My Sister Stole My Mate And I Let Her (Seraphina) novel Chapter 453

Chapter 453: Chapter 453 PERFECT TRAP

SERAPHINA’S POV

The glass in my hand had long since gone warm, condensation slick against my skin.

I anchored myself in that sensation, fixed on that singular point, because everything else in this moment demanded precision. Control.

And control was Herculean when anger simmered beneath the surface.

Lunar Noire was quiet tonight.

Not the natural lull of a slow evening, but the deliberate, curated stillness of a place stripped down to only what we needed.

We had rented it out hours ago, cleared the staff, secured every entrance, layered ward upon ward until the air itself felt thick with intent.

A perfect trap.

Low amber lights cast a soft glow on polished wood and dark leather, shadows pooling in corners. Music played faintly in the background, slow and unobtrusive, just enough to make the space feel normal.

If you didn’t look too closely.

If you didn’t pay too much attention to the “patrons”.

Kieran sat at the far end of the bar, posture relaxed, one arm draped lazily over the back of his chair, a glass of whiskey untouched in front of him.

To anyone else, he looked like a man killing time.

Ethan occupied a booth to my right, half-shadowed, his broad frame angled in a way that suggested disinterest while his gaze tracked every movement in the room.

Maya sat across from him, her fingers loosely wrapped around a drink she ignored, her expression calm, unreadable.

Corin leaned against a column near the entrance, scrolling idly through his phone, his posture loose enough to sell the illusion of distraction.

Brett stood closest to the exit, one shoulder resting against the wall, his presence quiet but immovable, like a line drawn in the sand that no one could cross without consequence.

The illusion I’d created wrapped around them as seamlessly as it did around me, bending perception just enough that Thomas would see what he expected to see.

I shifted on the barstool, adjusting my posture, letting my shoulders settle into a familiar alignment that wasn’t mine.

The illusion settled over me like a second skin—responsive, precise, crafted from memory and observation and just enough borrowed detail to make it undeniable.

I glanced at my reflection in the glass case of the bar, and my lips pulled into a grim smile when Celeste’s face looked back.

Right on time, the door opened, and Thomas Bane stepped inside.

He paused just inside the entrance, his gaze sweeping the room in a quick, assessing glance that spoke of habit more than suspicion.

His posture was relaxed, his expression neutral, his presence unassuming as always.

Gentle. Harmless.

My stomach churned as his gaze landed on me. If I didn’t know better, I’d miss the malice in those warm brown eyes.

He walked over, and my grip on the glass tightened.

“Celeste,” he greeted, his voice carrying that same easy politeness I had heard earlier that morning. “I have to admit, I didn’t expect to hear from you.”

I didn’t look at him immediately.

I let the silence stretch just a fraction longer than comfortable before I turned slightly on my stool, lifting my gaze to meet his.

He slid onto the stool beside me without invitation, signaling for a drink with a small motion of his hand.

“So,” he continued, glancing at me sidelong. “Your message was...intriguing. ‘Old matters’? That’s a vague way to summon someone.”

“I didn’t think you’d come if I were specific,” I replied, my voice a mix of cool detachment and underlying edge that I had heard from my sister more times than I could count.

“Depends on the specifics.”

The bartender—Gavin, actually—set a glass in front of him. Thomas thanked him absently, his attention never quite leaving me as he took a slow sip.

“So why am I here, Celeste?” he asked, setting his glass down. “If this is about revisiting old insults, I think we’ve both had our fill.”

I tilted my head, letting my eyes meet his fully now.

“It’s not about insults,” I said.

“No?”

“No. It’s about that day at the Vesper Grand.”

There it was.

Subtle, almost imperceptible, the way his body stilled for just a fraction of a second.

I held his gaze.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, his voice remarkably steady for someone who had been caught.

“I’m talking about how you followed me,” I said quietly, my voice just shy of trembling. “I’m talking about how you watched me, waited till I was vulnerable.”

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