Stay away from him

Marcella stepped outside the grand Valemont manor. The gardens, perfectly manicured and bursting with color, framed the driveway where the family carriage stood waiting. The family crest—a golden sunburst—was emblazoned on its door.

She spotted her mother, Lady Agnes, and her elder sister Rachel already seated inside the carriage. Rachel, dressed in a pale pink gown adorned with pearls, leaned slightly out of the window as if to call for Marcella. But before the words left her lips, Lady Agnes placed a firm hand on her arm, signaling her to stay quiet.

Marcella saw the exchange and raised a single brow. Subtle as ever, Mother, she thought dryly.

Lady Agnes's disapproval radiated even from a distance.

Rachel looked conflicted before glanced back at Marcella for a brief moment and eventually retreated into the carriage. The door closed behind them with a dull thud.

Marcella paused on her steps and let out a quiet scoff. "Always so warm and welcoming," she murmured to herself, her lips curling into a sardonic smile. "If Mother could turn frost into words, she'd have mastered it."

With a calm, unbothered stride, Marcella walked toward the second carriage waiting behind the family carriage. It lacked the crest and grandeur of the main carriage, but it was spacious and comfortable—more than sufficient for her. She climbed inside with practiced grace, settling into the plush seat and leaning back with a sigh.

The carriage rolled to a stop in front of the grand church, its spires piercing the clear blue sky. Marcella could already see the other noble families arriving, their carriages adorned with elaborate crests and liveries.

The coachman hopped down from the driver's seat, holding a wooden stool in his hands. He placed it carefully by the carriage door, then opened it and offered his hand to Marcella.

She stepped gracefully onto the stool, taking his hand with one of hers while holding a delicate fan in the other. She began fanning herself lightly, her silver hair catching the sunlight as she glanced around the church grounds.

The gardens surrounding the church were lush and vibrant. The air was filled with the scent of blooming flowers, and the sound of birdsong mingled with the distant murmur of voices. It was peaceful—almost too peaceful.

Her gaze shifted to the noble families entering the church. She caught several pairs of eyes darting her way, their brows lifting in surprise as they took in her appearance.

"They're shocked I'm not dripping in jewels and embroidery," Marcella murmured to herself, smirking faintly. "Let them wonder. It'll do them good to exercise their imagination."

With a flick of her fan, she dismissed the stares and made her way inside.

The interior of the church was as grand as Marcella remembered—vaulted ceilings adorned with frescoes, towering columns of white marble, and rows of gilded pews.

She spotted her father immediately. High Priest Alistair Valemont stood near the altar, dressed in his ceremonial robes of white and gold. His blonde hair was neatly combed, and his warm blue eyes lit up as he saw her approach.

"Marcella," he greeted, his voice rich and welcoming. "You look beautiful today."

Marcella curtsied gracefully, her lips curving into a soft smile. "Thank you, Father. I thought I'd try something different this time."

He chuckled, gesturing for her to stand beside him. "Different, yes. But no less stunning. The simplicity suits you."

Marcella tilted her head, feigning surprise. "Careful, Father. If you keep complimenting me, Mother might accuse you of spoiling me again."

Alistair laughed, shaking his head. "I'll take that risk." He glanced around the church, his expression growing thoughtful. "Today is a significant day. Duke Berith's oath will mark the beginning of his duties in the empire. You'll be pleased to hear that his engagement to your sister, Rachel, has been finalized."

Her chest tightened at his words. She remembered this conversation vividly from her first life—the way jealousy had surged within her, blinding her to everything else. She had envied Rachel's position, despised the idea of her elder sister becoming the Duchess of the empire.

But now, standing beside her father, Marcella felt only regret. Regret for the petty jealousy she had harbored, for the bitterness that had driven her actions.

"I'm happy for her," she said softly, her voice steady.

Alistair glanced at her, his brows lifting slightly. "You've grown, Marcella," he said, a note of pride in his voice. "I can see it."

The grand hall of the church buzzed with the quiet murmur of nobles, each dressed in their finest attire as they awaited the sacred oath-taking ceremony. 

Marcella stood near one of the columns, her fan lightly tapping against her palm as she surveyed the scene. She could feel the weight of the stares from some of the nobility who had noted her uncharacteristically simple attire, but she ignored them. Today, she was far more interested in observing than being observed.

Her purple eyes flickered toward the double doors as they opened once again, the heavy creak echoing through the hall.

The unmistakable stride of Lord Damian Laborias, filled the room. His tall frame, clad in a deep green military-style coat embroidered with gold, commanded attention without effort. His dark auburn hair was slicked back, and his stern hazel eyes scanned the room as if he were ready to wage war with anyone who dared cross him.

Behind him walked a smaller figure, one Marcella instantly recognized. 

The younger brother of Lord Damian, Anthony Laborias. 

His tousled dark auburn hair, a shade lighter than his brother's, framed his mischievous green eyes. Unlike Damian, whose presence was heavy with command, Anthony carried himself with an easy, carefree charm. Dressed in a simpler dark coat and breeches, he had the air of someone who didn't care much for decorum.

Before she could avert her gaze, Anthony sharp eyes found hers. His lips pulled into a grin that she remembered all too well.

"Oh, no," Marcella muttered under her breath, turning her face slightly away as if she hadn't seen him.

But it was too late. Anthony strode across the church, reaching out for her.

"Marcella Valemont," he said, his tone dripping with mock incredulity. "Is that you?"

Marcella tilted her head, offering him an unimpressed glance. "No, it's a ghost. I've simply returned to haunt the event to make your life miserable."

Anthony laughed, his sound rich and unbothered. "You look… different," he said, gesturing vaguely to her. His grin widened. "Simple, even. Should I be concerned? Or is this your way of lulling everyone into a false sense of security before you crush them under your heel?"

Marcella rolled her eyes but couldn't help the small smile tugging at her lips. "What an imagination you have, Anthony. If only your brother shared your creative flair, perhaps he wouldn't scowl his way through every event."

"Damian calls it 'discipline,'" Anthony said, mimicking his brother's serious tone. "I call it a miracle he hasn't petrified anyone yet."

Marcella let out a soft laugh. She felt at ease being with him. He had always seen past her sharp words and carefully constructed walls, never taking her too seriously even when she lashed out.

But her brief moment of ease was shattered when the doors of the church creaked open again.

Marcella turned her head slowly, her breath catching in her throat as her eyes landed on him.

She knew who he was but she dared not think the name aloud in her thoughts.

Duke Berith Montclair of Ashenholt. Her mind whispered and she shushed it.

For a moment, she could only stare him in stunned silence. Nothing could have prepared her for the sight of him in flesh.

He was beautiful and terrible at once, with his silver tinted skin and obsidian eyes that froze her in place—dark, deep, and utterly cold.

His black coat, lined with silver, was impeccably tailored. The fabric silk against his powerful macho frame acceunted his broad shoulders and lean physique.

The dark embroidery on his cuffs and collar was intricate, almost serpentine, and the polished black boots he wore clicked softly against the marble floor as he stepped forward.

Marcella's fan slipped from her hand, clattering softly against the floor. Her knees went weak, and she stumbled backward, only to feel Anthony's hand hold her arm.

"Marcella?" he asked, his tone no longer teasing. "What's wrong?"

The church seemed to shrink around her, the walls pressing in as her heart hammered against her ribs.

Memories flashed before her eyes—Berith's eyes, as cold as the blade he had plunged into her stomach; his voice, low and mocking, as he whispered his final words to her.

She could see him standing in the bloodied throne room, his hands stained red, his smirk carved into her mind like a cruel brand.

In the present, Berith moved further into the church, like a predator surveying his domain. The nobles bowed their heads in respect as he passed, but he barely spared them a glance.

Berith Montclair was the very embodiment of menace, his presence suffocating the room.

Marcella gripped Anthony's arm tightly, her nails digging into his sleeve. Her chest felt constricted, as if the very air had been drained from the church.

"Marcella," Anthony called again, his green eyes searching her face with concern. "Breathe. Look at me."

She blinked, tearing her gaze away from Berith. Anthony's face came into focus, his brows furrowed as he studied her.

"It's just Berith," he consoled her, his tone meant to reassure. "He's nothing more than another noble playing a role. Don't let him get to you."

Marcella swallowed, her blood rushing to her ears. "You don't know him like I do," she whispered under her breath.

Stay away from him, she reminded herself. No matter what it takes.