The taste of arsenic is metallic, like sucking on a copper coin.
That was the last sensation I had before the darkness took me in my first life. So, when I felt the cold rim of a porcelain cup against my lips today, my hand didn't just tremble—it locked.
"Drink, Seraphina," Alaric's voice urged. It was that same low, gravelly baritone that had once been my favorite song. Now, it sounded like the grinding of gears in a slaughterhouse.
I looked up. We were in the Solar of Thorne Manor. The anniversary sun was streaming through the stained glass, casting blood-red patterns across his handsome, indifferent face.
"Is something wrong?" he asked, his blue eyes tracking the steam from my tea.
"The temperature," I said, my voice sounding foreign to my own ears—sharper, like a blade being honed. "It's far too high. If I drink this now, I'll burn."
I set the cup down with a deliberate clink. I wasn't just talking about the tea. I was talking about the marriage. The alliance. The entire rigged game of Aethelgard high society.
Alaric leaned back, his gloved fingers tapping a rhythmic beat on the mahogany table. Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound of a man who owned the world and was bored by it.
"You've been different since you woke up this morning," he noted. "Usually, you'd have already presented me with your latest schematic for the New South Refineries."
I looked at him—really looked at him. In my first life, I had been blinded by the "hero" of the Northern Front. I hadn't seen the predator underneath the medals.
"The New South project has a structural weakness, Alaric," I said, standing up. I walked toward the massive floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the smog-choked Tier 2 factories. "I spent all night recalculating. The foundations are built on sand. If you proceed, the entire sector will collapse within three years."
Alaric's tapping stopped. "Sand? My engineers vetted those sites for months."
"Your engineers are paid to tell you what you want to hear," I countered, turning to face him. I leaned against the glass, the cold of the pane seeping into my spine. "I, however, am no longer on your payroll."
The air in the room shifted. The "Romantic Conflict" that Luna_Blue_'s editorial team spoke of wasn't a spark; it was a forest fire. Alaric stood, his tall frame casting a shadow that swallowed me whole. He stepped into my personal space, his scent—sandalwood and ozone—filling my lungs.
"You are my wife, Seraphina. Everything you create belongs to the House of Thorne."
I reached out, my fingers grazing the silver buttons of his uniform, right over his heart. I felt the steady, thumping lie beneath.
"Then you should have read the fine print of our marriage contract more closely, Grace," I whispered, my lips inches from his ear. "I didn't just design the refineries. I designed the kill-switch."
I pulled away, savoring the flash of genuine shock—and something darker, something like interest—that flickered in his eyes.
"Martha!" I called out, not looking back. "Pack my drafting tools. I'm moving into the West Wing. And tell the chef that from now on, I'll be preparing my own tea."
As I walked out, I didn't need to look back to know he was staring. The "Shadow Duchess" was dead. The Architect had arrived.