His to Ruin, Mine to Burn

London, Spring 2011

The garden behind the Serrano estate shimmered in the pale warmth of April sunlight, as if it too was holding its breath.

A marble terrace framed the back of the house, spilling into a manicured lawn flanked by soft white roses and climbing ivy. Cherry blossoms fluttered on the breeze like confetti from nature itself, drifting gently onto white linens and champagne flutes held by London’s wealthiest elite.

Beanca Serrano stood beneath the shade of a flowering pear tree, her lavender dress catching the light as she nervously twisted the gold ring on her finger. She had just turned fourteen.

Fourteen.

Too young to truly understand what engagement meant—but old enough to know that this moment would define her.

Her mother had picked the dress. Custom French silk, understated elegance. Her father had approved the guest list. Their estate had been prepared for weeks.

Because today… today was not just a party. It was an announcement.

An arrangement.

A future.

She glanced toward the stone steps of the terrace where both families stood, posed like royalty. Her mother, Isadora Serrano, looked every bit the matriarch—sleek black dress, diamond cuff, not a strand of hair out of place. Sharp eyes, warmer only when she looked at Beanca. And across from them, stood the Devereuxes.

The Devereux name was heavy with influence. They were newer money than the Serranos but no less powerful—British biotech titans with holdings in pharma, AI research, and private defense contracts. Old-world manners with modern ruthlessness.

Ambrose Devereux, grey-templed and tall, watched everything like a hawk in a tailored suit. His wife, Vivienne, stood beside him, elegant but detached, as though bored by the very event she was hosting. The Devereuxs didn’t smile unless they needed to.

And between them—stoic, unreadable—stood Erik.

Beanca’s breath hitched.

Eighteen and already striking in a way that made people notice twice, Erik Devereux stood like he didn’t belong to anyone. Broad-shouldered, in a crisp grey suit, with dark brown hair swept off his forehead and eyes like London rain—cool, gray, distant. He looked bored. Distant. Like this was all an inconvenience.

But Beanca couldn't stop looking at him.

She’d loved him quietly since she was twelve.

It started with stolen glances at holiday galas, the way his jaw clenched when his father spoke to him too sharply, or how he never laughed even when everyone else did. There was something broken in him, something that didn’t shine like the polished boys in her school or their elite circles.

He was real—or so she told herself. And she wanted to be the one who got past the armor.

She had imagined this day a thousand different ways. Maybe he’d offer her his hand, a warm smile. Maybe he’d whisper something only she could hear. Something tender. Something promising.

But now—he barely looked at her.

A flute rang against crystal.

Ambrose Devereux raised his glass, commanding silence like an emperor.

“Thank you for joining us today,” he began, voice deep and clipped. “This moment marks not only a business alliance but a joining of futures. It is with great pride that we announce the formal engagement of our son, Erik Ambrose Devereux, and Miss Beanca Isolde Serrano.”

A polite gasp, followed by applause.

Beanca’s heart flipped.

It’s real. This was happening. Her name. His name. In the same sentence. Her hands shook slightly.

Her mother stepped aside, motioning for her to join Erik on the terrace. Isadora’s smile was tight but proud. “Chin up, cariño. Walk like the woman you’re meant to become.”

Beanca took a slow breath and stepped forward.

The crowd blurred around her. All she could see was him.

He met her halfway, hands at his sides, gaze unreadable. As they faced each other, a hush fell over the garden.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t smile.

He simply held out his hand.

Not to hold. To shake.

A handshake.

Beanca hesitated. Her heart squeezed. But she placed her hand in his.

His grip was light. Cool. Controlled.

They stood in silence as camera shutters clicked. The pressure of their families pressing down on them. And yet—not even a word.

She leaned in slightly. “Are you okay?” she whispered.

“I didn’t ask for this,” Erik murmured back. His voice was low, measured, but sharp enough to sting. “Let’s not pretend we’re something we’re not.”

Beanca blinked.

It wasn’t just disinterest. It was rejection. Wrapped in velvet, but rejection all the same.

Before she could say anything, a high, bright laugh split the quiet.

Stella Laurent.

She stood at the edge of the garden in a silver satin dress, her gold-blonde hair catching the light, her sea-green eyes fixed on Erik. She laughed again, casually brushing a lock of hair from her shoulder as if she had no idea how captivating she was. But she knew.

Beanca watched Erik.

He looked at Stella. And he smiled.

Not wide. Not boyish. But it was a smile.

The only one he gave that afternoon.

Beanca looked down at their joined hands—awkward, lifeless.

She drew her hand back.

The moment the ceremony was over, Erik turned without waiting and joined his family. Not a glance back. Not a word.

Later that evening, when the garden had emptied and the lights were dimming, Beanca sat alone beneath the same pear tree, barefoot, dress bunched at her knees. The engagement ring—an understated band of Devereux platinum—rested on her finger, too heavy now.

Above her, the stars blinked in the inky sky.

She pressed her hands to her chest.

“I can love you enough for both of us,” she whispered.

She didn’t understand yet that love, real love, was not a one-sided vow.

And in her heart, something fragile took root. Not just longing.

But the beginning of hurt.

❈❈❈

London, Spring 2011 Erik’s Point of View

The champagne flute in Erik Devereux’s hand was sweating with condensation, but his grip didn’t loosen. It was the third glass someone had offered him since he arrived, and he still hadn’t taken a proper sip.

He hated this sort of thing—elaborate garden parties with lace canopies and idle conversations laced with veiled ambitions. But Devereux men didn’t refuse invitations from allies. And certainly not from the Serranos.

Not when the deal had already been struck.

“Stand straighter, Erik,” his father murmured under his breath as they stood side by side near the terrace. “You look like you’re attending a funeral.”

He didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. A Devereux knew when to speak and when to remain silent. Today, he would play the role everyone expected of him—the heir, the strategist, the dutiful son. And now, the fiancé.

Across the lawn, he caught sight of her.

Beanca Serrano.

She stood near the garden’s edge, just under a blooming tree, her lavender dress falling like soft petals around her tall frame. Her dark brown hair, curled loosely, caught in the breeze, and her hazel eyes scanned the crowd with a nervous brightness.

Fourteen. She was only fourteen.

He was seventeen. Already tired of being told who he was supposed to become.

Erik had known of Beanca, of course. The Serranos and Devereux families had been tied together through business and legacy for generations. He’d seen her at family functions over the years—sometimes quiet and bookish, sometimes bright and laughing with her older cousin Alina.

But today, she looked different.

Not just older. Not even particularly elegant.

She looked… like hope.

Naive. Pure. Fragile in a way that made his chest tighten with something uncomfortable. She didn’t know what she was being given to. Not really. Not what it meant to be a Devereux.

He watched as her eyes flicked toward him. She smiled.

God help him, he smiled back.

It was instinct—politeness, reflex. But the moment their eyes met, something inside him faltered.

There was no scheming in her gaze. No cunning. She didn’t look at him like a pawn or a prize.

She looked at him like… he mattered.

And that terrified him.

Because Erik had already learned the truth that Beanca hadn’t yet: love was dangerous. Wanting something made you weak. And weakness got people hurt.

“Go,” his father said softly. “They’re calling us.”

He moved toward the center of the lawn, the applause starting as their mothers took the stage. The words “joining of two great families” and “future of the legacy” floated through the air, but Erik barely heard them. He stood beside Beanca, close enough to see the faint blush on her cheeks and the nervous way she clutched her hands together.

When she looked up at him, eyes shining, he saw it again.

Trust. Hope. The beginnings of something dangerous.

And he smiled.

Because it was easier than doing anything else.

London, Spring 2012 — Serrano Estate

The air smelled of lilacs and sun-warmed earth. London’s spring was in full bloom, and the Serrano estate pulsed gently with quiet luxury—freshly cut hedges, white tulips bowing in the breeze, the distant clink of fine china from the terrace brunch below. From her window, Beanca Serrano traced the sky with her eyes, the blue so soft it felt like a whisper against her heart.

She was fifteen now. Still slight and awkward in places, still learning how to hold her posture the way her mother insisted—“Like you own the world, darling.” But in the solitude of her room, legs curled beneath her and a journal resting on her knees, Beanca wasn’t trying to own anything. She just wanted to understand this ache blooming inside her.

She picked up her fountain pen, the one Erik gave her for her last birthday—engraved with her initials in silver.

March 22, 2012Today he passed me the salt.That’s ridiculous, isn’t it? But the way his fingers brushed mine—maybe it was on purpose. Or maybe I’m imagining things again.He smiled. Not the kind he gives to Aunt Celeste or the board members. A real smile. Soft. Small. For me.I don’t think he knows what he does to me.Or maybe he does.And maybe that’s worse.

She paused, biting the inside of her cheek. How could she put into words what it felt like when Erik Devereux simply walked into a room? How her heart scrambled like startled birds every time she caught a glimpse of his profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the way his sleeves always seemed perfectly rolled at his forearms, his voice like low thunder softened by velvet?

They were engaged, technically. But it wasn’t real. Not yet. Not really.

Not to him.

To him, she was still “Beanca,” the polite, wide-eyed daughter of Rafael Serrano, always neatly dressed and spoken to in clipped kindness. A formality. A promise made between men behind gold-plated doors. He hadn’t chosen her.

But she… she had chosen him the moment she learned his name.

The brunch was long and filled with too many adults and not enough escape routes. Beanca sat stiffly in her floral dress, folding and unfolding the cloth napkin on her lap as conversations buzzed around her like bees. She was seated across from Erik, which should have been a blessing. But it was also a curse—because now she had to pretend not to look at him.

He was laughing at something her father said, lifting his glass just so, eyes crinkling. The sun caught the gold flecks in his irises, and Beanca’s throat tightened. Then, suddenly, he looked at her.

“Salt?” he offered, his voice smooth, holding the shaker across the table.

She reached for it—and their fingers brushed.

A jolt. Nothing visible. But she felt it. Sharp and electric.

“Thank you,” she murmured, barely above a whisper.

He smiled—briefly, casually—and turned back to the conversation with her father.

But Beanca sat frozen, her pulse betraying her completely.

She would think about that smile for days.

Later that afternoon, when the sun turned golden and everyone else disappeared into the house for espresso and brandy, Beanca slipped into the garden.

It was her secret place—the path between the roses and the olive trees, the iron bench where she sketched petals and fantasies. Her sketchpad rested on her knees as she tried to capture the delicate shape of a magnolia. Her pencil moved gently across the page.

“I didn’t know you drew.”

She looked up, startled. Erik stood a few feet away, jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled, his hair wind-ruffled. There was a looseness to him she rarely saw—something unguarded.

“I—it’s just a hobby,” she said quickly, closing the sketchpad halfway.

He stepped closer, leaning down to glance at the page. “You’ve got a good eye. That curve’s difficult.” He nodded at the half-finished bloom.

Beanca’s cheeks flamed. She dared to look up at him. “You think so?”

“I do.” Then he glanced at the bush behind her and plucked a small camellia bloom. “Here. For your next sketch.”

He handed it to her, the petals pale pink and trembling in her palm.

She didn’t know what to say. Her fingers curled around the flower, clinging to it like it was something sacred.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He smiled again, warmer this time. “I’ll let you get back to it.”

Then he walked away.

She sat still for a full minute, the flower pressed to her lips.

That night, long after the house had gone quiet and the maids had turned down the covers, Beanca lay in bed with her journal open again. A candle flickered beside her, casting soft shadows across the page.

March 22, continued He gave me a flower today. A camellia. Did he mean it like that? Probably not. But what if he did? He saw my drawing. He liked it. He smiled at me. Again. Why do I keep replaying it? Why does it feel like something bloomed inside me too?

Spring 2012 — London

The Devereux estate had always felt cold to Beanca—grand, immaculate, and slightly too quiet, like a place designed to be admired from afar rather than lived in. But that morning, it stirred with a pulse she hadn’t felt before.

Footsteps echoed briskly down marbled hallways. Florists replaced centerpieces that didn’t need replacing. The maids moved with uncommon haste, smoothing linens that had already been pressed to perfection. Someone even re-polished the doorknobs.

Something was happening. Something important.

Beanca stood alone on the upstairs balcony, overlooking the sweeping circular drive. Her hands curled around the wrought-iron railing, the early spring sun making the gold of her bracelet glint faintly. Below, the estate buzzed with anticipation.

A sleek silver Aston Martin slipped through the gates, its chrome body flashing like a knife under the morning light. It purred to a stop with quiet elegance. A un