Author's welcome note
Hello my dear Readers,
Welcome to my new book, The Revenge of Duchess Sinclair—a tale born from betrayal, forged in fire, and sharpened by vengeance.
This story is not just about a noblewoman cast aside. It's about a woman who refuses to die quietly. Anastasia Roseline Sinclair was stripped of everything—her title, her love, her dignity. But from the edge of death, she rises—not as a phoenix, but as a vulture, ready to reclaim what was stolen and devour the bones of those who wronged her.
You'll meet enemies cloaked in silk, allies forged in blood, and a Crown Prince whose own demons burn just as fiercely. Together, they will shake the foundations of the kingdom.
Thank you for stepping into this world. I hope it grips you, breaks you, and leaves you breathless.
With fire and ink,
L.V.
***********************
"Wow! You look stunning, my lady."
"Yes, she already looks like the Duchess."
"One thing is certain—the fief of Florence will rejoice to have you as its pristine ruler."
"This is going to be a glorious night."
Anastasia basked in the compliments of her maidservants as they helped her prepare for the succession ball.
She turned toward the full-length mirror, and just as they'd said—she was breathtaking. Golden-brown eyes framed by a delicate, sharp nose and soft rose-pink lips. Her fiery red hair cascaded down her shoulders and back, the top braided neatly to accommodate the succession crown.
Her light, creamy skin glowed beneath a shoulder-to-floor navy blue gown that hugged her figure with regal precision, accentuating her curves and graceful silhouette. The dress shimmered with embroidered silk shaped into Florence's most treasured emblem—the Blue Diamond Rose. It glittered like the rare jewel it represented.
The Blue Diamond Rose was more than decoration—it was a symbol of sovereign wealth and power. Florence was the kingdom's backbone, its economic lifeline. Without it, the realm would collapse into ruin. That was why this night mattered. Why she mattered.
Anastasia stared at her reflection in silence.
She was beautiful. Desired by every nobleman in the kingdom. Rumors even whispered that the Crown Prince himself had taken an interest. But none of that mattered.
Her heart belonged to one man.
Aaron Dinkley—the charming, sharp-witted son of Duke Andrew Dinkley of Fortshire. Fortshire's agricultural strength rivaled Florence's financial dominance. The two fiefs were interdependent: agriculture needed wealth, and wealth needed sustenance. So because of that, Anastasia and Aaron's fate was already sealed. They were destined to marry even before they were born.
Tonight wasn't just the succession ball, where Anastasia would officially inherit her father's title as Duchess of Florence. It was also the night she would give herself to the man she loved.
Though married for over a month, tradition forbade consummation until the night of the Harvest Moon—a sacred rite among the nobility. The moon symbolized fertility, and heirs born under its glow were believed to be strong, wise, and destined for greatness. While lesser nobles often ignored the custom, Anastasia and Aaron, as heirs to the kingdom's most powerful fiefs, had no choice but to honor it.
Anastasia had dreamed of this night for years. The night Aaron would claim her. The night she would become wholly his. It was a night of love, legacy, and longing—and she intended to make it unforgettable.
Knock knock.
All heads turned toward the door.
A soft voice called from the hallway.
"My lady. It is time."
Anastasia faced the mirror one last time. She inhaled deeply, steadying her racing heart. Then she squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and turned toward the door.
Tonight, she would become Duchess.
Tonight, she would become his.
She walked down the familiar hallway of Sinclair Mansion, her chain of maids trailing behind like a royal procession. The polished floors gleamed beneath her heels, and the flickering sconces cast golden shadows on the walls—each step echoing with destiny.
As she reached the grand double doors of the ballroom, the faint sound of music and lively chatter spilled through the cracks.
Then, silence.
The music stopped. The voices hushed.
The doors swung open.
A wave of light and opulence greeted her. The ballroom shimmered with elegance—crystal chandeliers, polished marble, and tables adorned with gleaming gold and silverware that gave the room a magical glow.
Anastasia stepped inside.
Applause erupted, polite and reverent. She bowed her head slightly in appreciation, her posture poised, her expression serene. She walked with purpose toward the podium where the Priest and the Judge awaited.
Cameras flashed like lightning, capturing every angle of her entrance. Reporters scribbled furiously, their pens racing to immortalize the moment.
Her stomach fluttered with nerves.
This is it.
The day she had long awaited.
The day she would become the most important woman in the room—not just as Duchess of Florence, but as the wife of the man she loved. The succession was ceremonial. Her heart was set on becoming Mrs. Anastasia Roseline Aaron Dinkley, officially and completely.
She reached the stage and greeted the Priest and Judge with a graceful bow.
Then she turned to face the crowd.
Everyone wore their best smiles for the happy occasion. Except, of course, Miranda, her stepmother nestled beside her spoiled and chubby looking half-brother, Nathan. Anastasia wasn't even surprised that she didn't even force herself to smile and look happy for the occasion. Although she wore her finest clothes but it was obviously for the press. The woman loved the spotlight more than her own children.
Beside Nathan stood Aunt Gabriella, her father's sister. She smiled, but Anastasia knew that smile too well. It was a mask—a porcelain façade hiding a venomous heart. Gabriella was a vulture in silk, waiting for shadows to fall and the right moment to strike.
Her husband, Count Vincent Versera, was the same, stoic and rigid, a very greedy bastard that is willing to throw you in the pit of dung if push comes to shove. A man who'd sell his own bloodline for a seat at the royal table.
None of them wanted this day to happen.
Except one.
Grandma Felistus.
The elder of the Sinclair family sat quietly, holding a portrait of Duke Alexander Philip Sinclair—Anastasia's father. In the image, he wore his regal navy blue suit, the emblem of Florence—a golden phoenix clutching a blue diamond rose—glistening proudly on his chest. He was smiling. The photo had been taken on the day of his own succession. The same day he consummated his marriage with Anastasia's mother.
Anastasia felt tears sting her eyes. Her chest tightened.
I wish you were here. Both of you. To see me become what you raised me to be.
She took a deep breath, steadying her emotions, and continued to survey the room.
At the far corner of the ballroom, Anastasia spotted her in-laws—Duke Andrew and Duchess Catherine—impeccably dressed in Fortshire's regal attire. The Duke's dark green suit and the Duchess's matching gown bore the embroidered emblem of their fief: a white bird nestled on an olive branch, with a golden field of wheat glistening beneath it. A symbol of peace, prosperity, and Fortshire's agricultural might.
Beside them stood Monica—her sister-in-law and best friend. She offered Anastasia a radiant smile, one of the few genuine expressions in the room.
"Mmm… my lady. It's time to begin.
The Priest's voice pulled Anastasia from her thoughts.
She straightened, standing at attention as the ceremony commenced.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the Priest began, "welcome to this momentous occasion. Tonight, her Ladyship Anastasia Roseline Sinclair shall succeed the title and responsibilities as the new ruler of the Duchy of Florence. For many years…"
But the words faded.
Muted.
Anastasia's mind drifted, her heart thudding louder than the Priest's voice.
She realised that two people were missing.
The knot inside the pit of her stomach twisted violently.
'Where is Aaron and Leticia.'