Flashback****
The royal balcony stretched wide beneath. Marcella sat on the cool marble floor, her legs folded beneath her. In her hands, a red rose trembled as she plucked at its petals, one by one.
She murmured softly to herself as her fingers worked through the rose: He trusts me… he trusts me not. He spares me… he spares me not. The petals fluttered to the floor, red as spilled blood. The faint scent of roses mingled with the crisp air of the encroaching evening.
Her thoughts churned like a storm on the horizon. What does he want from me? His rebellion against the crown, the way he had dismantled her empire piece by piece, still burned in her veins. And now, here she was, the queen of an empire she no longer controlled, reduced to a prisoner in her own palace.
The sound of footsteps echoed softly against the stone, and Marcella's fingers froze mid-pluck. She didn't look up—she didn't need to. She already knew who it was.
Duke Berith Montclair.
"You've grown quiet," he simpered, looking amused at the woman before him. "Is the queen finally reflecting on her sins?" He squatted down, reaching for her chin. Now, their faces were mere inches apart.
Marcella was alone, trapped in the attention of this being who was more demon than man.
Her hands tightened around the rose, its thorns biting into her skin. She hated his touch, how it burned her skin. "If you're here to preach morality to me, save your breath. Coming from you, it would be nothing short of hypocrisy."
"Hypocrisy?" He threw a dark chuckle. "Is it hypocrisy to keep you alive when every instinct tells me to finish what I started?"
Marcella didn't flinch. She hissed, her anger flaring. "Is that what you call this? Stripping me of my power? Locking me in my own palace? Filling my halls with your soldiers and turning my crown into a mockery?"
"Your crown," he clicked his tongue, "was always a mockery. You played the game well, Marcella, but you underestimated your opponents. The throne you fought so hard for is nothing more than a crumbling relic, and the people you claimed to rule see you for what you are—a tyrant."
Without warning, Berith jerked away, freeing her from his touch. Then, he stood up, his hands clasped behind his back as he started circling her, like a predator eyeing its meal.
Marcella let out a defeated sigh, but she refused to let him see her falter. "If I am a tyrant," she cleared her throat, "then what does that make you? A man who betrayed his oaths, his people?"
"I did what needed to be done," Berith said, shrugging nonchalantly. "Your rule was tearing the empire apart. The rebellions were spreading. The court was fractured. You were too consumed by your ambition to see the cracks forming beneath you." He looked down at her, his dark eyes pinning her in place. "I didn't betray you, Marcella. You betrayed yourself."
Her hands trembled, but she clenched them into fists, forcing the anger and shame bubbling inside her to remain beneath the surface. "You speak as though you're some kind of savior," she spat. "But don't pretend this was about the empire. This was about power. You wanted it, and you took it."
Berith's lips curled into a faint, humorless smile. "Power," he hummed. "It's the one thing we both understand, isn't it? The one thing we both crave. The difference is, I've never lied to myself about what I am willing to do to get it."
*******
In the present.
"Marcella! Hey, Marcella!" The sound of her name jarred her violently from the memory.
The flashback dissolved like smoke, leaving her sitting on her balcony in the present.
She blinked, her eyes narrowing as they scanned the courtyard below.
"Marcella!"
Her gaze finally landed on Anthony, who was standing at the base of the manor with his usual, irrepressible grin. He was waving up at her, clearly unbothered by how loud he was being. His brown hair was tousled in the wind, radiating his boyish charm.
"Anthony," she called out, leaning over the railing. "Would you please stop shouting? This isn't a market square, and I don't want to explain to half of the staffs on why someone's yelling my name from the gardens."
He cupped his hands around his mouth, pretending not to hear her. "What? I can't hear you. Speak up!"
Marcella groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. "You're impossible," she muttered, more to herself than to him.
Anthony grinned even wider, clearly pleased with her exasperation. "Come down already!" he called, ignoring her protests. "There's a festival in the market tonight! Music, food, lights—the whole thing. You'll love it."
She arched a brow, tilting her head as though unimpressed. "What festival? I don't recall hearing about one."
Anthony gestured enthusiastically, as though his arms could explain everything his words couldn't. "The Harvest Celebration! The whole square is decorated with lanterns and garlands, and the best part? There's a fire dance performance by the river! The whole town will be there."
At the mention of the Harvest Celebration, Marcella froze, her faint smile vanishing. Her eyes darkened as a flicker of memory surged through her mind.
It was during the fire dance that she had encountered Lady Camilla Hestain, daughter of Marquess Eden Hestain. Their confrontation had started with Camilla's usual acidic remarks about Marcella's reputation. It had escalated quickly—too quickly—and ended in a full-blown argument. Heated words had flown like arrows between them, and before Marcella could restrain herself, the fight had turned physical.
A shove. A stumble. And then… the splash.
Camilla had fallen into the river.
The aftermath had been an unmitigated disaster. This had spread like wildfire, tarnishing Marcella's name further and fueling Camilla's venomous disdain for her.
Even now, Marcella could feel the phantom sting of Lady Agnes's cold, disappointed glare as her mother had berated her for weeks afterward.
"Come down already!" Anthony called again, louder this time.
Marcella blinked, snapping out of the memory, but the bitter taste of it lingered on her tongue. She didn't realize her nails were digging into her arms until she felt the faint sting.
She glanced down, loosening her grip. "No," she refused. "I'm not going, Anthony. Enjoy it without me."
Anthony's grin faltered for the first time, his brows knitting together in confusion. "What? Why not? You love festivals like this."
"Correction," Marcella replied coolly, her arms still crossed. "I love festivals where I don't have to deal with petty noblewomen pretending to be my friends while sharpening their daggers behind my back."
"That's half the fun," Anthony said with a wink. "Besides, it's been ages since you've done something fun. You're always skulking around with that serious look on your face. It's unnerving."
"I do not skulk," she retorted, turning her head away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer.
"Come on, Marcella," Anthony urged.
Marcella sighed, leaning against the railing. "Fine," she said at last. "But if this fire dance ends in chaos, I'm blaming you."
Anthony beamed, punching the air triumphantly. "I'll take full responsibility!" he said. "Now hurry up. The festival won't wait for us!"
She rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress the faint laugh that escaped her lips. "Wait by the gates," she said, waving him off. "I'll be down shortly."
"Don't take too long!" he called as he jogged toward the manor gates.
Marcella lingered on the balcony for a moment, her fingers brushing against the cold metal railing. With a soft exhale, she turned and walked back into her room.
The memory of her fight with Camilla still burned in her mind, but this time, she was determined not to let history repeat itself.
And if fate decided to intervene… well, she would deal with it. One way or another.
With one last glance in the mirror, Marcella straightened her shoulders and headed for the door.