The name Seraphina Russo was spoken with awe, fear, and reverence. She was beauty itself— striking, divine, a goddess dressed in mortal skin. Yet, her beauty was laced with frost. Her expression never thawed. Her eyes, though dazzling were blank, lifeless, as though the soul behind them had long faded.
She walked through rooms like a queen, but her silence carried the chill of a tomb. To look at her was to marvel, but to meet her gaze was to shiver. She was alive, yet somehow not. Her heart begged for rest, but her mind relished the war. She felt nothing, and so she craved pain— not as weakness, but as proof that she still existed.
Those who knew her whispered of contradictions: Fire in her wrath, flood in her vengeance. She could erupt like a volcano, consuming everything in her path, or rise like a tsunami, Unstoppable and merciless. Which one she became depended only on who stood before her.
But what the world could never forget was what she had built. From nothing, from dust, she carved her empire. Chairwoman. CEO. The untouchable queen of the world's second-greatest fashion house company, the serpent fashion house company. No inheritance, no family name, no stolen power— only her.
And beneath the ice, beneath the silence, one truth smoldered:
Seraphina Russo was not born to be their weapon.
She was born to be their downfall.
