© 2025 Kaela Seraphine. All Rights Reserved

When Ana patted the seat beside her in Seat 8, I thought I was hallucinating. You know the type—perfect hair, pristine nails, always composed like she’s walking through a Vogue editorial even when the world’s on fire. That’s Ana.

She wasn’t the loud type. She didn’t need to be. Just one look from her and people either sat down or shut up. And now she was looking at me. Expectantly. Like I was late.

So I sat.

She didn’t smile, but she didn’t frown either. Just tilted her head, studying me like I was an unsolved case file she’d already cracked, but wanted to watch unfold.

"You're five days behind," she said, casually crossing her legs.

I blinked. “Behind on what?”

She pulled out a lipstick—deep wine red—and applied it with precision. Not for vanity. For war. "Your timeline," she replied, like that should’ve been obvious.

I was trying to think of something clever when she handed me a folded note. Inside: a list of names. Mine was on it. Underlined. “Why am I on this list?” I asked, fingers tightening.

She looked at me, finally meeting my eyes. “Because you’re the only one I haven’t confirmed.”

“Confirmed for what?”

Ana didn’t answer. She reached into her blazer and pulled out a pocketknife. Not threatening—just clean. Efficient. The blade had initials carved into it. Yours.

I flinched.

“This was yours,” she said flatly. “Before the erasure.”

“The what?”

“Don’t act dumb. I chose you for a reason.” Her tone was unshakable. No chaos. Just cold calculation with a touch of elegance. She was a queen—not because she wanted the crown, but because she’d already dismantled the whole monarchy and built her own.