The taste of poison was still on her lips, a phantom bitterness that made the sweet wine in her glass taste like ash.
Celine Valeria blinked at the glittering banquet hall around her, her lashes heavy with disbelief. Golden chandeliers swung above, scattering light across silks, jewels, and smiling faces. Musicians played a gentle tune in the corner, their notes drowned by laughter and the chatter of nobles who had gathered to celebrate.
Her engagement banquet.
Her own face, reflected in the polished glass of wine she held, smiled back at her with all the innocence of a girl who believed she was loved. But inside, Celine's chest tightened with something between dread and icy calm.
Because she remembered.
The last time she had been here—this very night, years ago—everything had ended.
The memory rushed back, sharp as broken glass:
The weight of the crown on her head.
The whispers behind her back.
The cup that touched her lips, sweet with wine, bitter with betrayal.
Her body collapsing as the world spun out of focus.
And above her, that smile.
Prince Dorian's smile.
Celine turned her head slowly, the hall spinning like a cruel jest. And there he was.
The man every girl in the kingdom dreamed of. The man she had once loved with blind devotion. His dark hair gleamed in the candlelight, his robes tailored to perfection, his expression soft and affectionate as he spoke with a cluster of courtiers. He looked perfect, every line of his face sculpted with a charm that had fooled her once.
But not anymore.
Her stomach tightened, and the taste of ashes thickened on her tongue. That smile—warm and tender—was the same smile he had given her as he pressed the poisoned cup into her hands.
She forced herself to breathe. To sit straighter. To let her lips curve into the same practiced smile she had worn in her past life.
If anyone looked at her now, they would see nothing unusual. A radiant princess-to-be, calm and content at her engagement feast. But under that mask, her heart whispered promises like knives.
You killed me once, Dorian. This time, I'll make sure I bury you first.
Her hand tightened around the stem of the glass.
Then her gaze slid to the other figure she had once loved and trusted.
Seraphina.
Her sister sat nearby, draped in silk the color of soft roses. Sweet, delicate, flawless. Her eyes were wide with affection as she looked at Celine, her expression that of a younger sister full of love and admiration. To anyone else, it was the picture of devotion.
But Celine no longer saw the mask. She saw what lay beneath.
The lingering way Seraphina's eyes shifted toward Dorian, softening in a way no sister should look at her sister's betrothed. The faint curl of her lips when she thought no one was watching. The satisfaction buried under her feigned innocence.
Celine's throat burned. How many times had she defended Seraphina in her past life? How many times had she sworn to others that her sister was pure, incapable of harm? She had loved her, trusted her, shielded her.
And in the end, Seraphina had watched her die.
The music swelled, laughter echoed, and the air smelled of roasted meats and sweet cakes. But none of it touched Celine. The hall was no longer the scene of her joy—it was a stage where ghosts danced, reminding her of every mistake, every betrayal.
Her pulse raced, her breaths shallow. For one sharp second, panic threatened to crush her. Had it all been a dream? Was she losing her mind?
No.
The cold certainty in her chest told her the truth: this was not madness. This was not some cruel nightmare.
She had died. And now she had come back.
Celine lowered her eyes, hiding the storm inside her behind lowered lashes. She forced her body to remain still, graceful, untouched. But inside, the vow formed, clear and sharp.
Never again. Never again will I play the fool. Never again will I die by your hands.
A servant passed by, refilling her glass. The red wine caught the light, shimmering like liquid rubies. She stared at it for a long moment, memories colliding—wine, poison, death.
Her lips curved into a smile.
This time, she would not be the one drinking death. This time, she would serve it.
She lifted her gaze back to Dorian, meeting his eyes across the hall. His smile deepened, warmth radiating like sunlight. To anyone else, it would look like love. To her, it was the curve of a viper's mouth.
She raised her glass slowly, deliberately. Conversations around her hushed, courtiers turning to watch the moment.
Her smile was sweet, her voice steady as it carried across the hall.
"To the man I love," she said.
The words sounded tender. Perfect. The kind every bride-to-be would speak.
But inside, they were poison wrapped in honey.
She tipped the glass back and drank. The wine slid down her throat, warm and rich. For a heartbeat, she could almost taste the bitterness of her past death, the phantom sting of poison.
And then it was gone.
The hall erupted in cheers, laughter, applause. Dorian smiled at her with devotion. Seraphina clapped her hands like a child, eyes shining with adoration.
No one saw the frost in Celine's gaze. No one felt the storm gathering in her heart.
She lowered the empty glass, her smile never faltering.
This time, she was not the naive girl waiting for her death.
This time, she was the woman who had already died once—and come back for revenge.