Seraphina Vale:Blood and power

Seraphina’s POV

“Arrghh! I hate Mondays.”

The words slipped out of my mouth before I even realized I’d said them. I groaned, rolling over on my silk sheets, my fingers brushing against the phone beside me. The screen glowed back at me — 3:07 a.m. Great. Another sleepless night.

I sighed and pushed myself upright, the city lights from the floor-to-ceiling windows spilling across my skin in soft golden streaks. The skyline of New York looked like a thousand watchful eyes, glittering and endless. Beautiful and empty, just like me. People say the city never sleeps, maybe that’s why I feel so at home in it.

Because neither did I.

I slipped out of my bed, my bare feet hitting the cold marble floor, as I walked towards the kitchen. The apartment was silent except for the faint hum of electricity, and of emptiness. I poured myself a glass of water, letting the coolness calm the restlessness burning under my skin.

“So, real quick,” I muttered under my breath, “if anyone’s listening, this is my life.”

I am the youngest billionaire CEO in the country. Rich? Hell no. That’s an understatement. I am wealthy and successful. I’m the kind of woman headlines call untouchable. I’m every man’s fantasy and every woman’s envy. My face has graced so many magazine covers, my company dominates two industries, and my name opens doors people spend lifetimes trying to reach.

Sounds perfect, doesn’t it?

Except… it’s not.

Because beneath all of that glamour, I’m haunted, not just by my past, but by what I am.

I finished my water and set the glass down with a soft thud. Then, I tied my hair back, slipped into my sports bra and leggings. My gloves went on next, then my shoes, my towel flung over my shoulder. To me, working out wasn’t just therapy, it was survival. And when the nightmares clawed their way out of the dark, the gym was the only place I could bury them again.

My gym sat a few floors below my penthouse, one of the many perks of owning the entire building. I stepped into the private elevator, pressed the button for the thirty-sixth floor, and within minutes, the doors slid open to reveal my sanctuary.

The lights were dim, cold blue against glass and chrome. I dropped my bag, put my headphones on, and hit play. The bass sound vibrated through my chest as I began to move. Punch after punch, kick after kick. Each strike sharper, harder, and faster than the last.

My anger, my exhaustion, my secrets, all of it, I poured into every hit. The bag swung violently from the chains, my fists moving so fast, I didn’t even realize when my nails sliced through the gloves, shredding the leather and fabric as if they were paper. By the time I realized it, ten heavy bags were on the floor in ruins.

I stood there, panting, sweat slicking down my skin. My reflection in the mirrored