Arin stood in the silent corridor of House Valmont, his mind a battlefield of thoughts. The moon cast silver streaks through the grand arched windows, illuminating the polished marble floor. It had been an evening of measured words and veiled intentions, yet despite the formalities, one truth had solidified in his mind—Evelyne Valmont was more than what the world claimed her to be.
But who was she, truly? And why did the weight of her fate press so heavily on him?
He exhaled, his amber eyes flickering toward the moonlit gardens below. A meeting in private—Evelyne had agreed, albeit begrudgingly. The moment would soon arrive, and he would have to tread carefully. He could not simply claim to want to change fate without a reason she found believable.
The thought made him pause. Why did he want to change her fate?
It wasn't just because he knew the tragedy that awaited her. It wasn't just pity. No—something deeper, more instinctive, drove him. Perhaps it was the familiarity of injustice. In his past life, hadn't he also been a victim of circumstances beyond his control? Hadn't he struggled against an unfair system that crushed people beneath its weight? Evelyne's story was no different—only now, he had the chance to act.
He ran a hand through his hair. Could he truly rewrite fate? And if he succeeded, what would that mean for everything else? Would fate retaliate?
A soft voice pulled him from his thoughts.
"You seem troubled, Lord Devain."
He turned. Evelyne stood a short distance away, her dark silhouette framed by the moonlight. She had changed from her formal gown into something simpler—a dark blue dress, elegant but without the heavy embellishments of nobility. Her raven hair cascaded in soft waves over her shoulders, unadorned, unguarded.
For a fleeting moment, Arin saw past the icy façade. Beneath the woman who held herself with an air of untouchable grace was someone who, perhaps, had once longed to be understood.
"Merely lost in thought," he admitted.
"Is that so?" Evelyne stepped closer, her violet eyes searching his face. "Most men would be lost in thought if they found themselves engaged to a supposed villainess."
Arin held her gaze. "And are you one?"
Evelyne tilted her head slightly, as if amused by the question. "Does it matter? People believe what they wish to. The truth rarely holds value in noble society."
Arin exhaled, choosing his words carefully. "I disagree. Truth is the only thing that holds value. Everything else is just a mask."
"And yet you wear one so well," she remarked, her voice softer this time. "Tell me, Lord Devain. Why do you so readily accept this engagement? Do you believe you can change what has already been written?"
There it was—the moment of reckoning. He had expected skepticism, but Evelyne was sharp. She would not accept false reassurances.
"Perhaps," he answered honestly. "Or perhaps I simply do not wish to be a puppet of someone else's script."
A flicker of something unreadable passed through her gaze. Then, after a long pause, she sighed. "You speak of rewriting fate as if it were as simple as turning a page. But some fates are inked in blood, not mere words."
Arin clenched his fists. "Even blood can be washed away."
Silence stretched between them. Then, unexpectedly, Evelyne chuckled—a quiet, bitter sound. "You are either terribly naïve, Lord Devain, or dangerously ambitious. I cannot decide which."
He took a step closer, lowering his voice. "Then allow me to prove which I am."
She regarded him for a long moment before finally nodding. "Very well. But be warned, Arin Devain—if you wish to stand against fate, you may find that it is not so willing to be defied."
A gust of wind swept through the corridor, rustling the curtains. Evelyne turned, disappearing into the night, leaving Arin alone with his thoughts once more.
He exhaled slowly.
Defying fate, huh? What a reckless, impossible thing to attempt.
And yet, wasn't that the very reason he had been given a second chance?