Chapter 2 : Brewing Poison, Brewing Change

• A Bitter Welcome

Morning light spilled into the grand dining room of the Sinclair estate, filtering through tall windows framed by heavy velvet drapes. The golden rays danced upon the polished floor and glinted off crystal chandeliers, bathing the long mahogany table in a warm, deceptive glow. The room, though beautifully set with gleaming silverware, fresh-cut roses, and delicate porcelain, carried a weight far heavier than its grandeur suggested — the weight of judgment, of tradition, and of silent expectations.

Today marked Evelyne’s first formal breakfast as a Sinclair. And though her new title was yet to settle into her bones, its burden already pressed heavily against her shoulders.

In the kitchen, where steam rose and clinking echoed, a maid moved with careful, almost robotic precision. Her eyes darted cautiously as she approached the tea tray set for the young lady of the house. From deep within her pocket, she withdrew a small cloth pouch. Inside, a fine, pale powder — odorless and nearly invisible. Her fingers trembled slightly as she pinched a small amount and let it fall into the steaming cup of tea meant for Evelyne. With swift, practiced movements, she stirred until it disappeared completely. No scent, no residue.

The tray, seemingly harmless with its assortment of flaky croissants, delicate fruit slices, and aromatic tea, was arranged to perfection before being carried into the dining room.

Inside, the Duke and Duchess of Sinclair sat at the head of the table, their faces carved from centuries of breeding and restraint. The Duke’s greying brows were furrowed in an expression that might have passed for mild approval, while the Duchess wore a serene smile as brittle as the fine china in her hand.

Also seated today were Lord Reginald and Lady Beatrice — Adrian’s uncle and aunt. Their fashion was impeccable, their jewelry tasteful, and their smiles so sharp Evelyne felt the edges pierce through every polite word they spoke. Lady Beatrice’s gaze, in particular, lingered on Evelyne with something akin to appraisal — or perhaps scrutiny.

Evelyne sat across from Adrian, their places set like opposing pieces on a chessboard. The space between them was carefully maintained, the kind bred from unfamiliarity rather than comfort. She kept her hands folded in her lap, knuckles slightly white from the pressure. Her back was straight, her chin lifted — a perfect portrait of poise, as she had been trained. But beneath the surface, her pulse fluttered like a bird trapped in a gilded cage.

"Welcome to the family, my dear," said the Duchess, her voice as smooth and sweet as syrup. She lifted her cup in a small gesture, eyes steady, smile unmoved.

"Yes," the Duke added. "We trust you will uphold the dignity of our house."

Evelyne offered a practiced smile, forcing the words out. "Thank you." and reached for her tea, the cup cool and fragile in her grasp.

She took a tentative sip. The floral aroma of lavender and rose danced on her tongue, but there was a strange bitterness that lingered after. Barely noticeable. She brushed it off as nerves, unaware of the subtle poison threading its way into her system.

Across the table, Adrian sat rigid, eyes lowered, face unreadable. He neither welcomed her nor acknowledged the subtle glances thrown between his relatives. His silence was as thick as the air, as if he'd rather be anywhere else but here.

The meal progressed slowly, filled with hollow niceties and vague compliments that felt more like thinly veiled assessments. No one asked Evelyne about her preferences, her dreams, or even her comfort. No one asked if she was happy.

No one expected her to be.

• A Chance Encounter

Later that afternoon, far from the rigid silence of the Sinclair estate, Adrian found himself seated at a corner table in a small, elegant coffee shop tucked between a row of townhouses in the older part of the city. The place had a quaint charm — carved wooden beams, shelves lined with worn books and trailing ivy, the scent of roasted beans and cinnamon hanging thick in the air.

He didn’t know why he had agreed to come. Perhaps curiosity. Perhaps guilt. Perhaps an echo of what once was. The moment he walked in, he regretted it.

Across the table from him, Lady Cassandra was a vision of practiced grace. She wore a emerald green velvet dress that matched the clarity of her eyes. Her auburn hair was swept to one side, loose curls falling artfully over her shoulder. Everything about her was intentional — from the soft gleam on her lips to the subtle perfume that lingered in the air between them.

She leaned in slightly, her hands wrapped around her porcelain cup, her posture relaxed — like a woman who still believed she had control.

"Adrian," she said sweetly, her voice a gentle lilt, as if they were lovers reunited after a long parting. "Surely you haven't forgotten all the good times we shared?"

Her tone was soft, but her eyes searched his face for a flicker — a weakness, a sign that he might still be hers to unravel.

Adrian didn’t answer immediately. He stirred his coffee with slow, deliberate motions, watching the swirl of cream dissipate. His fingers tapped against the side of the cup — a subtle sign of his discomfort.

"We had our time, Cassandra," he said eventually, voice low and controlled. "But it’s over. It’s been over for a while now."

Cassandra’s smile flickered, a ghost of uncertainty passing through her gaze before she gathered herself. She leaned forward, resting her elbow lightly on the table, her manicured fingers brushing against his hand — a gesture far too intimate for the present.

"We were good together," she whispered, her voice sliding into the space between them like silk. "You and I... we made sense. You don’t have to pretend that girl—what’s her name? Evelyne? She doesn’t know you like I do."

Her fingers traced slow, deliberate circles on the back of his hand, awakening muscle memory — the kind that once would have softened his resistance. Once.

But not today.

Adrian pulled his hand away with quiet finality, setting his cup down with a soft clink that felt louder than it was. His icy blue eyes, usually cool and detached, were sharp now, unwavering.

"I’m married," he said simply.

A long silence stretched between them. Cassandra’s lips parted slightly, but no words came. For a heartbeat, her practiced elegance faltered. She blinked, once, and the anger behind her lashes became visible.

"You married a girl you barely know," she said, her voice tight, her smile turning brittle. "You married her because of a dead man’s promise."

Adrian stood.

The scrape of his chair against the wood floor broke the delicate hum of the café. Conversations at nearby tables dipped for a second, then resumed. He didn’t look at Cassandra again, not even when she called his name under her breath.

He walked out into the crisp air, the scent of roasted beans replaced by the cold bite of the wind. His shoulders were tense, his steps purposeful.

Behind him, Cassandra sat frozen, her fingers still curled around her untouched cup. The warmth had begun to fade.

She blinked once, slowly, the cold hardening in her chest like ice around a flame.

Her hand clenched slightly around the edge of the table as she whispered to herself — a vow not of love, but of possession.

"I will not lose him again."

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