Threads Of Fate (Being Revamped)

Fated Night

The grand ballroom of Duke Alistair's palace was a spectacle of opulence, adorned with shimmering chandeliers that cast a warm glow over the elegantly dressed guests. Laughter and music filled the air, a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing within Anya's heart. The walls were draped in rich fabrics, and tables overflowed with sumptuous delicacies, but for Anya, the lavishness felt suffocating.

Anya grabbed a tall glass of champagne and quickly downed it. The liquid burned as it slid down her throat, a sensation she despised about alcohol, right after its ability to make people act foolishly. A few passing older women cast her sympathetic glances and gently patted her back as they walked by.

Duke Alistair, with his gaudy attire and a smile that never reached his eyes, raised his glass to the crowd, commanding their attention. "Ladies and gentlemen!" he boomed, his voice echoing through the hall. "Tomorrow, I will take this beautiful woman, Anya, as my bride! Together, we shall fill this ballroom with the laughter of our children, heirs to the great Cavendish legacy."

A wave of forced applause followed, but Anya felt her stomach churn at the thought. The guests cheered, oblivious to the dread that gripped her heart. She forced a smile, her mind racing with thoughts of escape, but the Duke's challenging glare held her rooted in place.

 " Come on, Anya. You can do this," she whispered to herself as she mingled with her friends from the same social circle, ignoring their judgmental taunts and drowning more alcohol than she ever had in her life. As her cheek flushed, she excused herself and sat in a comfy chair in a dark corner, trying to hide herself from everyone's sight. But that proved futile.  From the edge of the parquet floor, Duke Alistair crooked a finger, beckoning Anya forward. She hesitated, her heart fluttering in her chest, but the force of his expectant gaze pulled her inescapably toward the knot of older gentlemen gathered by the fire.

As Anya joined them, a tide of boisterous laughter and hoarse cheers swept over her. The men, faces flushed red and eyes gleaming from drink, greeted her with loud toasts and clumsy salutes of their glasses. She felt the heat creep up her neck and forced a thin smile as Alistair guided her to stand at his side.

"Well, isn't this the belle the Duke has been hiding from us?" barked one, his words slurring into his cup.

"She's a vision, Alistair! Especially so, flush with alcohol. Where did you find such fresh beauty?" another exclaimed, drawing a round of snickers.

Anya's hands twisted in her skirt. She felt exposed, every glance slicing through the thin fabric of her composure.

Among them, Lord Bolton—a man with tired blue eyes and a heavy, thoughtful brow—seemed to notice her discomfort. He set down his drink and lifted a hand, his voice calm but firm. "Enough, gentlemen. Let's show the young lady a bit of decency."

The laughter quieted, a few eyes darting away uneasily. Bolton then turned his deliberate gaze to Alistair. "Tell us, Alistair—why the need to marry... a child?"

Silence prickled at the edges of the conversation. Anya's throat tightened, but Alistair only gave a dismissive huff, rolling his broad shoulders as if dislodging a bothersome fly.

"She is not a child," he declared, voice carrying a steely assurance. "Anya is twenty. Perfectly marriageable age by any measure, isn't it?"

Lord Bolton shifted, unease knotting his features. He looked away, lips pressed in a thin line, his question hanging unanswered in the hazy air as the others quickly returned to their drinks and idle chatter.

Anya stood still beside the duke, the raucous noise swirling around them, wishing desperately for the safety of shadow or solitude. Only Lord Bolton's sympathetic glance—quiet and regretful—acknowledged what her composure struggled to hide.