As evening settled, Seraphina laid on top of her sheets, the canopy lace above moving gently in the breeze from the open terrace door. Above, lit by the remnants of a candle next to a small portrait on her bedside, she held the Summer Gala invitation. Even now, five years later in her second life— Seraphina could recall the moment she first met her husband with a clarity that unnerved her.
The rain, the marble, the sharp scent of candle wax mingling with wet earth—it haunted her dreams, even when she tried to bury it. She remembered him, not as a future husband, not as a man she feared and desired in equal measure, but as something darker: an echo of inevitability.
Rain slicked marble glimmered beneath the morning light outside of Archduke Beuamont's estate, a soft drizzle clinging to Seraphina's lashes as she stepped out of her carriage.
It was a celebration ball to celebrate the Beaumont's son's squireship: a night to be filled with music, dancing, and simple pleasantries. While her fiancés was indeed a soldier, Seraphina had only attended because her mother demanded it. The morning had been an ordeal: hours of restraint as her maids fussed over each curl and seam, while Elara primped her until she shone like a crown jewel. Her reflection in the polished bannister mirrored perfection, yet her heart turned with exhaustion of having to compete in the warfare of women: social events.
It was there, on the staircase, that she had seen him in the flesh for the first time: James Celosia-- the man she was arranged to marry.
In that ballroom, the world had seemed normal—grand, polite, perfumed with civility—but the air around him had been wrong. Heavy, almost suffocating, as if the space itself recoiled from him. While most fiancés knew each other from a young age or at least met in academy, she had not met him even on her debutante day. He had fought since the age of twelve, a soldier forged in fire and discipline, and now his presence was a blade between her ribs.
The gift she had received from him through messenger on her debutant—a pearl necklace and a small portrait—could never have prepared her for the living man. Violet eyes beneath a knight's visor in the painting were nothing compared to the cold assessment in his gaze now.
She had descended the grand staircase of Archduchess Beaumont's ballroom and turned, the lace of her dress collar catching itself in her short auburn tresses, peridot eyes growing wide. Time moved slow, her pearl necklace rising and clasping itself to her neck, the red wine glass in her fingers growing limp. In a moment, her eyes caught his purple as he leaned in the corner of the ballroom; a black overcoat clashing with the burgundy red of the terrace curtain, the cut of his dark hair concealing his face. Her lips moved, as if to whisper, "It's you" as the chandelier candle flames flickering above. The music of the ballroom—a lilting waltz, the murmur of nobles—faded into a distant echo as her knees trembled to betray her poised exterior.
Seraphina's heart hammered in her chest as she stepped to the bottom of the stairs. Every instinct screamed caution, yet each fiber of her being was drawn to him. She gripped her glass tighter, the wine sloshing slightly against the crystal. Swallowing, she feigned ignorance turning to speak to Lady Alexandra whom she knew from a tea party, turning the smooth curve of her back in his direction.As she chatted with Lady Alexandra, a crowd formed and soon enough Alexandra was whisked away to speak to other high nobel ladies about her most recent book acquisition. For a moment, she was alone.
His eyes—purple, unreadable—met hers across the space, polite, composed, but disconcertingly sharp. There was no warmth in them, not yet, only the subtle weight of attention, and that was enough to make her heart betray her.
Then he moved as if a shadow dancing to be caught in her vision.
Each click of his polished leather shoes on marble seemed louder than the music, louder than the polite whispers of the guests. His steps paused as he neared her, close enough to speak but with a distance that suggested formality. He wore a black overcoat, tailored so sharply it seemed sculpted to his body. The edges fell straight and precise, the kind of cut that suggested control, not flamboyance. Every inch of him screamed restraint, from the polished black boots peeking beneath his trousers to the crisp cuffs of his white shirt just visible at his wrists. A silver pocket watch chain glinted faintly as he adjusted the collar of his coat—an almost imperceptible gesture, polite yet deliberate.Her breath caught
Seraphina drew in a sharp breath, her hands clasping together at the front of her dress, the tafetta crinkling slightly beneath. Her mind raced: This is the man I'm promised to. This is the man who will one day be mine… and yet, I do not know him. How does one even speakeer to a potentional husband? It's not like he's my lover! Wait, I've never even had a lover and I am 22!
The soft green silk of her dress clung to her form with understated elegance, the lace of the sleeves and neckline whispering refinement and class. Her auburn curls framed her face, and the pearls at her throat caught the light, soft and glowing against her skin. And yet, despite all her preparation, all the layers of etiquette and expectation draped over her like armor, it was him who drew every ounce of her attention. His gaze held hers like a tether, and in the violet depths of his eyes, she saw a reflection of herself—curious, cautious, and somehow alive in ways she had never allowed herself to be.
For the first time, she had noticed a faint scar tracing his jawline, a silver line against the pale skin that had not been revealed in the portrait she had of him. "You are Miss Seraphina," he said finally, his tone even, deliberate, almost rehearsed as he bowed to her. "I am Marquess James Celosia. I believe we are… to be acquainted." There was no overt passion, no declaration, only the clarity of his intent. He measured every word to the point of creating a space around him that was impossible to close.
A story etched there, one she wanted desperately to know, though she did not dare to ask. "May I…?" he asked, gesturing toward the empty space beside her on the marble floor. His tone was not a question but a gentle command, an invitation she felt compelled to accept.
The orchestra's strings swelled, and James held out his hand. Time seemed to bend around them as she placed her gloved fingers into his. The warmth of his touch ignited a spark that ran through her like lightning, and for a moment; the propriety, the expectations, the looming specter of marriage dissolved into the swell of the music.
They moved together in silence, her a swan of grace and himself textbook, the cadence of the waltz echoing the rhythm of her pulse. Each turn, each brush of fingertips, sent shivers cascading down her spine. She realized, with a startling clarity, that she had been waiting for this moment, for the man in the portrait to be filled with life.
She had stopped. Feet rooted to the marble. Hand half-raised. Breath catching in her throat. And he—he had simply looked at her. Measured, calm, unflinching. His eyes had held hers for a heartbeat longer than necessary, and in that brief moment, she had known the truth of him: a man polite to the bone, firm, careful, and utterly unreadable, yet somehow… compelling beyond reason.
For a moment, they simply stood there, suspended in the soft glow of chandeliers. Seraphina's breath had quickened, but her hands remained neatly clasped at her front. She could feel the ghost of his presence pressing lightly against the edges of her awareness, sharp yet distant, like the tip of a blade she could never quite touch.
James had not rushed toward her. He had not grasped her hand or drawn her close. Instead, he had moved with deliberate care, each step precise, each gesture measured and cold. As the final notes of the waltz lingered in the air, he pulled away.
He finally spoke, his voice as measured as every other movement he had made that evening. "You have been... properly prepared for these gatherings," he said, almost as an observation rather than a compliment. She blinked, caught off guard by the unusual casualness beneath his formal tone. "I—I suppose," she stammered, trying to sound composed, though her pulse thudded in her ears. "Mother insists I attend every event. There is no choice in the matter."
A flicker of something—something almost imperceptible—crossed his face. A raised brow? A pause? Perhaps curiosity. "I understand," he said finally, the ghost of a smirk raising his lips. "Then you have endured much today." The faintest inflection suggested acknowledgment, a recognition that went deeper than mere politeness for the first time that night.
She caught the faint scent of him then—leather, faintly soapy water, and a bloody undertone that made her shiver. Not unpleasant, but commanding. It reminded her, as nothing else could, that he was entirely untouchable by ordinary charm.
"I…" she began, her voice barely above a whisper. She stopped, realizing how futile it sounded. Even in this first encounter, she could see that anything she said could be measured, weighed, and gently deflected by him.
James's lips curved ever so slightly—a gesture more blade than a smile, a signal of acknowledgment without revealing intent. He leaned forward the smallest glimmer of possession in his eyes, his nose brushing her cheek as he spoke into her ear, "You will find that I do not waste attention lightly." He pulled away and with a face glowing like coals, she slapped a hand to her cheek, eyes crinkling as she looked up at him.
Even in her second life, she could feel the pull of that memory. That moment of near contact had been a warning, a promise, and an enigma all at once. The cold politeness. The deliberate steps. The slight tilt of his head that suggested calculation, not cruelty. That first meeting had been a trap of subtlety—beautiful, careful, impossible to touch until it had all fell apart.
He was the only man that made her poise shatter and she had been swept up in him before she even noticed,