The sound of water splashing echoed softly in the bathhouse. Steam curled lazily in the air, mingling with the scent of lavender and rose oil. The bathtub itself was a deep stone basin lined with porcelain, set into the floor like a small pool. Its warmth was meant to soothe, but as Marcella sank into the water, she flinched.
Her dark lashes fluttered, and her lips parted as the chill of the water pricked her skin. "The water's too cold," she murmured, more to herself than anyone else.
The three maids stationed near the walls immediately dropped to their knees, their foreheads pressed to the cool marble floor. "Forgive us, Milady!" they cried in unison, their voices trembling with panic. "We didn't realize! Please punish us for our carelessness!"
Marcella blinked, her brows arching slightly as she tilted her head to the side. Punish them? The words echoed in her mind, pulling forth a flash of memory from her first life—a younger version of herself throwing a porcelain vase against the wall because the water had been "too lukewarm."
But she wasn't that person anymore.
She let out a slow breath, leaning her head back against the edge of the tub. "It's fine. Fetch some hot water for me."
The maids froze, lifting their heads to stare at her in stunned disbelief. One of them—a petite girl with chestnut braids—opened her mouth as if to say something, then closed it again, as though afraid to push her luck.
"Well?" Marcella said, her lips curving into a faint smirk. "Unless you're planning to boil the water with your stares, I suggest you move quickly. Or perhaps you've grown fond of kneeling?"
The maids scrambled to their feet, bowing repeatedly as they hurried out of the bathhouse, their skirts swishing in their haste.
Marcella sighed, the corners of her lips twitching upward. They'll probably faint from the shock of not being shouted at.
The door creaked open, and she glanced over to see Verona stepping into the bathhouse, carrying a wooden bucket filled with more lavender-scented water.
"I thought they'd fetch the hot water themselves," Marcella said dryly, one brow arched. "Or have you decided to replace the entire staff with yourself?"
Verona chuckled softly as she set the bucket down on a small table near the tub. "I thought I'd check on you, Milady," she said, moving to stand behind Marcella. Her hands dipped into the bucket, and she began to pour the scented water slowly over Marcella's hair, massaging her scalp with gentle fingers. "You seem unusually… calm this morning."
Marcella let out a low hum, closing her eyes as Verona's fingers worked through her hair. "Do you disapprove?"
"Not at all," Verona replied with a smile in her voice. "It's just… surprising. In the past, I would have heard the maids' wails halfway across the manor by now."
Marcella opened one eye, glancing up at Verona's reflection in the polished brass mirror mounted on the wall. "I'll take that as a compliment," she said lightly. "Though I do wonder—are you suggesting I was difficult to handle?"
Verona let out a small laugh, her fingers never pausing in their gentle movements. "I would never dare suggest such a thing, Milady. Though I will admit, the staff seems confused by your… newfound temperance."
Marcella snorted softly, sinking deeper into the tub until the water lapped at her collarbone. "Let them gossip."
"By the way," Verona said carefully. "Today is an important day. There will be a sacred oath-taking ceremony in the church. The newly appointed Duke will swear his allegiance before the High Priest, the royal family, and the noble houses. Your father will be overseeing it, of course, so you'll need to attend—"
Her eyes snapped open, the air suddenly feeling heavier.
"Who is it?" Marcella cut her off, her voice sharp enough to make Verona pause.
Verona blinked, her hands stilling for a moment before she spoke. "The Duke? He's a foreign noble… Berith Montclair who hails from Ashenholt."
The name hung in the air like a curse.
Her fingers gripped the edge of the tub, her knuckles turning white. The coolness of the water no longer mattered. The world outside the bathhouse seemed to blur as memories of her first life surged forward—Berith's dark eyes, the curve of his lips as he swore his false allegiance in that very church, the way his voice had sounded like velvet and poison all at once.
This was the day. The day he entered the empire and swore to protect the land he would ultimately destroy.
It was also the day…
Her chest tightened as another memory clawed its way to the surface. The scandal.
Marcella had stood in the church, her gaze fixed on Berith as he knelt before the altar, his voice smooth and poisonous at once as he spoke his oath.
And later after the ceremony, the scandal had unfolded—a scandal that had tied her existence to his in ways she couldn't have anticipated.
"Milady?" Verona's voice pulled her back to the present. "Are you alright?"
Marcella blinked, realizing she had been silent for too long. Her hands loosened their grip on the tub's edge, and she forced herself to breathe evenly. "I'm fine," she replied.
Verona frowned, clearly unconvinced, but she didn't press the matter. Instead, she resumed massaging Marcella's scalp, her touch gentle and soothing.
Marcella stared at the ripples in the water, her mind racing. She had been given a second chance, but the timeline was already catching up to her. Berith's arrival marked the beginning of everything—his rise to power, the empire's slow descent into chaos, and her own involvement in his schemes.
She would attend the ceremony, of course. She would smile and curtsy and play the part expected of her. But this time, things would be different.
This time, she wouldn't let herself be blindsided.
"Verona," Marcella said suddenly, her tone sharper than intended.
"Yes, Milady?"
"Prepare my dress for the ceremony. And tell the maids to bring their best effort today. I want to look…" She paused, a small smirk tugging at her lips. "Unforgettable."
Verona raised a brow but nodded. "Of course, Milady. Unforgettable it is."
~~~~
Marcella sat before the grand vanity. Her face framed by her flowing silver waves as her maids bustled about, their hands deftly working to braid sections of her hair.
In her first life, this moment would have been full of excitement. She had spent hours choosing the gown that would most catch the eyes of the nobles and, more importantly, the Duke. She had wanted to turn heads, to dazzle, to be the center of attention—and she had succeeded.
But now, as one of the maids fastened the last braid into place, Marcella barely paid attention. This time, she wasn't dressing for anyone but herself.
"Milady," Verona said hesitantly, holding up a shimmering gown of deep silver-blue. "This was made especially for you by the seamstress. It's... breathtaking. Are you sure you don't want to wear this? It's still one of the finest in the collection."
Her lips curled into a soft, almost indulgent smile as she looked at the overly dramatic gown. "No, Verona," she said with a quiet chuckle, shaking her head. "Not today. Today, I'll go with the one I picked."
She gestured to the dark purple gown resting on the stand. It was undeniably expensive, with fine embroidery and luxurious fabric, but it lacked the excessive embellishments and dramatic flair she had once favored.
Verona hesitated for a moment but then nodded, carefully placing the silver-blue gown back onto the wardrobe. "As you wish, Milady."
Marcella leaned back in her chair, letting the maids help her into the gown, fastening it securely before they added the finishing touches. Around her neck, she clasped a delicate amethyst choker with matching earrings. Her smoky eye makeup and dark purple lipstick added just the right edge to her look.
When she was ready, Marcella stood before the full-length mirror, turning slightly to admire her reflection.
"I must say," she mused aloud, tilting her head as if admiring a masterpiece. "I look good enough to steal my own breath away."
The maids giggled nervously, their eyes flicking to one another. They weren't used to this version of Marcella—the one who didn't demand perfection at every turn.
"Relax," she said with a light wave of her hand. "I'm not about to throw a tantrum because a strand of hair is out of place. You've done well. All of you."
Marcella turned away from the mirror, lifting her scarf and gloves from Verona's hands. "Let's hope I can shock a few more people today," Her voice dripping with dry humor. "It seems to be my favorite pastime lately."