Chapter 22 Seraphine
The bar’s lights were dim enough to hide a multitude of sins, and honestly?
I appreciated that.
I was already a drink in — something fruity, strong, and blessedly numbing — sitting on a velvet barstool while the music thrummed beneath my boots like a second heartbeat.
Black mini dress.
Knee-high stockings.
Leather jacket.
Hair in a high ponytail.
The dress hugged every curve like it was proud of them.
I, on the other hand, was hanging on by emotional duct tape.
Ted.
My boss in the elevator.
Dante fucking Vescari showing up on my double date like some kind of brooding, six-foot-plus interruption to my peace.
What a day.
I took the last swallow of my drink just as the bar door opened.
And there she was — Amara.
Only the second time I’d ever seen her in person, but she entered like a drop of purple ink hitting water, spreading instantly across the room. Her dark purple tube top hugged her ribcage, black mini skirt shimmering under the lights, fishnet stockings and black platform heels completing the look. A purple mesh sweater hung off one shoulder — decorative, dramatic, and undeniably hot.
Her makeup was effortless chaos glam — wing sharp enough to slice my problems in half.
When her eyes found me, they widened with recognition and she headed straight over.
She slowed just a little, giving me an appreciative once-over.
“Okay,” she said, dropping onto the stool beside me, “I was expecting you to look cute, but this is… capital-D Dangerous. Should I be taking notes? Should men be afraid?”
I huffed a laugh. “They already should have been.”
Her smile was instant and wicked. “God, I love that energy for you. Can I hug you?”
“Yeah,” I breathed — surprised at how much I wanted it.
The hug was quick, soft, but grounding.
She pulled back with a grin.
“This is wild,” she said. “Second time meeting and you’re already channeling femme fatale energy.”
“I’m trying,” I muttered.
“You’re succeeding.”
She flagged the bartender down. “Two shots — tequila,” she ordered, then looked at me. “Unless you’re a coward?”
“Rude.”
“Accurate.”
I snorted. “Fine. Two shots.”
The bartender placed them down, and Amara lifted hers dramatically.
“To surviving,” she declared.
“To barely surviving,” I corrected, clinking glasses.
We downed them.
She wiped her mouth with a grin. “Alright, spill. Start from the top. Did you knock them dead at Obsidian Veil?”
“I got inside, thanks to you. But it didn’t end how I expected.”
“Oh good,” she sighed, “I love trauma. Continue.”
I laughed — shockingly, genuinely. “How’s your shop?”
She groaned. “Don’t get me started. Sales have dipped since that new goth boutique opened down the street.”
“Oh? What’s it called?”
“Graveyard Glamour. Pretentious little coffin of a place.”
I snorted into my drink. “Let me guess — no plus sizes.”
“Oh, they have plus sizes,” she said ominously. “Up to a size sixteen.”
I slapped a hand over my mouth to stop the laughter. “Stop. Stop it.”
“They call it inclusive,” she added, rolling her eyes so hard she probably glimpsed a new dimension.
“What a joke.”
“They’re not the problem, though.” She leaned in. “You look like you need an exorcism. What happened?”
“Well,” I said, holding up a finger, “first, Dante showed up on my double date.”
Amara froze mid-blink.
“Dante who?”
“Dante Vescari.”
She grabbed my wrist. “Seraphine. You’re joking. Tell me you’re joking.”
“Nope.”
She whisper-shouted, “Dante Vescari?! One of the richest, sexiest, most terrifying men in the city? The one women literally make thirst TikToks about in poorly lit bathrooms?”
I made a face. “Poorly lit?”
“They’re committed, babe.”
I dropped my face into my hands. “Oh my God.”
She laughed. “Okay, I’m listening. Continue before I die of envy.”
“So that disaster happens,” I said, “and then I find out he gave me a VIP card to his new club.”
“Oooh, perks.”
“Except,” I said, pulling up the photo on my phone, “his manager gave me this.”
Her jaw hit the floor. “VOID? He voided it?”
“Yep.”
“That’s it. I’m punching someone.”
“You’ll have to get in line.”
Then I told her about Ted.
“What did he say?” she asked, already cracking her knuckles.
“Oh, the usual. Commented on my dress. Then my weight. Then brought up my double date, said it ‘must’ve sucked sitting in the booth with so much extra cushioning.’”
Amara covered her face. “Jesus Christ. I hope he trips and breaks his ego.”
“He doesn’t have bones that fragile.”
“I’ll make them fragile.”
We laughed again — the kind of laugh that keeps you from crying.
“And then my boss,” I said quietly.
Her expression sharpened. “What did he do?”
“He offered me assistant editor,” I said flatly.
“That’s good—?”
“In exchange for sex.”
Her mouth fell open, then slowly closed in a tight, murderous line.
“Seraphine,” she said softly, “I am going to jail tonight.”
I shook my head, laughing weakly. “Please don’t. I can’t afford bail.”
“You think I’d need bail? Honey, I’d hide the body.”
I choked on a shocked, shaky laugh.
“Seriously,” she said, eyes warm now, “I’m so sorry. That’s… disgusting. And you didn’t deserve any of that.”
My throat tightened. “Thanks.”
She squeezed my hand — gently, like she understood we were new friends, but she was there.
“You’re not alone anymore,” she said. “Whether you like it or not, you’ve acquired me as a friend.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
“It is.”
I smiled — for the first time all day without feeling like I was faking it.
“Okay,” she said, flagging the bartender again. “We need fries. And maybe shots. And maybe I’ll hex your boss.”
“You do hexes?”
“No,” she admitted. “But I can learn.”
Dark humor. Chaos. Loyalty.
All wrapped in one woman I’d only just met.
And for the first time all day…
I didn’t feel like I was drowning.
Amara suddenly lifted her hand and waved the bartender down with the authority of a queen summoning a servant.
“Hi, yes?” she said brightly. “We need fries. Urgently. Like—emotional-support fries.”
The bartender blinked, then nodded. “Coming right up.”
As soon as he walked away, Amara turned back to me like a hawk zeroing in on prey.
“Alright,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “You skipped something.”
I blinked. “What?”
“I can feel it,” she declared, tapping her temple dramatically. “Like a psychic migraine. You left out the good part.”
I sighed, dug into my bag, pulled out my phone, and opened my sent emails.
“Fine,” I muttered. “But you have to promise not to scream.”
“I make no such promises.”
I handed her the phone.
As she scrolled, her eyebrows knit together… then shot up… then kept climbing.
When she finally reached the bottom of my message — the part where I’d basically laid into Dante Vescari himself — she slapped a hand over her mouth.
Then exploded into laughter.
“Oh my God,” she wheezed, nearly falling off the barstool. “You told Dante Vescari
— the Dante Vescari — to ‘fuck off'!"