PRESENT◇ CHAPTER 8: ENTER DUKE MARTIN

As soon as Gabriella passed through the grand doorway, her practiced grin melted away. The cold indifference in her eyes vanished, leaving behind a mask of deceptive gentleness—a softness she had long perfected.

Her spine straightened, her chin lifted just enough to feign elegance without arrogance, and her gloved fingers lightly grazed the stem of her wine glass, steady despite the storm building beneath her calm exterior.

Then he entered.

Duke Martin.

A ripple of anticipation swept through the hall as he strode in, the silk sash across his chest gleaming under the glow of the chandeliers. Medals adorned him like ornaments of war, each one an echo of battles fought and won, of blood spilled and glory seized. He moved with an inherent poise that made lesser men shrink and women's gazes linger.

Gabriella heard it—the barely stifled sighs of admiration from the other women in the room, their eyes tracing the line of his broad shoulders and the proud set of his jaw.

She didn't sigh. She only stared.

Objectively, she supposed, the Duke was a prize. Tall and imposing, he seemed carved from stone—his features sharp, angular, and wholly untouchable. His skin was darker than the pale, powdered nobles that surrounded him, kissed by the sun from years on the battlefield.

Where others had soft hands accustomed to penning treaties and counting coins, his hands spoke of war.

Calloused. Capable. Deadly.

But Gabriella wasn't here to admire the Duke. She was here to see if he was a suitable candidate and if he was–to claim him, then kill him.

He had spent the last two years at the Eastern borders, fighting in lands cursed by shadows and ruled by madness. The tales of that place were enough to make children shiver and mothers bolt their doors. It was said that Madness—one of the Fallen Sisters—had torn the crown from its rightful rulers and transformed the kingdom into a nightmare. The skies bled red. The rivers ran black. And creatures of malice prowled the forests, hungering for flesh.

Yet Martin had returned. Alive. Triumphant.

It was no wonder the King celebrated him. No wonder they had thrown this ball, lavishing him in music and wine and false smiles. A hero deserved no less.

Gabriella's lips thinned as her gaze trailed over him. He stood apart, not just in stature but in presence, speaking with nobles twice his age as though he belonged—and perhaps he did. The room bent around him, as if drawn to his gravity.

Why him?

The thought struck her sharply, like glass underfoot. Why did the world give him everything? Strength. Wealth. Glory. Even tragedy had only served to deepen his legend. And yet her brother...

Gabriella's eyes flickered, catching the faintest shadow behind his prideful gaze. The crack in the armor. He was dying. Slowly, but dying all the same. Poisoned by his stepmother in childhood and left to rot from within.

Everyone knew of the story.

She took another sip of wine, letting the bitterness bite her tongue.

Twenty-eight. That's all he had. Two more years, maybe less. And now he was under pressure to leave behind an heir—to give the world one last piece of himself before death finally claimed him.

She had already planned it—each step laid out like pieces on a chessboard. Marry him. Earn his trust. And when the time was right… end him.

The thought didn't stir guilt. It didn't make her heart clench or her breath catch. It barely even registered as immoral.

It wasn't that Gabriella was heartless. No, she felt deeply—sometimes too deeply. But survival? That was stronger. It had to be.

~~~~~~~~~~

Gracelyn wished—desperately—that her heart didn't betray her. That it didn't quicken like a frightened bird trapped in her chest, its wings battering against her ribs. That her breath didn't snag in her throat, leaving her teetering on the edge of breathlessness. That her composure didn't waver—not even for a moment.

But it did.

And she hated herself for it.

Because the moment the servant's voice rang out—clear and commanding—announcing the arrival of the Crown Prince, Gracelyn couldn't stop herself. She turned, drawn like a moth to flame, her eyes bright and helplessly starry, like a girl caught in the throes of first love.

Well, perhaps that was an exaggeration. But only just.

She barely noticed the duchess of Humpty faltering mid-sentence, her words forgotten as Gracelyn abandoned the group of finely dressed women and turned toward the hall's grand entrance. It didn't matter that her abrupt departure was a breach of etiquette. It didn't matter that the Duchess's lips had thinned with disapproval. No one else seemed to care, not when every set of eyes in the room had already shifted, drawn by the presence that filled the doorway.

When Gracelyn's gaze landed on Henry, it struck her like a blow.

It was almost cruel—how someone could look like that. Regal and untouchable in his ceremonial uniform, the fabric rich with embroidery and gilded edges. Broad shoulders that carried the weight of expectation with such ease it seemed effortless. And those eyes—cold and clear, like shards of aquamarine, sharp enough to cut through glass.

Gracelyn's breath hitched. For one unbearable second, she forgot how to exhale.

Surely he didn't cast a spell on her. Surely this wasn't sorcery. Yet doubt scraped against her heart, because no matter how many times she scolded herself, told herself to be sensible, this strange and dizzying infatuation persisted. It sank its claws into her, held fast, and refused to let go.

And it didn't help that he somehow looked even more devastatingly handsome tonight. Even with the slight downturn of his lips and the subtle furrow of his brows—a look that might have been irritation or indifference—he still managed to steal the breath from her lungs.

His gaze swept the room—and landed on her.

Indifferent, aquamarine orbs collided with hers, wildly panicked and brown. Her stomach plunged, heat blooming up her neck and into her cheeks. It was ridiculous. It was humiliating.

She tore her gaze away, but the damage was done.

Gracelyn could feel it—the phantom heat of his eyes trailing over her, skimming her skin like a touch she wasn't prepared for. Her body burned beneath it, her spine going rigid, her nerves so taut she thought they might snap.

And when he finally looked away, she deflated, releasing a shaky breath she hadn't even realized she'd been holding.

Relief. But also loss.

It was stupid to feel it, but she did anyway.

Across the hall, Amelia saw everything. Her sharp eyes didn't miss a single flicker of emotion, not the flush that crept up Gracelyn's skin or the way Henry's gaze had lingered just a moment too long. It sent a violent twist of anger through her gut, her nails digging crescent-shaped marks into her palms.

Her lips pressed into a bloodless line, and she cut off the man approaching her with a flick of her wrist.

She didn't care for his attention right now. She didn't care for anyone's attention—not when all of hers was locked on Gracelyn and the Crown Prince.

Her chest burned with resentment. That orphan girl—that nobody—had stolen the very thing Amelia had set her sights on.

Prince Henry wasn't even supposed to matter. He wasn't supposed to be anyone. The second son of the King, born to some common-born woman the court barely acknowledged. An afterthought. A shadow.

But fate was cruel.

When the First Prince fell ill and died before his twentieth birthday, Henry had risen to the throne overnight—an accident of timing and tragedy. If Amelia had known, if she'd had the foresight to bet on the spare instead of the heir, it would have been her by his side. Not Gracelyn.

Her nails bit deeper into her palm.

How dare Gracelyn of all people seize this chance? An orphaned girl with a distasteful family history. How dare she stand there in silks that outshone Amelia's, glowing like a flame that Henry couldn't seem to resist?

Pitiful people, Amelia thought bitterly, always have something loathsome about them.

She vowed then and there that this humiliation would not stand. Gracelyn might have caught Henry's eye for now, but Amelia would make sure it didn't last. She refused to be overlooked again.

Not by the Queen.

Not by the Prince.

And certainly not by Gracelyn fucking Gael.