An Unexpected Invitation

"Too dry," Marcella muttered, clicking her tongue. She was kneeling by a bed of violets, and ran her gloved fingers through the soil, inspecting the moisture.

Marcella turned to one of the maids assisting her. "Tell the gardeners to water these before sunset. If they wilt, the estate will lose half its charm."

"Yes, my lady," the maid bowed before scurrying off to relay the message.

Marcella exhaled, brushing a stray strand of silver hair from her face. It had been a long morning of dealing with endless lessons, and tending to the garden was her way of grounding herself when everything else felt suffocating.

That peace, however, was soon interrupted.

"My lady!" came a voice, light and urgent.

Marcella turned to see Verona, hurrying toward her with a sealed envelope in hand. There was something unreadable excitement on her expression.

She straightened, dusting off the dirt from her gloves. "What is it?"

"A message, my lady." Verona caught her breath before extending the envelope. "From the Duke Montclair."

Her smile wobbled. Marcella hesitated for just a fraction of a second before taking the letter. Berith? Sending her a personal message? That was… unexpected.

She broke the seal and unfolded the crisp parchment.

Lady Marcella,

There is a royal art exhibition in the Celeste Gallery this evening, showcasing works from the finest painters and sculptors in the empire. I would be honored if you would accompany me.

—Duke Berith Montclair

Marcella stared at the words, then read them again.

Her brows pulled together. Berith Montclair, inviting her to an art exhibition?

Of all the things she had anticipated from this unwanted engagement—political discussions, power struggles, even outright avoidance—this was not one of them.

"What is he scheming now?" she let out a groan as threw her hands in the air.

Verona, who had been watching closely, clasped her hands together. "My lady, what shall I tell him?"

Marcella folded the letter neatly, slipping it back into Verona's hands. "Tell him I refuse. I have Duchess lessons to attend."

Verona blinked before her lips pressed together in disapproval. "Forgive me, my lady, but… should you not consider going?"

Her eyes narrowed into slits. "And why, tell, should I entertain his invitation?"

Verona hesitated, then took a careful step forward. "Because, my lady, this is a rare opportunity. The Duke is making an effort—"

"An effort for what? To confuse me? To manipulate me?" Marcella scoffed, crossing her arms. "Men like Berith Montclair do not do things without purpose. He is testing me, just as I am testing him."

Verona sighed but did not back down. "Even so, it would be wise to accept. You wish to understand his motives, do you not? What better way than by spending time with him directly?"

Marcella paused. She hated to admit it, but Verona had a point. If Berith was up to something—and he always was—it would be better to see it unfold firsthand.

After a moment of thinking, she let out a dramatic sigh. "Fine," she relented, waving a hand. "Tell him I accept. But he better not expect pleasant conversation."

Verona brightened. "Very well, my lady." She bowed. "And… shall I prepare your finest attire for the evening?"

"Oh, absolutely. If I am to spend the evening with the Duke, I will ensure he has something unforgettable to look at." Marcella rolled her eyes. Then, she turned to the other maids tending the garden. "You may continue without me. Ensure the lilies in the eastern courtyard are trimmed before nightfall."

With that, Marcella dusted off her gown, lifted her chin, and strode toward the manor. Rows of hydrangeas and climbing roses framed the pathways, their petals swaying gently in the breeze.

~~~~~~

The Royal Art Exhibition was in its peak beauty: the domed ceiling painted with celestial constellations; the marble floors polished until they gleamed like mirrors. Enormous paintings adorned the walls, while marble sculptures stood on pedestals.

Marcella arrived fashionably late.

She had chosen a raven-black gown, the fabric flowing like liquid ink. The bodice was structured but sleek. The long, sheer sleeves clung to her arms, delicate lace tracing the curve of her wrists.

Her silver hair was swept into a loose chignon, and a single onyx choker rested against her neck.

"If I'm going to be paraded around as a Duke's betrothed, I might as well remind them why I am not just another noble lady."

Marcella was aware of the lurking gazes eyeing her—some admiring, some scrutinizing. She was used to it. What she wasn't used to, however, was the sudden pull of nostalgia that seized her the moment she heard his voice.

"Lady Marcella?"

Marcella froze.

It had been so long since she had heard that voice—a voice filled with warmth, devotion, and something softer that made her heart clench.

Slowly, she turned.

And there he was.

Crown Prince Lucian Cassivane.

He stood before her. His blonde hair slightly tousled and emerald-green eyes filled with quiet admiration. He was dressed in a finely tailored charcoal suit with deep green accents. He held himself with the same confident grace that she remembered.

For a moment, she forgot to breathe.

"By the gods," Lucian murmured, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips. "I feared my eyes were deceiving me. Lady Marcella Valemont, in the flesh. I had heard the rumors, but seeing you here is—" He exhaled, shaking his head slightly. "—a most pleasant surprise."

Marcella forced herself to keep her composure, despite the guilt pressing against her ribs like a vice.

Because in her past life, Lucian had loved her.

And she had broken him.

She had ignored his affection, dismissed his kindness, and, in the end, chosen another path—one that had led to his ruin.

Now, standing before him, Marcella felt like a woman who had stolen something precious and could never return it.

She smiled, greeting him with a bow. "Your Highness."

Lucian returned her smile, though his gaze searched hers as if trying to read between the lines. "How have you been? I had not expected to see you at such an event."

"Nor did I expect to attend," Marcella admitted, forcing herself to calm down and think clearly about the situation. "But it seems my plans have a way of changing without my consent these days."

Lucian chuckled. "A sentiment I know well."

Their conversation flowed easily—too easily.

They spoke of the exhibition, of the paintings that caught their attention, of the sculptors. Lucian remained warm and engaging, his words had the same genuine charm she had once ignored.

And all the while, Marcella felt the guilt tightening its grip on her throat.

Suddenly, the air around them seemed to shift.

Marcella felt him before she saw him.

She felt his presence behind her—one that shuddered her muscles and made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on edge.

A presence- dark, and sinful—closing in like a shadow at her back.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything."