PRESENT◇ CHAPTER 7: HOW TO GET RID OF AN UNWANTED SUITOR

Amelia Longwood stood stiff and sharp at the edge of the crowded ballroom, her eyes locked on Gabriella and Gracelyn as they stepped through the grand entrance. Their names rippled through the room like a trumpet call. A flicker of jealousy burned in Amelia's chest, quick and bitter.

Gracelyn carried herself with a natural elegance that made Amelia's stomach twist. It was maddening—like a splinter she couldn't ignore, no matter how hard she tried.

The royal ball, held at Duke Martin's grand estate, was a glittering event packed with nobles and high-ranking guests. Gold-trimmed walls and sparkling chandeliers made it clear—this was no ordinary gathering. Amelia forced herself to stand tall, her fingers curled tight at her sides. She needed to look calm, graceful, and worthy of the company around her.

Duke Martin was no ordinary man. A knight with a heroic reputation, he had returned from war to find a bride, and the royal family was watching closely. Gabriella's eyes gleamed as if she already had a plan to catch his attention.

"How do you win over a Duke?" Gabriella murmured under her breath, her words drowned out by the hum of voices and clinking glasses. The glittering ballroom blurred around her as her thoughts fixed on the man everyone was waiting to see.

A champagne flute floated gracefully into her field of vision, and she accepted it with a deliberate elegance. In her mind, she replayed the directives of her mistress, Malevolent, mulling over the cunning plan she had crafted.

She had stuffed Morfeo, the insistent bird that occupied her thoughts a thousand times, but there was no time for hesitation. Each tick of the clock echoed like a drumbeat, reminding her that progress toward her goal was crucial.

The Duke was undeniably perfect for her needs—wealthy, undeniably handsome, influential, and, perhaps most importantly, he carried the burden of a failing heart.

As for what Malevolent intended to do with the Duke's heart, Gabriella had little regard. Whether it was barbecue, sauté, or a fire-roasted feast did not concern her; her only priority was to keep herself safe and achieve her mission.

Lost in her scheming, she caught David's gaze from across the room. An unforeseen jolt of irritation coursed through her, prompting her to dismiss their connection and glance away.

David's heart sank as he registered the clear irritation on Gabriella's face when she finally glanced at him. It stung his pride far more deeply than he could have anticipated. He had already been feeling on edge, craving the solace of a smoke as the tension of the evening pressed down on him, and now, the lady who intrigued him seemed utterly uninterested, further amping his frustration.

Gabriella wanted nothing to do with the man. Not now, not ever. It didn't matter how good-looking he was or how much influence he carried in his dealings. A single word exchanged with David in public would set the rumor mill spinning faster than she could say her own name—and she refused to hand the gossips their next feast.

She turned away, her gaze settling on Gracelyn, who was laughing lightly at something the young minister said. At least someone was enjoying themselves tonight. Gabriella almost smiled—until she heard the steady sound of footsteps approaching.

Her stomach sank. David.

He hadn't taken the hint.

Gabriella didn't spare him a glance. Instead, she turned sharply, her heels clicking against the polished floor as she walked toward the far end of the room. She'd spotted the hidden porch earlier—shaded by columns and veiled in shadow. Perfect.

The footsteps followed.

Gabriella stepped outside into the cool night air, letting the moonlight cast silver over her skin. She didn't turn. Not yet. She waited, counting silently in her head. One. Two. Three—

The door creaked open behind her.

"You led me here," David said, his voice full of misplaced confidence.

Gabriella turned at last, her expression a sharp, elegant sneer. "And you followed."

He smirked, stepping closer. "I didn't take you for the type."

The type? Gabriella's lips curled. The moonlight didn't soften him—it revealed him. Arrogant. Entitled. A predator mistaking himself for a prince.

David took another step, misreading the glint in her eyes. He mistook fire for passion.

Big mistake.

"You met my brother a few days ago," Gabriella began, her voice calm, almost sweet. "With a marriage proposal."

David nodded stiffly. "Yes. Forgive my lack of manners then. Perhaps I should've approached you first—"

"Can you be any more dense?"

David stiffened, insult curling at the edges of his mouth. "Lady Gabriella Gael, as a lady—"

Her laugh cut him off. Sharp. Unapologetic.

"As a lady," she mocked, voice syrupy and dangerous. "Am I not supposed to say such things? Are you worried I'll soil my reputation—or yours? Spare me."

Her tone hardened, and her eyes narrowed. "Let's be honest, shall we? Everyone already knows what you are."

She leaned in slightly, her nose wrinkling. "I can smell the nicotine on your collar. You reek of desperation, David. And let me make one thing very clear—I don't want you."

The words struck harder than any slap. David's face darkened, but before he could speak, Gabriella stepped closer, forcing him to either stand his ground or back away.

"My family may have been blackened by the late Count's scandal, but make no mistake—we still have status."

Her voice dropped, dangerous now. "My brother is Count Gael, master of the Gael estate. And my sister?" Her lips curled. "She'll be queen one day."

David's throat bobbed. He thought she was a tad delusional.

"You?" Gabriella tilted her head, eyes sharp as daggers.

"You have influence, yes. Buyers and gold, perhaps. But no title. No legacy. And marrying me?" She smirked. "That would be the worst mistake of your life."

David opened his mouth to argue, but the words died when Gabriella's hand slipped behind her skirts.

The dagger appeared before he could blink. Silver and deadly, the rubied hilt gleamed in the moonlight as she caressed it almost lovingly.

David took a step back.

Gabriella's voice was silk as she said, "Do you see this dagger?"

He swallowed, his eyes darting between the blade and her face.

"My husband's chest will be cut wide open with this," she said softly, her eyes burning like embers.

His blood ran cold.

"And you," she added, her voice dropping even lower, "are not husband material."

David stumbled back, his face pale. The insult cut deep, but the threat—Gods, the threat—shook him to his core. He turned on his heel and walked away quickly, shoulders tense.

Gabriella waited until he was gone before letting out a breath.

She slid the dagger back into its hidden sheath with a soft snick and almost smiled.

That had gone better than expected. Maybe she'd write a book one day—'How to Rid Yourself of Unwanted Suitors.'

She was still considering potential titles when the sharp sound of a trumpet split the air, followed by the voice of the herald.

"Announcing the arrival of His Grace, the Duke of Mare!"

Gabriella froze.

The herald continued. "And His Royal Highness, Prince Henry of FARAWAY."

Her breath caught. She should've expected him here. Gracelyn would be beside herself.

The porch suddenly felt colder.

She squared her shoulders, adjusted her skirts, and stepped back inside. Whatever emotions churned in her chest, she locked them away. Now wasn't the time.

But as her heels echoed against the marble floor and the crowd parted to make way for royalty, Gabriella couldn't help the thought that whispered through her mind.

Could she really do this?