CHAPTER 3: Whispers in Marble Halls

The next morning was golden and too quiet. Sunlight poured through the tall windows of House Veraxis, dust motes dancing like forgotten spirits. Eira stood in front of the carved marble washstand, still half-certain this was some twisted dream.

She had woken with a headache and a name that didn’t belong to her—Lady Anastasia Veraxis. But the mansion was real. The people feared her. And she… she wasn’t dreaming. Not anymore.. she accepted it and was secretly loving it

Wrapped in an emerald silk robe that felt like water against her skin, Eira wandered through the halls, unsure where she was going. She passed portraits of grim-faced ancestors, tapestries woven with family crests, and heavy double doors that led to rooms she didn’t dare enter yet.

Her heart pulled her to the far side of the east wing, where she stumbled upon a private study. The wood-paneled walls smelled of ink, rose oil, and something ancient. On the desk sat a stack of parchment, a broken quill, and a leather-bound journal.

Curious, she picked it up.

Inside, the handwriting was sharp, neat, guarded.

>> Day 14 after the Winter Gala.

I saw Aris’s old notebooks today. Mother had them packed away in the attic like broken furniture. He deserved better. He always deserved better.

Eira’s brows furrowed. Aris?

He was two years older. Brilliant. Gentle. Too gentle for this house. Our parents never let him breathe. It was always numbers. Profits. Honor. Legacy.

They say he died of fever.

They lie.

He died of pressure. Of silence. Of being too good in a place that wanted him ruthless.

The people he fought for never stood for him when it mattered.

Now they expect me to carry his torch.

I hated the silence after him. I hated their eyes. I hated the expectations.

But more than that, I hated myself—for not being enough to save him.

So I became what they wanted.

Sharp. Strong. Loud.

If they wanted a Veraxis, I’d become the cruelest one of all.

Eira turned the page. There were more entries.

>>Day 22.

I visited the East District again. The orphanage is collapsing. They keep asking for help, for leniency. I told them I wasn’t a charity. But Aris would’ve helped them. He would’ve stayed.

I can’t be him. I can only be the one who survives.

Eira closed the journal slowly, her chest aching. “You weren’t evil,” she whispered. “You were ..i don’know what it is ...but ..you were soft somewhere.”

She stood, brushing a hand over the wood grain of the desk.

“If I’m living this life… I’ll live it our way. Lighter. Kinder. But still fierce.”

She chuckled softly. “And rich. Let’s not pretend I’m giving up the mansion...of course not.. lets see how to live this life !!”

With that, she tied her robe tighter and slipped out of the room, humming a tune from her world—a silly love song from some long-forgotten drama.

She wandered down the grand corridor, tracing her fingers along the marble pillars, barefoot, completely at ease in a palace meant for someone with thorns. Her feet padded silently, and her hum echoed softly.

Then she felt it.

A cold aura.

Presence.

Tall. Still. Watching.

She turned.

And froze.

A man stood at the far end of the corridor, half-shrouded in shadow. He was dressed in tailored black, his posture perfect, his expression unreadable.

Dark hair.

Eyes like winter storms.

Sharp cheekbones. Strong jaw.

Her heart skipped.

He looked exactly like—

No.

He was the Duke.??!!!

Her breath hitched.( ..heart beat ×2)

This was him. Her childhood book crush. The one she used to doodle hearts around in her diary. The man she always said she would choose if she were the villainess.

And now he was real.

Staring at her like she was a puzzle he wasn’t patient enough to solve.

“You’ve recovered,” he said, voice low and smooth.

“I suppose so,” she said, trying to stay calm. “Did you need something, Your Grace?”

He stepped closer, eyes narrowing slightly.

“You are barefoot ??!!” he noted. “That’s… unusual.”

She blinked, then glanced down. “Oh. Yes. I… like to feel the cold floor sometimes. Clears the mind.”

He stared. “You hate the cold.”

[she slammed her face in mind...]

His eyes swept over her—robe, hair, bare feet, the trace of warmth in her voice.

“You’re not wearing perfume either. And your hair isn't pinned. It’s strange.”

“Are you here to discuss my hygiene habits, or ...?” she asked with a faint smirk.

His jaw tightened. “I came to finalize the dissolution of the East Estate transfer. I trust you’ve regained enough sense to cancel that decision?”

Eira blinked. “Why is that estate so important to you?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Because that land houses the Ravenspire Orphanage. Hundreds of children. You’d have bulldozed it for another luxury hall.”

Her chest tightened. “Orphanage?”

“Yes. Orphans. Children without families. Not that you’d care.”

She forced a breath. “I’ll look into it.”

“You said that before,” he replied coldly. “Then raised the price on them by thirty percent.”

She met his gaze. “Maybe I mean it this time.”

He said nothing, just stared.

Then turned away.

“I’ll be back in two days,” he said over his shoulder. “Decide by then.”

She watched him go, heart pounding.

Then turned back toward the study.

“I’ll fix it,” she whispered.

“Even if my own story had killed me… even if hers ends in blood—let me rewrite it. Let me save her. And maybe… just maybe… I’ll save myself too. This time, I’ll live. I’ll live the life we both deserved.”

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