The words were sharp and to the point: "Meet me in the eastern vestry after the announcement. It concerns your sister's safety." Without her notice, a folded slip of paper was discreetly slipped into Marcella's gloves. She was too busy with her thoughts to notice who had done that.
Her purple eyes scanned the note again. The handwriting was unfamiliar, and suspicion curled in her chest like smoke. A trap, perhaps? But the mention of Rachel made her pulse quicken. She couldn't ignore it. Not with what she knew about Berith.
What if someone knows the truth about him? She wondered. What if this is a warning I can't afford to dismiss?
She hesitated, her gaze flicking to Rachel, who stood near their father, beaming as the nobles murmured their congratulations. Rachel looked so serene, so trusting. It twisted something deep inside Marcella.
If this concerns her… I have to go.
Marcella slipped the note into her gloves and rose from her seat. Her movements were careful to avoid drawing attention. The nobles were beginning to gather around Berith, offering their congratulations.
This was her chance.
The eastern vestry was quiet, its stone walls and arched ceiling casting long shadows in the dim candlelight. Marcella entered cautiously, the faint click of her heels echoing in the small room. A chill ran down her spine as she glanced around. Her purple eyes darting to every corner.
It was empty.
"Hello?"
Silence.
Her nerves prickled, and she turned toward the door. I shouldn't be here. This feels wrong. Whoever sent this note—
The creak of the door interrupted her thoughts. She spun around, and her breath hitched.
Berith.
The Duke stepped inside. His tall frame nearly filling the doorway. The flickering candlelight caught the sharp angles of his face.
"Lady Marcella," he peered into her, through her. His gaze dark and sinful. "What a curious place to find you."
She shivered. His voice. Serene. Cutting.
Unease burned through her and she was quick to shake away some of the spell his presence had cast. "I could say the same to you, Your Grace."
Berith stepped further into the room, letting the door fall shut behind him. His gaze swept over her, "Surely you're not here for confession," He taunted, a slow curl brushing his lips.
Her jaw tightened. "That's none of your concern," she scoffed.
His eyes flicked to her gloves, where the edge of the note peeked out. "Ah," he murmured.
Then he took a step closer. The air around her became still and so very very cold. "A secret meeting, is it? How intriguing."
Marcella was tall compared to most of the noble women in the empire but Berith-his presence dwarfed her by nearly a full head, making her so small.
Being so close to each other he smelled of rich masculine wildness and intoxicating spice. Her head was growing dizzy.
Her grip on the note tightened, glaring at him. "I don't know what you're insinuating," she tried to keep from stammering, "b-but I-I assure you—"
"—that you have nothing to hide?" a thread of something malicious twined through his voice.
His calm tone made her blood boil. It was as though he already knew everything—the note, her doubts, her fears—and was simply toying with her.
The tension in the room thickened and slipped into her veins. Her instincts screamed at her to leave, to escape this claustrophobic confrontation.
But before she could move, the sound of footsteps approached from outside.
The vestry door swung open with a creak. The warm glow of the main hall spilled into the dim room.
A group of nobles stood there. There was Rachel at the forefront, her expression wide-eyed with confusion and hurt. The High Priest stood behind her.
Marcella felt the weight of every gaze pressing into her like a dozen daggers, sharp and inescapable. Her thoughts spun chaotically. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't move.
She realized immediately how damning the scene must look—her alone with Berith, their bodies closer than propriety allowed.
And then the whispers came.
"How improper!"
"Scandalous."
"She lured the Duke into the vestry!"
"Her poor sister—what a betrayal."
"Lady Marcella always did crave attention. How shameless."
Each hushed accusation was a sharp, stinging slap to Marcella.
Marcella wanted to scream, to tear the truth from her chest and shove it into the faces of the gathering crowd.
"Marcella," Rachel shouted, her tone like shattered glass—fragile, cutting, and filled with pain. "What have you done?"
No, no, no. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Shame spilled into her bloodstream, a hot, toxic flood that burned worse than fire. Her mind raced, desperately searching for a way to fix this, but the damage had already been done. Appearances were everything in their world, and this appearance was damning.
This was the scandal that she created intentionally in her past life. The flashback appeared before her eyes, fresh and vivid.
Flashback***
The High Priest announced the marriage with great delight. Marcella's nails bit into her palm as she thought of her father's smug approval of Rachel's engagement. Her lips curved into a bitter smile. If virtue and piety were what they admired, she would show them just how fragile those ideals could be.
Marcella turned, her gown sweeping the floor as she slipped into the balcony. She knew the balcony would be empty—she had arranged it that way.
She adjusted her gown, loosening the neckline and dabbed a touch of heady perfume onto her neck. Its rich, intoxicating scent curled around her like a veil.
She glanced over the edge of the church's balcony railing. A few servants lingered near the side paths. Marcella had ensured they would be in the right place at the right time to witness what she was about to do.
Berith arrived moments later, his tall frame a commanding silhouette in the moonlight. His dark eyes flicked to her immediately. "Lady Marcella, why did you call me here?'
Marcella turned to him, her lips curling into a soft smile. "Your Grace," she murmured, her tone light but inviting. "I thought the fresh air might help clear my head. This morning has been… overwhelming."
Berith's gaze lingered on her for a moment before he stepped closer. "Overwhelming?" he repeated, his tone skeptical. "Your sister's engagement has been announced, not yours."
She tilted her head, letting the moonlight catch the curve of her exposed collarbone. "Exactly, It's her engagement. Isn't it natural for a sister to feel a touch of… longing on such an occasion?"
Berith's brows drew together, "If this is meant to flatter me, Lady Marcella, you'll have to try harder."
She took a step closer, "Why would I flatter you, Your Grace?" she asked, her voice dropping just enough to make the words feel intimate. "You've already made it clear you're immune to charm."
Berith opened his mouth to reply, but before he could speak, Marcella closed the distance between them and pressed her lips to his.
For a moment, there was only silence. Berith stiffened. Then his hands gripped her shoulders, pushing her back with a force that left no doubt of his disapproval. "Lady Marcella, what do you think you're doing?"
But Marcella didn't have time to respond. A startled gasp cut through the air, and her eyes darted to the side.
Two church servants stood frozen at the edge of the balcony entrance, their faces pale with shock. The tray one of them carried slipped from their grasp, crashing to the floor with a clatter.
"Apologies, my lord," the servants stammered, bowing quickly before turning to flee.
"You planned this, didn't you?" Berith spoke, his tone as calm as it was damning.
"I don't know what you mean," Marcella replied quickly, forcing a laugh.
"You forget," he said, stepping closer, his presence looming over her. "I've seen schemes like yours before. You thought you could use me to ruin your sister's engagement?"
Marcella swallowed hard, her confidence faltering under his penetrating stare.
"You've made a grave mistake, Lady Marcella," he continued, "One you won't easily recover from."
~~~~~~~~
Back in the dim light of the vestry, her breath came shallow and quick. The world felt slippery, like she was standing on thin ice, her footing uncertain as it threatened to crack beneath her.
And Berith. Marcella could feel him next to her. His presence like a dark, heavy stone pressing against her ribs. He stood there, calm and unmoved, as though the storm of scandal brewing in the doorway was little more than a breeze.
"Marcella," Aliaster's gaze bore into her, sharp and merciless, as though he could see into the very depths of her soul and find her guilty without trial. "Explain yourself. Now."
Marcella swallowed hard, her fists clenching at her sides. "This isn't what it looks like, father. I was here because—" The words felt thin, brittle.
But she stopped herself. The note. She couldn't reveal it without drawing more suspicion. Whoever had sent it clearly wanted her here, and she had walked straight into their trap.
"An unfortunate misunderstanding," the Duke intervened, his voice carrying a disarming calmness that made her skin crawl. He stepped forward slightly, placing himself just a fraction closer to her.
Marcella shot him a sharp glare, her anger flaring. Unfortunate? she thought bitterly. You could clear this up in a single sentence, but you won't, will you?