a test.
A test of how deep she had embedded herself, how much trust she had gained, how much further she had to go. It was also a test of Draco—of his suspicions, his patience, his ability to see beyond the façade she had so meticulously constructed.
But the real thrill came from the knowledge that, for now, she was winning.
For now, they were all exactly where she needed them to be.
["They'll never see it coming,"] she thought, her lips curving into a serene, unshakable smile. ["Not until it's too late."]