Chapter Three: The Garden of Obsession

The Rosenthal estate had not changed since the last time Evelyne had seen it—at least, not outwardly. The high iron gates still bore the sigil of the silver rose wrapped in thorns, and the twin gargoyle statues still loomed at the entrance like silent sentinels. Yet, as Evelyne stepped onto the gravel path, escorted by the creak of the carriage door swinging shut, she could sense it: the fear.

Fear that she had survived. Fear that she had returned.

Clara met her at the steps, pale and breathless, bowing too quickly. "Your Grace, your study has been prepared. The staff... they are assembled in the grand hall. Per your request."

"Good," Evelyne said. "Let them wait a little longer."

She ascended the stairs slowly, each step deliberate. Every servant she passed froze and bowed low, not daring to look her in the eye. In Evelyne's previous life—the one she had inherited rather than lived—these halls had echoed with her wrath, her paranoia, her desperation. She had made enemies of allies, had lashed out at those who whispered. And now, that legacy clung to her like perfume gone sour.

She would change that.

Not through apology.

Through power.

The grand hall was silent as she entered. Two dozen members of the household staff stood in a line, their expressions carefully blank. She recognized some. Others must have been hired after her exile.

Evelyne let her gaze travel down the line. "Let us make one thing clear," she said. "I am not the same mistress you once served. But this house will no longer be ruled by fear and suspicion. Betray me, and you will be dealt with. Remain loyal, and I will reward you handsomely."

A ripple passed through the servants. Some lowered their eyes. Others dared to meet her gaze. She saw doubt in them. That was fine. She would win them over with results, not speeches.

"Dismissed. Except you, Clara. Come with me."

The study was a forgotten room. Dust cloaked the shelves. The fireplace lay cold. But the moment Evelyne stepped inside, she felt something stir. Not magic. Memory.

She approached the desk. Old letters still lay in the drawers. One was unopened. She picked it up, hesitated, and broke the wax seal.

It was a letter from Duke Leonhart Vale. The knight.

Her hands tightened slightly as she read it:

"Evelyne, I cannot stand by and watch you destroy yourself. Whatever demons plague your mind, share them with me. Let me be your sword."

He had once loved her. Had tried to save her.

She had thrown him away.

“Burn it,” she whispered, handing the letter to Clara. “And bring me my guest list. I’m holding a banquet.”

Clara blinked. “A banquet, Your Grace?”

“Yes. It’s time the capital remembers who I am.”

Within three days, the Rosenthal estate transformed. Servants worked round the clock. Invitations were sent to nobles, merchants, diplomats. Rumors spread like fire: Evelyne Rosenthal, the disgraced villainess, was throwing a ball.

And not just any ball—one scheduled on the same night as the Empress’s private court dinner.

A declaration.

It was a daring, dangerous move. But Kim knew exactly what she was doing.

Let them talk. Let them whisper.

Let the obsessed ones come to her.

The night of the banquet arrived with rain and thunderclouds. A dramatic sky, perfect for a theatrical resurrection.

Evelyne stood before her mirror in her dressing chamber, her reflection half-obscured by flickering candlelight. Her gown was obsidian velvet, the neckline framed with blood-red lace. Her hair was twisted into a crown braid, set with jet-black stones. Around her throat, she wore a single crimson gem—the Heart of Rosenthal.

It had been her mother’s.

Clara entered, awestruck. “You look... terrifyingly beautiful.”

“Good,” Evelyne said. “Terrifying is what they remember.”

Thunder cracked as she stepped into the ballroom.

Already, it was full. Nobles, scholars, even out-of-favor royals had come. Music filled the air, soft and haunting. Crystal chandeliers shimmered above. It was everything she remembered—yet entirely different.

A hush fell as she descended the staircase. All eyes turned to her.

She smiled.

Let the second act begin.

She didn’t have to wait long.

He arrived with no announcement.

The air itself seemed to pause as the doors opened—and he entered.

Tall, pale, dressed in raven-black robes edged with silver. His hair fell like ink across his shoulders. And his eyes...

Violet flames.

Rael Nox, the Imperial Court’s High Sorcerer. One of the most powerful men in the empire. One of the cursed. One of the obsessed.

He didn’t bow. He didn’t smile. He simply looked at her, and for a moment, Kim felt Evelyne’s memories rise up—hot, painful, frantic.

He had once knelt before her in the snow.

He had once burned cities for her name.

And she had called him a monster.

Now, he walked to her as the crowd parted.

“Lady Rosenthal,” he said, his voice like silk laced with steel. “You’re alive.”

“For now,” she said.

He tilted his head. “Why throw a ball? Why invite me?”

“Because I knew you’d come.”

Rael’s eyes gleamed. “You always were clever.”

“Don’t flatter me. I’m not the girl you once loved.”

“I know.” He stepped closer. “You’re more dangerous now.”

The dance began without music. She offered her hand, and he took it. The crowd watched, stunned.

“You’re playing a new game,” he whispered as they moved.

“I’m rewriting the rules,” she replied.

“And what do you want from me, Evelyne?”

She looked up at him. “Your loyalty.”

His laughter was low and dark. “I never stopped being yours.”

As the music swelled again, she saw him—another figure at the edge of the crowd.

Leonhart Vale.

The knight had come.

Dressed in white and gold, his expression unreadable, eyes locked on her.

The past was returning.

One by one, the flowers from Evelyne’s tragic story were blooming again.

But this time, she would not be plucked and discarded.

She would rule the garden.

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