Chapter 17: The Ghosts of the Past
The grand ballroom had been bathed in golden candlelight, the air thick with the perfume of nobility. Music swirled through the space like an intoxicating mist, and laughter chimed from behind lace fans and gloved hands. Evelyne—young, timid, and desperately trying to blend into the wallpaper—had been abandoned to the wolves of high society while her father spoke with officials. He had assured her he would not be long.
He had been wrong.
She had been alone for too long when Lord Hawke found her.
A predator in human skin, he approached with the slow confidence of a man who knew his prey had no escape. His dark eyes glinted with something unreadable, something that made her stomach twist in ways she could not yet explain. He was not a man who stumbled into conversations; he was a man who orchestrated them, laying snares with words instead of rope.
"You seem rather lonely, Lady Evelyne," he had murmured, his voice rich with amusement. "Allow me to offer you some company."
She had stammered out a response, something polite but firm—at least, she had tried. But Lord Hawke was undeterred. He stepped closer, his movements deliberate, testing her, seeing how far he could push before she broke. His fingers brushed against her arm, featherlight, yet suffocating.
"Timid little thing, aren't you?" he mused. "You remind me of someone I once knew."
A flicker of something—amusement? Contempt?—crossed his face. His words were casual, but the weight behind them was crushing. Evelyne's breath hitched. There was something in his tone that made the room tilt around her, an invisible snare tightening around her throat. And then, he leaned in, his breath warm against her ear, and whispered something that turned her blood to ice:
"She's not here anymore. I made sure of that."
The words coiled in her mind like a viper. A confession laced with arrogance, a truth spoken with the certainty that no one would dare challenge it. Evelyne's body had gone rigid, her pulse hammering against her ribs. Whoever she had reminded him of—whoever this 'she' was—had been erased from existence. And now, he was looking at her the same way.
His fingers curled as if to seize her wrist, and panic had coiled tightly in her chest—but before he could grasp her, before the nightmare could root itself further in her flesh, a hand closed around her shoulder.
Her father.
The Duke of Orvienne had returned, and in that moment, he had been her savior. His presence alone had been enough to make Lord Hawke retreat with a languid smile and a bow, as though nothing had happened. But something had.
That night had changed Evelyne.
From that moment forward, she refused to attend any ball or gathering where Lord Hawke would be present. She avoided his gaze, his presence, his shadow. She buried the memory deep, where it could not touch her.
Until now.
Ari—now Evelyne—stood in the same grand ballroom, but this time, she was no longer the hunted.
She was the hunter.
The pieces of the puzzle clicked into place with a terrifying clarity. She saw it now—Lord Hawke's death was not random. It was justice, long delayed but precise in its execution.
And she knew exactly who had delivered it.
The present moment crashed over her like a wave, and she focused once more on the scene before her. The killer—no longer pretending, no longer acting—stepped forward. The mask had fallen, revealing something raw, something twisted.
Laughter bubbled from the woman's lips, high-pitched, verging on hysteria. The nobles recoiled at the sound. Just moments ago, she had been timid, a shadow among the aristocracy. Now, she stood exposed, and the transformation was chilling.
"How?" she demanded, her voice laced with both wonder and rage. "How did you figure it out?"
Evelyne did not smile. This was not a victory to relish; it was simply the inevitable conclusion of the truth.
"Observation," she answered, her tone cool, methodical. "You see, the human mind is a remarkable thing. It leaves traces, subtle but undeniable, on everything it touches."
The nobles listened, enraptured, as Evelyne took them through the tale, piece by meticulous piece.
"You were not meant to be here tonight," she began, pacing slowly. "You were not on the guest list. And yet, you blended in seamlessly, didn't you? A borrowed dress, an invitation procured through means yet unknown." She tilted her head. "But it was not your presence alone that gave you away—it was your absence."
The woman's fingers twitched. Evelyne pressed on.
"When Lord Hawke's body was discovered, there was shock. Panic. People reacted in varying ways—some gasped, some rushed forward, some turned away. But you… you hesitated."
The woman's lips parted slightly, the hint of a breath drawn sharply inward.
"That hesitation was not fear," Evelyne continued, her voice sharpening. "It was calculation. You needed to assess whether the scene had unfolded as you had planned."
Silence stretched, thick as the tension hanging in the room.
"And then, there was your reaction when his name was spoken. You flinched." Evelyne's eyes bore into hers. "Only for a fraction of a second, but it was enough."
A single bead of sweat traced down the woman's temple. Evelyne's gaze did not waver.
"Of course, these are small things. Minor details. A single action can be explained away. But patterns—patterns tell a story. And the story you told with your body, with your expressions, with your movements, was one of guilt."
A choked laugh escaped the woman's lips. "You deduced an entire murder from a flinch?" she mocked. "That's absurd."
"No," Evelyne corrected, "I deduced it from the fact that you held your wine glass in your left hand."
The woman froze.
Evelyne exhaled slowly. "I know why you did it," she said, not unkindly. "I know what he did. And I don't blame you."
The woman's breath hitched. For the first time, something broke in her expression.
But justice was justice.
Evelyne let out a slow breath. "However, murder cannot be left unanswered."
The woman raised her hands slowly, as if in surrender—but in her eyes, there was no regret.
"Then arrest me, detective," she murmured. "But know this—Lord Hawke was never going to stop. And now, he never will."
The guards stepped forward, and Evelyne watched as the woman was led away. The nobles remained silent, absorbing what had just unfolded before them.
Evelyne let out a slow breath, the weight of both past and present pressing upon her.
The ghosts of the past had spoken. And she had listened.