CHAPTER NINE : SECRETS

The grand hall was bathed in golden light, the air thick with laughter and the clinking of glasses. Seraphina stood at the edge of the gathering, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, watching the ceremony unfold. Alastair and Viviane stood before the altar, the perfect picture of a blissful couple. Their smiles were radiant, their hands intertwined as if the world revolved solely around them.

"Do you, Alastair Everell, take Viviane Elden to be your wedded wife?" the officiant asked.

"I do," Alastair replied, his voice steady and clear.

Seraphina felt a sharp pang in her chest as Viviane repeated the same words. Her lips pressed into a thin line, holding back the wave of emotions that threatened to consume her. She could hear the whispers, the laughter, the mocking comments from the onlookers.

"She couldn't even keep her husband," someone sneered.

"Poor thing, standing there like a ghost."

Despite it all, Seraphina remained stoic, her face a mask of calm. Her heart, however, was a different matter.

Suddenly, a rough grip tightened around her arm, pulling her from her thoughts. She glanced to her side and met the cold, unforgiving eyes of her biological father, the Marquis of Aelthwyn.

"You've failed again," he hissed, his voice low but seething with anger. "Useless. Do you even understand what your purpose is? You were supposed to secure power for this family, not stand here like a shadow."

His words cut deep, but Seraphina didn't respond. What could she say? She was no more than a tool to him—a means to an end.

The ceremony concluded with a kiss, the crowd erupting into applause and cheers. Seraphina watched as Alastair leaned in, his lips brushing Viviane's in a display of affection he had never once offered her. The sight felt like a dagger to her chest, yet she remained rooted, refusing to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing her break.

As the reception and banquet carried on, Seraphina moved through the motions like a ghost. She smiled politely when necessary, answered when spoken to, and avoided lingering near Alastair and his new bride. The noise, the laughter, the clinking of glasses—it all felt like a distant hum, a world she no longer belonged to.

When the festivities finally ended, the guests began to disperse, leaving only the newlyweds and a handful of servants. Seraphina lingered in the shadows, her eyes following the pair as they made their way to the bedchamber prepared for their first night as husband and wife.

She clenched her fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. The thought came unbidden—never once had Alastair looked at her the way he looked at Viviane. Never once had he reached for her hand, kissed her forehead, or spoken to her with even a hint of warmth.

This was her reality, her life as the Duchess of Everell. A title in name only, a marriage that had been nothing more than a transaction.

The heavy doors of the bedchamber closed behind the newlyweds, and Seraphina turned away, the weight of the night pressing down on her. She made her way back to her chambers, her footsteps slow and heavy, her mind a whirlwind of thoughts.

Once inside, she sat on the edge of her bed, her hands trembling as she reached for the necklace around her neck. The grey gem shimmered faintly in the dim light, reminding her of Kael's eyes, of the life she had left behind.

"What am I doing here?" she whispered to herself, her voice barely audible.

She lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, her vision blurred with unshed tears. The cold emptiness of the room felt suffocating, a stark contrast to the warmth and laughter she had witnessed earlier.

"Is this what freedom feels like?" she muttered bitterly, her voice cracking.

Her thoughts drifted to the past, to the choices that had led her here. She had run from the underworld, from Kael's suffocating grasp, only to find herself trapped in another kind of prison. A gilded cage, where she was nothing more than a pawn in someone else's game.

She closed her eyes, her heart heavy with sadness and betrayal. For all her attempts to escape her fate, she had only traded one set of chains for another.

As sleep claimed her, a single tear slid down her cheek, her last thought lingering like a haunting melody:

I've lost everything, and yet… I don't even know what I'm searching for.

*****

The bedchamber was silent, the soft rustle of curtains the only sound as the moonlight streamed through the windows. Viviane lay sprawled across the bed, her breathing slow and even as she succumbed to the effects of the wine Alastair had subtly spiked earlier. The warmth and tenderness he had shown her throughout the day were gone, replaced by a cold, calculating expression as he stared down at her sleeping form.

Without a word, Alastair turned and walked toward the balcony. The cool night air brushed against his face, but it did little to clear the storm brewing in his mind. A faint knock on the door drew his attention, and moments later, a figure stepped into the room—a man dressed in dark, unassuming attire, bearing none of the polished refinement of the household staff.

This was not the butler who served the duchess her tea or attended to the guests during formal gatherings. This was a shadow, a man who moved in the darkness and carried out orders that were never to be spoken of.

"The evidence?" Alastair asked, his voice low and even.

"Here, Your Grace," the man replied, placing a stack of documents on a nearby table.

Alastair stepped back inside, his fingers brushing over the papers without opening them. His eyes flicked to the bed briefly before he spoke again. "Everything has been set in motion?"

"Yes, Your Grace. The whispers have already begun. The nobles are uneasy, and the Marquis of Aelthwyn will soon feel the pressure."

Alastair nodded, his expression unreadable as he sank into the chair behind his desk. His shirt hung loose, the top buttons undone, revealing a glimpse of the scar that ran diagonally across his chest—a mark from battles fought long before he became a duke.

For a moment, the room was silent, the weight of unspoken thoughts thick in the air. Then, Alastair broke the silence with a question that seemed to surprise even himself.

"How is she?"

The butler's head tilted slightly, though his face betrayed no emotion. "The duchess?"

Alastair nodded, his gaze fixed on the glass of wine Viviane had drunk earlier. "Yes. Is she… coping?"

The butler hesitated before replying, his voice carefully measured. "It is difficult to say, Your Grace. The duchess remains composed, but…" He trailed off, as if unsure how much to reveal.

"But what?" Alastair pressed, his tone sharper than intended.

"She is calm, almost unnervingly so," the butler admitted. "Her silence speaks more than her words. It's as if she is waiting—for what, I cannot say."

Alastair leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple as if to dispel the ache that had settled there. His thoughts drifted back to the moment Seraphina had stood before the altar, her face calm and serene as she watched him exchange vows with another woman. She hadn't flinched, hadn't cried, hadn't even looked away. That image has haunted him ever since.

"Damn it," he muttered under his breath, his frustration bleeding through.

The butler watched him silently, his presence a reminder of the shadows Alastair had chosen to dwell in.

"This mistress," Alastair said finally, his voice colder now. "Her purpose is to unsettle Seraphina and the Marquis. Nothing more."

"And yet," the butler ventured cautiously, "it seems the duchess has endured far more than anticipated."

Alastair's jaw tightened. He couldn't deny it. Seraphina was far from the naive girl he had once assumed her to be. Her calm exterior masked a depth he hadn't expected, and it unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

"She's playing her own game," he said, more to himself than to the butler. "And I need to know what her next move will be."

The butler inclined his head. "Shall I have her watched more closely?"

Alastair hesitated, then shook his head. "No. She'll notice. Let her think she has the upper hand for now."

The butler nodded and took his leave, the door closing softly behind him.

Left alone, Alastair glanced down at the documents on his desk once more. They contained the names of nobles, the secrets they harbored, and the power they wielded. It was the ammunition he needed to hold his ground against the Marquis and his allies.

He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk, his hands steepled beneath his chin. Seraphina's calm, unwavering face lingered in his mind, a reminder that she was no longer the fragile pawn he had once thought her to be.

"She'll break," he murmured, though the words felt hollow.

As the night stretched on, Alastair remained in his study, the weight of his decisions pressing heavily on his shoulders. He had set the pieces in motion, but whether the game would end in his favor remained to be seen.