Stay away from him

Marcella stepped outside the grand Valemont manor. The gardens, manicured and vibrant, framed the driveway where the family carriage waited. The family crest—a golden sunburst—was emblazoned on its door.

Her mother, Lady Agnes, and sister Rachel were already inside. Rachel, dressed in pink silk and pearls, leaned out as if to call her. 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 she 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. Crestless, yes, but comfortable. She settled into the plush seat. 

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, placed a stool and offered his hand. Marcella gracefully descended, 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 church gardens bloomed in vibrant colors. The gardens surrounding the church were lush and vibrant. The air was filled with the scent of blooming flowers. 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 warmly. "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. 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.

That hellion is dead and gone.

"I'm happy for her," she said, meaning it.

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

The grand hall of church buzzed with hushed voices. 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.

The doors creaked open again.

Lord Damian Laborias strode in. His tall frame, clad in a deep green military-style coat embroidered with gold, his stern hazel eyes scanning the room like a battlefield.

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. He carried himself with an easy, carefree charm.

Before she could avert her gaze, Anthony sharp eyes found hers. He grinned, all too familiar. 

"Oh, no," Marcella muttered under her breath, turning her face 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, a ghost. Here to make your life miserable."

Anthony laughed, the sound rich. "You look… different. 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, louder.

The air changed-colder. The world was reduced to one figure and every single cell in her body screamed at her that it was time to escape.

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.

The fabric silk against his powerful macho frame acceunted his broad shoulders and lean physique. The dark embroidery on his cuffs and collar was almost serpentine.

And there he goes the person of her waking dream but with a devil behind. Nobles bowed. Berith barely acknowledged them. It was as if a predator had entered the room. The church did too little to push him back, his sheer presence was threatening to tear the walls themselves down.

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.