The night stretched on, yet sleep remained elusive. Evelyne Valmont stood by her window, arms folded across her chest, her violet eyes locked onto the moonlit gardens below. The laughter of the servants had long since faded, replaced by the distant rustling of leaves in the midnight breeze.
Her mind refused to quiet.
Arin Devain.
That name refused to leave her thoughts. It coiled around her like an unshakable chain, pulling her into questions she did not want to ask and emotions she dared not acknowledge.
Why?
Why was he different?
Why did his words linger in her mind, chipping away at the walls she had spent years constructing?
She clenched her jaw, frustrated at her own foolishness. She had spent too many years ensuring she could not be touched. Had perfected the art of being untouchable. Yet, with nothing more than a handful of words and a steady gaze, Arin had made her feel exposed.
She hated it.
But more than that—
She feared it.
Evelyne turned away from the window, the weight of the past pressing against her ribs like an iron vice. Memories clawed their way to the surface—memories of being shunned, of whispers following her wherever she went, of people twisting her every action into something cruel, something monstrous.
A villainess.
That was what they had made her. And in time, she had accepted it. If they wanted her to be heartless, she would be. If they needed someone to bear the title of the wicked noblewoman, she would wear it with pride. It was easier to be feared than to be pitied.
But Arin… he did not fear her. Nor did he pity her. He simply looked at her as if she were someone worth standing beside.
Evelyne clenched her fists. She had seen false kindness before. She had been subjected to empty promises and deceivingly warm words from nobles who only sought to use her for their gain.
Was he the same?
No. That was what unnerved her the most.
He was not the same.
There had been something unsettlingly real in the way he had spoken to her. A certainty in his voice, as if he had already made up his mind about her—about who she was, beyond the titles and rumors. And that was dangerous.
Because if he truly meant what he said, if he truly intended to stand by her side, then for the first time in years, Evelyne Valmont would have something to lose.
A quiet knock at her door broke her from her spiraling thoughts. She stiffened, schooling her features back into their usual mask before responding. "Enter."
The door creaked open, and a familiar figure stepped inside. Alys, her handmaiden, carried a silver tray with a steaming teapot and a small plate of biscuits. "You haven't slept, my lady," Alys observed, setting the tray down on the nearby table.
Evelyne sighed. "Is it that obvious?"
Alys gave her a knowing smile as she poured the tea. "You only pace like this when something is troubling you."
Evelyne hesitated. Alys had served her for years. If there was one person who had seen past the carefully crafted mask, it was her.
Still, what could she say?
That for the first time in years, she was afraid of letting someone in?
Instead, she settled for a half-truth. "The engagement. It… complicates things."
Alys handed her a cup, watching her carefully. "You mean Lord Devain?"
Evelyne didn't respond immediately. She simply wrapped her fingers around the warm porcelain, letting the heat seep into her skin. Finally, she murmured, "He is not what I expected."
Alys raised a brow. "Is that a bad thing?"
"I don't know."
Evelyne hated that answer. She hated uncertainty. But Arin had thrown all of her expectations into disarray.
Alys smiled knowingly. "He seems like a good man."
Evelyne scoffed. "I have met many men who 'seem' good. Most of them hide knives behind their backs."
"And what about him? Do you think he hides a knife?"
Evelyne thought back to his words, the unwavering way he had spoken to her, the way he had not once hesitated in his resolve.
"No," she admitted quietly. "That is what makes him dangerous."
Alys chuckled, shaking her head. "Not all danger is bad, my lady. Sometimes, it is simply change. And change is often the thing we fear most."
Evelyne frowned but said nothing. She had spent years ensuring she would never fear anything again. Yet here she was, shaken by the mere possibility of someone treating her differently.
She took a slow sip of her tea, the warmth grounding her.
She would not let herself be swayed. Not yet.
But she could not deny it any longer.
Arin Devain was no ordinary noble.
And whether she wished for it or not, he had already begun to rewrite her fate.