Chapter 3 Chapter 3

Morning came wrapped  in golden sunlight, the weather sunny and the atmosphere warm and bright . A great day for training lessons.

The House of Seraphine shined beneath the early light, every corner gleaming with quiet wealth  the marble floors polished to glass, the air scented faintly with rose and bergamot. Somewhere in the distance, music played,  slow, orchestral, hauntingly perfect.

Lyra stood before a mirror, hardly recognizing the reflection staring back. Gone was the frightened girl from Memphis. In her place was a woman dressed in soft and beautiful silk gown the color of moonlight, her hair coiled stylishly, her expression trained into composure. She had learned quickly that emotion shown here was a weakness.

“Shoulders back,” came a voice behind her.

It was Vega, poised, radiant, the appointed senior among Seraphine’s constellation. “Every movement says something, Lyra. The way you walk, the way you hold a glass, the tilt of your head, it tells a story. Make sure it’s the story you want them to believe.”

Lyra adjusted her posture. “And what story is that?”

“That you are untouchable, that you are refined, every man’s desire.” Vega said simply. “That they may admire, but never own.”

They were in the Hall again, a room full of mirrors where morning light fractured into shards of brilliance. A group of women stood in a loose semicircle, practicing how to school their features into that of pleasure under the watchful eye of the tutors. Their exercises were not physical but deliberate, almost theatrical, laughter rehearsed, eye contact timed, sexual poses practiced, silence studied like an art form.

It was all performance. And yet, beneath it all, Lyra could sense the tension, the unspoken understanding that perfection here was not optional.

One of the tutors, an elegant older woman with pearls at her throat, circled them like a hawk. “Ladies,” she said, “remember: seduction begins long before a word is spoken. It begins with presence. A true enchantress commands attention without asking for it. You are not chasing admiration; you are allowing it.”

Lyra watched the others mimic the posture,  the turn of a wrist, the lowering of a gaze, and felt a pang of something she couldn’t name. Not shame, exactly. Something heavier. She wondered how many of them remembered who they were after the House polished them into stars.

That afternoon, they were brought to the relaxation Salon, a vast room filled with sunlight and music. A grand piano sat in the corner, and the scent of lavender filled the air. The women moved through the space, practicing conversation and elegance with the composure of royalty, practicing how to bring a man into desire without touching him.

At a distance, Madam Seraphine observed.

She reclined on a velvet chaise, draped in black silk, her eyes unreadable. Everything about her was art, from the way she held her teacup to the way she could silence a room with a glance. She said little, only offering an occasional nod or a quiet correction. But her presence filled the air like perfume, intoxicating, inescapable.

Lyra could feel the Madam’s gaze settle on her more than once. It wasn’t approval, not yet,  but curiosity.

That evening, after lessons in dance, etiquette, and “the language of seduction,” Lyra was summoned to Seraphine’s private lounge. The room glowed in amber light, shadows rippling across the walls from a crystal chandelier.

“Sit,” Seraphine said softly, motioning to the chair opposite her. “I’ve been watching you.”

Lyra sat, hands folded neatly in her lap. “Yes, Madam.”

“You learn quickly,” Seraphine continued. “Too quickly, perhaps. Most fight the process. You observe, adapt, and evolve. That is rare.”

Lyra didn’t respond.

Seraphine leaned forward slightly. “Tell me, Lyra, do you understand what this House truly teaches?”

Lyra hesitated. “Elegance. Discipline, discretion.”

A faint smile. “Those are tools, not truths. What we teach is control. The illusion of power is often more valuable than power itself. You will learn to make people believe you are their desire when, in fact, you are their mirror. They will see what they want, not who you are.”

Seraphine stood, crossing the room to pour herself a drink. “That, my dear, is the secret to influence. Desire is fleeting. Control endures.”

Lyra watched the amber liquid catch the light. “And what happens to the ones who don’t learn?” she asked quietly.

“They fade,” Seraphine replied without emotion. “And this House has no room for shadows.”

Silence fell, heavy and weighted.

When Seraphine turned back, her expression softened,  just slightly. “You will begin advanced training tomorrow. Vega will mentor you personally. Consider it… a promotion.” “ and at the end of your training I will introduce you to my biggest client, nobody except I attend to him, but I will make an exception of you. Do well to give him exceptional treatment”.

Lyra nodded, her pulse steady. Inside, something twisted,  pride, fear, maybe both.

As she stood to leave, Seraphine added, “You were meant for this world, Lyra, you are a natural vixen. You are very beautiful and men will fall over themselves to please you.”

Night shrouded the estate in sapphire light. From her balcony, Lyra could see the Aegean stretching endlessly below, the moon reflecting off its dark surface. Somewhere, music drifted again,  distant, melancholic.

She thought of Vega, of the women laughing downstairs but with sadness in her eyes, of Seraphine’s eyes gleaming like a serpent’s in candlelight. And she thought of home,  of Ethan’s betrayal, her mother’s silence, Lydia’s tears.

The House was transforming her, yes. But not into what Seraphine intended.

Lyra was learning the same lessons as the others, memorizing every rule, but for her, each rule was a weapon. Each performance, a disguise.

The world that bought her would one day regret the purchase.

Down below, the sea roared against the cliffs, and for the first time since her arrival, Lyra smile, small, cold, determined.

The House of Seraphine had given her a new name, but she would decide what it meant.