The cage locks again

The Valemont drawing room was awash with tension so thick it clung to the air like smoke. The ornate chandelier, its gold gilding gleaming in the midmorning light, cast flickering reflections on the polished mahogany table.

"This can't be happening!" Marcella shouted, banging the table. Her words echoed off the high ceilings, "You're joking. You must be joking."

Her father's face, ever stern didn't so much as flinch. He sat at the head of the long table. "Enough, Marcella," Alistair said, his eyes sharp and devoid of warmth. "This matter has been settled. You are to marry Duke Berith Montclair of Ashenholt."

She blinked repeatedly. For a moment, the world felt as if it had tilted off its axis. Her fingers trembled, curling into tight fists at her sides, the nails biting into her palms.

"No," Marcella protested. "No! You can't do this to me. Rachel was supposed to marry him, not me!"

Her gaze darted to her elder sister, who sat stiffly on one of the upholstered chairs by the window. Rachel's tear-streaked face was pale, her blue eyes downcast, refusing to meet Marcella's gaze. The sight only added fuel to the fire burning inside Marcella.

"I am not marrying him," she declared. "This is absurd! I barely know that man. And from what little I do know, he is the last person I would ever want as my husband!"

Alistair leaned back in his chair. There was a flicker of irritation in his dark eyes. "This is not about what you want, Marcella," he continued, his voice gaining a sharp edge. "It is about what this family needs."

Marcella flinched, the words hitting her like a slap. Her pulse quickened, anger boiling in her chest and threatening to spill over. "What this family needs?" she repeated. "So, you're just going to sell me off like some… pawn in your game of politics? What about what I need? What about me?"

"You've made this necessary," her mother, Lady Agnes, cut in sharply. She sat on the other side of the table, "You've brought this on yourself, Marcella! Your scandal has left us with no choice but to make this arrangement. Do you even realize the damage you've done? The embarrassment you've caused?"

The nerves scaled their way up her chest and then her throat. Her nails dug deeper into her palms, leaving small crescent moons of pain. "Oh, of course," she said bitterly, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Blame me. Blame me for your desperate need to preserve this family's precious reputation, as if that's all that matters in the world."

"It is all that matters," Agnes snapped, her green eyes blazing. "You've shamed this family enough already. If you had simply behaved with some decorum, this wouldn't be necessary!"

Her laugh was harsh, almost bitter. "Oh, forgive me, Mother, for not living up to your standards of perfection. Shall I throw myself at the Duke's feet and thank him for taking your damaged goods as his bride?"

"Marcella!" her father barked, his voice cutting through her sarcasm. His expression hardened further. "Do you have any idea what you've done? The damage you've caused? The rumours have already started. By now, the court is full of them. The Valemont name, tarnished. Rachel's engagement, jeopardized." He exhaled sharply, as though the words themselves disgusted him.

She snapped her head toward him. There was this cold, implacable look in his eyes. For a moment, her anger wavered, replaced by something far more vulnerable: fear.

"The marriage has been finalized. The Duke has agreed to marry you, and that is the end of it." 

Her heart sank, her fury dimming as a crushing sense of inevitability began to settle over her. But she wasn't done yet—not by a long shot.

"Why?" Marcella demanded, "Why did he agree? What does he gain from this? He's a Duke—he doesn't need me. And why should I marry a man who has already made it clear that he doesn't want me?"

Alistair's expression darkened, and for the first time, he hesitated. "He has his conditions," he cleared his throat uncomfortably.

 "Conditions?" she repeated warily.

"Yes," her father replied, "Three of them. First, you will have no say in his affairs. His business is his own, and you are not to interfere."

Marcella flinched, but she kept her head high, forcing herself to meet his gaze even as her shoulders trembled.

"Second," Alistair continued, "he will not tolerate disobedience. As his wife, you will fulfill your role as Duchess—nothing more, nothing less. And third," her father finished, his voice colder than before, "if you prove to be as unruly as the rumors suggest, he won't hesitate to divorce you."

The silence that followed was deafening.

Her grip on the chair tightened until her knuckles turned white. The conditions weren't just insulting—they were humiliating. They stripped her of any freedom, any sense of dignity.

"So that's it, then," she chuckled. "You've handed me over like a package—no, like a problem you're desperate to be rid of."

Alistair's gaze didn't waver. "It is what must be done."

Marcella let out a shaky laugh, her purple eyes glinting with unshed tears. "You don't even care, do you? About how I feel? About what this will do to me?"

His silence was her answer.

Marcella stared at him for a long moment. She wanted to scream, to cry, to fight, but she knew it was useless. Alistair had made up his mind.

She struggled to hold back the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm her. She felt like the walls of the room were closing in on her, trapping her in a cage she couldn't escape.

 Then, without another word, Marcella turned on her heel and stormed out of the study room.

This was what she had fought so hard to avoid. And yet, no matter how much she tried to change her destiny, fate seemed determined to drag her back to this moment, to this marriage she didn't want, to this life she couldn't escape.