Chapter 3

“Edmund! Julian!”

The moment Mirabelle saw them enter, her eyes welled up on command. She looked utterly pathetic, the perfect victim.

Julian, my second brother, shot me a venomous glare before turning to Mirabelle, his voice softening into syrup. “Mirabelle, don’t be afraid. Tell me everything. I’ll make sure justice is served.”

“It’s… it’s nothing, really,” she replied with a weak, forgiving smile, her voice trembling slightly. “Elara’s just… jealous. She wanted to pretend to be the Duke’s daughter, but I understand. She’s naive, her head filled with silly dreams.”

“She dares impersonate you?” Julian’s voice turned hard as he glared my way.

Edmund’s brow was furrowed, his tone glacial. “We have one sister. That’s Mirabelle. Elara is a servant in this household, nothing more.”

The moment those words left his mouth, I saw the same murderous intent I remembered from my past life. With his declaration, the crowd’s disdain for me solidified.

Then a girl stepped from the crowd—Chloe, daughter of a minor lordling and one of Mirabelle’s most devoted followers. She crossed her arms, radiating righteous outrage.

“This wretch even laid hands on Lady Mirabelle!” Chloe exclaimed. “I saw it myself last night! Poor Mirabelle’s back is covered in awful bruises!”

“Chloe, please…” Mirabelle bit her lip, teary eyes glistening as she looked up.

“Mirabelle, did she really hurt you?” Julian’s face darkened as he stepped closer, voice tight with anger.

“I’m sure Elara didn’t mean it,” Mirabelle murmured, magnanimous in her martyrdom. “Please, don’t blame her because of me.”

Her words, sounding like mercy, confirmed the story for the crowd. To them, she was the blameless victim, I the vicious aggressor.

Mirabelle’s frail figure, trembling just so, deepened the crowd’s sympathy. My brothers stared at me like wolves eyeing prey.

“Elara!” they barked in unison, eyes blazing.

I arched a brow, turning to Chloe first. “The daughter of a fourth-tier court functionary presumes to address me so? Perhaps you should fetch your father before speaking further.”

As her face flushed, I turned my cold smile on Mirabelle. “You claim I struck you? That you bear injuries? Fine. Let them be examined.”

The words made both their expressions shift.

Chloe’s face contorted with rage. “You filthy gutter-rat! You’re not fit to clean my boots! Mirabelle’s word is proof enough! Who else could have done it?”

“Who knows?” I shrugged. “Perhaps you did it yourselves.”

Chloe spluttered. Mirabelle’s lips quivered, tears falling like scattered pearls. She threw herself against Julian, sobbing. “To examine the marks… I’d have to undress! She wants to shame me, to ruin my reputation! How could I bear it?”

Her words were fuel to fire. Theron, who’d been watching, jumped to his feet. “Elara, how dare you!” he roared. “Mirabelle is my future wife! I won’t allow her to be humiliated!”

“Touch her and you answer to us!” Leo snarled, anger boiling over.

“So malicious, Elara,” Marcus spat. “We should’ve gotten rid of you long ago.”

I didn’t bother with their threats. I waved to a servant. “Bring a privacy screen. Let’s settle this properly.”

Smack!

The sound of a sharp slap echoed.

A sting bloomed on my cheek. Mirabelle’s lips twitched with suppressed satisfaction, though her eyes couldn’t hide her triumph.

“Well done, Edmund!” Leo cheered, clapping while the others smirked.

Edmund glared, eyes cold with anger. “You dared hurt Mirabelle? That was mercy. Kneel. Apologize. Maybe we’ll spare you.”

Smack!

Before he finished, I struck him across the face.

He stared, eyes wide, stunned silent.

“Elara, you—”

Smack!

I hit him again.

“You—”

Smack!

Three slaps total. Edmund’s face flamed crimson, blood trickling from his lip. He looked like a bull ready to charge.

“Feel better now?” I asked calmly, voice empty.

The room fell silent.

The crowd was stunned. Edmund, heir to the Dukedom of Ravenswood, had been slapped—three times—in public.

“Elara! Kneel and apologize to him now!” Leo bellowed.

I let out a cold laugh. “Him? A Duke? That’s a joke. You’ve all forgotten where you came from. Shall I remind you?”

My voice dripped contempt as I continued, “Father and Mother have one trueborn child. Me. The four of you? Orphans, taken in from the gutter after your wastrel father died in a brothel. You’re lucky to bear the Blackwood name.”

Their faces paled, hands trembling.

“Enough talk!” Julian growled. He handed Mirabelle to Theron, drew a dagger from his belt. “If you won’t kneel, I’ll take your hands. See how stubborn you are then.”

“No need for that,” Edmund said coldly. He grabbed the dagger and plunged it toward my chest.

The crowd gasped.

“Die!” he hissed, eyes red with rage.

Theron shielded Mirabelle’s eyes. “Don’t look, my love. It’s too ugly.”

But there was no spray of blood. Just a metallic clang.

Edmund stared, terror dawning, at the unyielding blade.

“W-what…?”

“Such a shame,” I said, smirking as I pulled my cloak aside, revealing the glint of golden scales beneath my gown. “A gift from the King. An enchanted breastplate. Quite impenetrable.”

The dagger clattered as he stumbled back.

Then a deep, thunderous voice cut through the tension:

“You wretched fools! How dare you raise a hand to my daughter!”

My father, the Iron Duke Alistair Blackwood, stood in the doorway, just returned from the border wars. The massive, blood-streaked greatsword on his back and the cold, battle-hardened look in his eyes made the boldest nobles shrink back.

“The Duke… his presence is terrifying.”