2

Marquess Armand da Ville sat at his heavy oak desk, the dim light filtering through the window casting shadows across his furrowed brow. His pallid blonde hair, now streaked with gray, fell haphazardly over his forehead, framing a face lined with wrinkles that told stories of loss and regret. He absentmindedly tapped his fingers against the surface of the desk, lost in thought as he reviewed a stack of letters, his sharp blue eyes scanning each page. The quiet of his office was abruptly interrupted by the sound of the door bursting open.

"Armand!" Loretta da Ville stormed in, her presence filling the room with a tempestuous energy. Once a striking beauty, Loretta was now a silhouette of her former self; her golden eyes had dulled, and her navy blue hair, once like a flowing river, had begun to gray at the roots. The wear of time and bitterness settled around her, transforming her graceful features into a mask of anger and desperation.

"What is it, Loretta?" the Marquess asked, looking up, his tone more curious than concerned. He could sense the storm brewing within her, a restless energy that had become all too familiar in recent years.

"Emeline has awoken! She's healthy!" Loretta spat, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. "How can this be? She should have been gone, Armand! We both know it!" 

Loretta's daughter Amelie stood behind her mother, her striking beauty juxtaposed against Loretta's waning allure. With navy blue hair cascading down her shoulders and sharp gray eyes that held an intensity beyond her years, she nodded in agreement. "It's not fair! She has no right to take up space in our lives when she—"

"Don't you dare finish that thought, Amelie!" Loretta interjected, her voice rising. "You were meant to inherit everything—our title, our legacy—not some wretched girl who should have never existed!"

Marquess Armand leaned back in his chair, folding his hands together. "Perhaps you're both forgetting the circumstances surrounding Emeline's birth," he said, his voice steady. "Caroline died, and that loss… it cannot be undone." He could feel the weight of that memory laying heavily on his heart, but the present overshadowed it.

Loretta brushed a hand through her graying hair, frustration evident in her gesture. "That does not change the fact that Emeline has siphoned off my happiness! No father should have to look at her dead wife's face every day! It's sickening!"

"Mother, please," Amelie whispered, but her voice bore a sharp edge, silently urging her mother on.

Armand raised an eyebrow, his gaze penetrating. "Loretta, the girl is alive. There's nothing anyone can do to change that. You must accept it."

"Accept it?!" Loretta's voice trembled with anger. "I will not sit idly by while fate mocks us! We should have buried her and moved on!" The tension in the air crackled, and her chest heaved as if she were struggling to contain a storm. 

"Emeline's time will come," Armand replied calmly, yet there was an undercurrent of something darker in his tone. "We just need to be patient. In due time…" He let the words hang in the air, a sharp denial wrapped in a promise.

Loretta's eyes flared with determination, her once warm golden hue now filled with something colder. "Patience? This has gone on long enough! Every moment she breathes is an affront to us! To our name!"

"And what do you propose?" Armand challenged, his expression stoic as he faced his irate wife. "That we rid ourselves of her in some dishonorable way? That would only bring more scandal upon this house, and you know it."

"We could—" Loretta started, but Amelie interrupted, her voice taking on a more pleading tone.

"Father, surely there must be something we can do. We can't let her linger in our lives like a shadow. It's unbearable!" 

Armand sighed, running a hand through his tousled hair. Despite the wisdom of his years and the power afforded to his title, the unease within him blossomed.

"Let her breathe for now. But make no mistake, this is a temporary peace," he declared, his words a chilling promise cloaked in paternal reassurance. 

 ***

Jiwon (or was it now Emeline?) sat at her ornate desk, the surface adorned with inkwells and feathered quills, her hands lightly tapping against the journal that lay open before her. The faint scent of parchment filled the air, mingling with the lingering fragrance of blooming flowers from outside the castle. Each tap was a plead to recall what would transpire in the pages of her life—an existence intertwined with both beauty and tragedy. She stared out of the window, taking in the vibrant garden, yet her mind was adrift, swirling with fragments of memories that danced just out of reach.

"Lady Emeline?" Rose's voice cut through the fog of her thoughts. The young maid entered the room, her expression a mix of hesitance and concern. "Your father requests your presence for lunch."

Emeline (she decided to call herself that instead of suffering from an identity crisis for too long) blinked, momentarily startled from her reverie. "Of course, Rose," she replied, rising from her chair with a grace she had been taught from a young age. The journal snapped shut, but its unspoken secrets lingered, taunting her as she made her way to the door. "Shall we?"

As they descended the grand staircase, Emeline felt the familiar weight of expectation settle upon her shoulders. The dining hall, with its long, polished table set elegantly for a feast, awaited her arrival. Delicate china glistened under the warm glow of chandeliers, and her heart raced in anticipation of the interactions she would face.

"Ah, our darling Emeline!" Her father exclaimed, his bushy mustache twitching with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. He stood up, arms wide open, welcoming her into the fold of the family. "Come, join us."

"Thank you, Father," Emeline replied, offering a nod as she took her seat. Across the table, her stepmother Loretta sat, her demeanor a calculated blend of cordiality and disdain. Next to her, Amelie her stepsister, pretended to be engrossed in her meal, but Emeline could sense the undercurrent of animosity swirling around them.

"Oh, my dear Emeline!" Amelie spoke, her voice laced with exaggerated concern. "You look pale. Have you been resting enough?"

The feigned worry hung heavy in the air, sending a sharp pang through Emeline's heart.

"I am well, sister," Emeline answered, keeping her voice steady, though she could feel the tightness in her chest. She cast a quick glance at Rose, who stood discreetly in the corner, her eyes brimming with empathy.

"Just look at her," Loretta chimed in, her tone dripping with saccharine sweetness. "If she continues to neglect her health, she may become the ghost of Castle da Ville!" Her smirk was barely concealed behind a mouthful of bread. 

"Pass the salt, would you?" she added, waving a dismissive hand toward the saltcellar as if it were an inconvenience. Emeline's stomach churned, but she remained silent, unwilling to fuel Loretta's childish banter.

Taking a deep breath, Emeline ventured into the uncharted territory of family discourse. "Where is Clarence?" she asked suddenly, startling herself with the raw intensity of her curiosity. Her heart fluttered at the thought of one of her favorite characters, whose absence had left a void in the family.

"Ah, Clarence is out on the battlefield, dear Emeline," her father replied, his voice tinged with pride but shadowed by apprehension. "He fights for our kingdom, as any noble and brave heart would."

The mention of Clarence sent a torrent of memories rushing forth—visions of him laughing under the sun, tales of his bravery, and the worry etched on their mother's face as he donned his armor for the first time. The images flooded Emeline's mind, fragments of the novel's pages unveiling before her like a theater's curtain rising to reveal a grand production.

"Father!" she gasped, suddenly overwhelmed. She shot up from the table, her chair scraping against the floor as her pulse quickened. "I… I need to be excused." The words tumbled out before she could think, her voice tinged with urgency.

"Emeline, wait!" her father called after her, confusion marking his expression. But Emeline was already halfway out of the hall, her feet carrying her down the corridor with a desperation she could no longer contain. 

As she rushed toward the sanctuary of her room, the weight of her family's gazes bore into her back, but she didn't falter. Heart pounding, she pushed the door shut behind her, the act a small barrier against the turmoil swirling within. 

Leaning against the door, Emeline closed her eyes, letting the memories surge until they broke through the dam she had subconsciously built. Images of laughter, love, betrayal, and loss cascaded through her mind's eye, intertwining with the reality she now inhabited. 

I remember.