CHAPTER TEN: REASONS

Alastair leaned back in his chair, the dim light of the study casting long shadows across the room. His fingers drummed rhythmically on the desk as he stared at the map of Everell sprawled before him, its borders lined with notes and marks from years of calculated planning.

The power structure was fragile, a web of influence split between three ducal houses, a tyrant king, and a council of ministers barely holding the monarch in check. It was a system steeped in betrayal and intrigue, and no one understood that better than Alastair Everell.

Ten years ago, the cracks in this delicate balance had become clear. Alastair's family—once one of the most powerful ducal houses—had been shattered under the weight of accusations. Treason, they had called it. His parents and elder brothers were executed, while he, the last scion, was spared only to be thrown onto the battlefield as punishment.

But Alastair knew the truth.

The king had orchestrated everything, a ploy to weaken the dukes and consolidate power for the crown. Everell was merely a scapegoat, an example to remind the others of their place. Yet, the coup had only succeeded with the support of one key ally: the queen's maternal family, House Aelthwyn.

And at the center of that alliance stood the Marquis of Aelthwyn, Seraphina's grandfather.

Alastair's grip tightened on the edge of the desk, his knuckles white. He could still remember the first time he met her, years after the fall of his house. She was draped in a gown of golden silk, her every movement graceful and poised. Her laughter had echoed through the grand hall, a sound so warm it felt like a dagger to his chest.

She had been cherished and adored—a child of privilege untouched by the weight of her family's sins. To Alastair, she embodied everything he despised: the blind arrogance of the nobility, the gilded protection of a house that prospered off the ruin of others.

His resentment had festered ever since, a burning need for retribution. He would tear down Aelthwyn brick by brick, and if Seraphina was the key to toppling the Marquis, then so be it. He would use her, just as her family had used his downfall to climb higher.

But unknown to Alastair, the perfect image he had painted of Seraphina's life was nothing but an illusion.

The golden gown he envied had been stitched from borrowed fabrics, worn to conceal the cracks in a fractured household. The laughter he heard was hollow, forced to mask years of scorn and neglect. Seraphina had been nothing more than a pawn herself, tossed aside the moment her worth diminished.

She was no beloved daughter, no cherished heir. She had endured years of quiet suffering, her existence reduced to a shadow within her own family.

And now, standing as the Duchess of Everell, she bore the weight of her past silently, her strength born not of privilege but of survival.

But Alastair didn't know that.

To him, Seraphina was still the girl in the golden gown, a symbol of everything he had lost and everything he sought to destroy. He would stop at nothing to see the Aelthwyns crumble, even if it meant breaking her in the process.

*****

The grand dining hall was dimly lit, the flickering glow of the chandelier casting shadows over the polished oak table. At one end, Alastair and Vivianne sat close, their conversation filled with light laughter and stolen glances. Seraphina sat quietly at the other end, her fork idly pushing around the remnants of her meal. The clinking of silverware was the only sound on her side of the table.

Her gaze was distant, her thoughts a storm of doubt and resignation. Is it even worth staying here? she wondered. The title of Duchess had once felt like a symbol of strength, a chance to rise above her past. But now, it seemed like a gilded cage, suffocating her under its weight.

"I think a trip would be wonderful," Vivianne's sweet voice pierced through her thoughts, the words laced with intentional sweetness. She tilted her head playfully, her eyes sparkling as she looked at Alastair. "A honeymoon, perhaps? Somewhere far, where we can forget all the responsibilities for a while."

Seraphina's fingers tightened slightly around her fork, but she kept her expression neutral. She didn't even need to glance at the calendar to know what Vivianne was doing. Their first anniversary as husband and wife was only days away.

"How delightful," Alastair murmured, his lips curving into a faint smile.

Seraphina took a slow bite of her food, chewing mechanically as the conversation continued around her. She said nothing, her silence a shield against the growing ache in her chest.

After the meal ended, Alastair leaned back in his chair and looked at her, his tone brisk and businesslike. "Seraphina, start transferring half of your responsibilities to Evelyne. She'll manage the household alongside you."

Her heart sank at the command, but her face remained impassive. "Understood," she replied softly, her voice devoid of emotion.

She didn't argue or protest. What choice did she have? Alastair had already begun dismantling the last vestiges of her role in the duchy. Her presence was slowly erased, and her worth diminished to nothing more than a placeholder.

Her footsteps echoed through the quiet hall as she rose from her seat. The weight of her husband's words pressed heavily on her shoulders. She didn't even turn back to glance at the pair as she left, her resolve fragile and her heart laden with a question that had no answer.

*****

It had taken Seraphina weeks to notice it fully—the cold food served at her table, the salty water that greeted her every morning, and the chilling absence of warmth in her chambers. It wasn't a coincidence; it was deliberate. In the end, servants obeyed the true master of the house, and in this case, that was undoubtedly Alastair. 

As she walked past the kitchen that morning, the faint sound of laughter and chatter caught her attention. Her steps slowed, and she instinctively moved to the side, pressing herself against the wall beneath the open window. 

"They say Lady Viviane's beauty is unparalleled," one maid said, her voice lilting with excitement. 

"Well, compared to Lady Seraphina, who wouldn't look like a goddess?" another chimed in with a laugh. 

The sound of chopping paused briefly. "Poor Lady Seraphina," a deeper voice, likely the cook, muttered. "She's got no charm, no spark. Always so cold and plain." 

"Plain or not, it doesn't matter," a younger servant interjected her tone sly. "She doesn't even know how to keep her husband. I heard she barely talks to the Duke, let alone shares his bed." 

A round of giggles erupted. 

"She doesn't have to," the first maid retorted. "That's what Lady Viviane is for. They say she's the perfect match for His Grace. A true noblewoman." 

"True noblewoman?" the cook scoffed. "Lady Viviane's just a count's daughter, same as Lady Seraphina." 

"Yes, but she's a legitimate daughter," the younger servant said sharply. "Not some half-blood disgrace like the Duchess." 

Seraphina's fingers clenched around the folds of her dress, but her face remained blank. Her pulse pounded in her ears as the conversation continued, each word digging deeper into the fragile armor she wore. 

"You know what they're saying," the sly voice whispered again, now quieter, as if afraid of being overheard. "Lady Seraphina only got the title because of her father's connection to the Duke. They say the Duke couldn't care less about her." 

"Would you?" The second maid's voice dripped with mock sympathy. "I'd pity her if she wasn't so... distant. She acts like she's above everyone." 

"I heard she was crying during the Duke's wedding with Lady Viviane," the younger servant added, her voice low. "Must be hard to watch another woman take your place, especially when you were never wanted to begin with." 

The laughter that followed felt like shards of glass pressing into Seraphina's skin.

Taking a slow breath, she stepped back, careful not to make a sound as she retreated. Her heart felt heavy, the weight of their words settling in her chest. She clenched her fists and held her head high, her footsteps echoing in the empty corridor as she walked away. 

She wouldn't confront them—not now. Let them talk. They didn't know her, didn't know the battles she fought, the sacrifices she made. But their whispers served as a painful reminder: in this house, she was nothing more than a ghost. A shadow of the woman she was once forced to become. 

*****

Seraphina sat silently in her bedroom, the dim light from a lone candle casting flickering shadows on the cold stone walls. Her fingers absentmindedly traced the delicate embroidery of her dress as her mind wandered, sinking into the depths of old memories she had tried so hard to bury. 

It was true—she was a weapon, crafted and sharpened by Kael. His shadow loomed over her past, his touch molding her into a tool meant to be used, wielded, and discarded when her purpose was fulfilled. She had been trained to be efficient, ruthless, unflinching. Killing had once been as natural to her as breathing, and she had never hesitated. That was her worth. 

Yet, even amidst the blood and chaos, Kael had rewarded her with warmth. A fleeting, twisted kindness. But Seraphina knew better—it was a cage, a prison meant to consume her entirely. That was why she had run. She had wanted to believe there was more to her life than chains, even if the price of escape had been the illusion of freedom she now lived. 

Her gaze drifted to the vast expanse of the night sky beyond her window, stars scattered like shattered glass on a dark velvet canvas. She thought of the lives she had taken, the lives she had ruined. If the world were fair, she would have been just like Kael—a creature of malice and destruction, unrepentant and unbroken. She was no better than him. Perhaps she was worse. 

A sudden shift in the air pulled her from her thoughts, and her eyes fell upon the bouquet of vibrant red spider lilies now resting on the table before her. Their petals, crimson and delicate, seemed to glow faintly in the dim light, a haunting reminder of death and rebirth. 

"Miss me, little bird?" 

Her heart tightened as her eyes lifted to meet Kael's, his cheeky smile accompanied by a sadistic gleam in his eyes. He lounged against the doorframe, his presence as commanding and effortless as ever. The candlelight flickered over his face, casting sharp shadows across his angular features. 

"You should think about your guards, you know," Kael said, his voice smooth and teasing. "I slipped in so easily. What a disappointment." He stepped closer, his boots making soft thuds against the floor as he approached. 

Seraphina said nothing, her eyes never leaving his as he continued, "The underworld has been such an annoyance without you. It's dreadfully dull. You were always my favorite little weapon." His smile grew wider, though it never reached his eyes. "I missed you." 

She remained silent, her hands folding neatly in her lap, but her mind was a storm. Kael was a predator, circling her, testing her. 

"How long are you going to pretend I'm not here, hmm?" Kael's voice dropped, his tone playful yet laced with danger. "You used to hang on my every word. Now you're silent. Did your pretty little life as a duchess take away your spark?"

Seraphina's gaze fell to the spider lilies again, her thoughts spiraling. She must be crazy—there was no other explanation. How could she find solace, even the faintest shred of comfort, in the presence of the man who had murdered her mother? 

The thought was a bitter one, yet it lingered. Kael was a monster. But then again, so was she. And in the twisted, broken world they both belonged to, monsters were the only ones who understood each other.