The Devil's Duchess

The gilded interior of the Valemont carriage was silent, save for the soft creak of the wheels as it rolled over the cobblestone streets. Marcella sat stiffly in her seat. The light from the streetlamps flickered through the windows, casting shadows on her face.

Her gloves lay crumpled in her lap. Her fingers dug into the fabric, twisting and crushing it unconsciously. She stared blankly out of the window, though her mind wasn't on the bustling capital beyond the glass.

Humiliation. Anger. Regret.

She had fought so hard to avoid the mishaps of her past life, to rise above the petty, jealous girl she had once been. And yet, despite her efforts, the scandal had happened again.

Fate was cruel—merciless, even.

A hollow ache spread through her chest, churning her stomach.

Aliaster sat across from her. His broad shoulders hunched; his profile lit by the lamplight outside. She didn't dare meet his gaze. She already knew what she would see: disappointment, anger, and something even worse- resignation.

How had it come to this?

Her father had always been a proud man. And she knew, without needing to meet his eyes, that pride was what had been wounded most deeply tonight.

The Valemont family had always been seen as righteous, upright, untouchable. And now, thanks to her, the scandal would spread like wildfire. By morning, the capital would be ablaze with rumors, and the noble courts would sink their teeth into this fresh gossip like vultures.

Marcella swallowed hard, her throat dry and aching.

"Father, I didn't—" She turned toward him, her hands tightening around the crumpled gloves in her lap.

"Don't." He didn't look at her, his gaze still fixed out the window.

Marcella flinched, biting her tongue under her mouth. Her words died in her throat, unfinished. She sank back into her seat. Her purple eyes falling to her reflection in the glass. She looked pale, hollow, like a ghost of herself.

 As the carriage rolled to a stop, Marcella felt her stomach twist. 

The Valemont manor loomed ahead in the distance. Its grand silhouette lit faintly by the moon. She already knew what awaited her inside.

The door to the carriage swung open, and the coachman extended his hand to assist her. She hesitated; her legs reluctant to move. Eventually, Marcella stepped down, her heels clicked softly on the cobblestones. But the sound was soon drowned out by the heavy creak of the manor doors.

They flew open with force, slamming against the walls, and Lady Agnes Valemont stormed out onto the steps with the fury of a tempest.

"You unfilial child!" Agnes screamed. Her voice rang out, sharp and cutting like a whip crack.

Marcella froze mid-step. She had prepared herself for this moment, or at least she thought she had. But the reality of her mother's fury was overwhelming.

Agnes marched toward her, her emerald gown swishing violently with every step. Behind her, Marcella caught sight of Rachel, her elder sister.

Rachel stood on the threshold of the manor, weeping silently into a handkerchief, her shoulders shaking with every stifled sob. The sight of her sister's tear-streaked face lodged the knife of guilt deep in Marcella's chest, making it impossible to breathe.

"How could you?!" Agnes shouted, closing the distance between them. Her voice rising with every word. "How could you stoop so low?! To humiliate this family—your sister—in such a disgraceful, disgusting way?"

"Mother, I didn't—" Marcella tried to protest, but Agnes would not let her finish.

"Don't you dare try to defend yourself!" Agnes seethed, her emerald eyes narrowing into sharp slits. She grabbed Marcella's arm in an iron grip, pulling her closer until their faces were inches apart.

"You couldn't bear to see Rachel happy, could you?" Agnes hissed, her tone dripping with disdain. "You couldn't stand to see her rise above you, to have the kind of respect you've never earned. So, you schemed. You schemed like the petty, jealous child you've always been!"

Marcella's lips parted, but no words came out. Her mind spun, trying to find the words to explain, to defend herself, but the storm of her mother's rage gave her no room to breathe.

"You think I don't know what this was about?" Agnes continued, shaking her arm for emphasis. "You've been jealous of her your whole life. I've seen it, Marcella. I've known! The attention, the drama, the scandal, you planned and schemed all of these. And now you've ruined her, ruined this family, ruined everything! All our hard-earned reputation, destroyed in a single night!"

"Enough! I'm trying to speak for once, but you won't let me. You've already decided what I am—jealous, petty, reckless. Why would you listen to anything I have to say when you've got your perfect narrative already laid out?" Marcella bursted, but she regretted later for not being able to control her temper.

Agnes's eyes widened in disbelief, her mouth opening as though to retaliate. She released Marcella's arm with a sharp, almost dismissive gesture, as though even touching her was too much to bear. "Don't you dare talk back to me." Agnes snapped.

"You're right about one thing. I've made mistakes before. I won't deny it. But this—what happened tonight—it wasn't what you think it was. And it wasn't what I wanted." Marcella sighed, feeling defeated.

Agnes's fury surged again, her voice rising to a near shriek. "What you wanted? What you wanted?" she repeated, "Do you think this is about what you want, Marcella? Do you think the world cares about your intentions? No, Marcella. All they'll care about is what they saw. And what they saw was you—you and the Duke, alone in a sacred space, making a mockery of everything this family stands for!"

Her throat tightened, and for a moment, she couldn't speak.

Agnes took that as her victory, stepping forward again with renewed fury. "Look at your father!" she shouted, gesturing toward the High Priest, who stood by the carriage. "Look at what you've done to him! Do you even care? Do you even see what your selfishness has cost this family? Or is your jealousy so blinding that you don't care at all?"

Her gaze darted to her father and the sight of him cut deeper than anything her mother could say.

Marcella bowed her head. Her voice, when it came, was quiet, resigned. "I care," she said softly. "I care more than you know."

Agnes's mouth tightened; her fury unabated. "Then act like it, Marcella. For once in your miserable, selfish life, act like it."

Her voice broke at the end, and she clutched her chest, letting out a wail. It was a piercing sound of anguish that sent chills down Marcella's spine. Tears streamed down her mother's face now.

Marcella didn't look up. She couldn't. She knew there was nothing more to say. Not now. Not yet. So, she walked past her mother and into the house.