Threads Of Fate (Being Revamped)

Hidden Truths

Edward stormed down the corridor, each creak of the old floorboards needling his ears like a deliberate taunt. It was as if the house itself mocked him—mocked his failures, his fall from the pride of the Attenborough name to a man whispered about in taverns and parlours alike. Every uneven groan of wood under his boots sounded like another voice snickering behind his back.

The failed engagement still clung to him like a rancid perfume. Losing Mara—beautiful, sensuous Mara—had been a wound to his pride from which he had never truly recovered. The gossip never stopped. The knowing glances. And worse, he had compounded the humiliation with his own reckless ventures, dealings with manipulative lords whose smiles hid knives. Each misstep had carved another notch in his descent.

But through it all, Edward had done everything to keep the stain from touching Anya. She was not to bear the brunt of his bad fortunes. At first, it had been only a few servants dismissed to cut costs—easily explained away. Then more, until the corridors grew quieter and colder. Anya's own chambermaid had been the last to go. She had been surprised, of course, but he had softened it with gentle talk of independence—how it was good for her to learn to manage her affairs herself.

In truth, he had made certain she lived well, never lacking. Even if it meant he bore the weight alone.

And yet, none of it seemed to matter now.

At the far edge of the garden, his gaze settled on the two modest tombstones, smaller than all the rest so that he and Anya—when they were just children—could kneel and speak to their parents as if the stones themselves could listen. The neat engravings read:

Lord Zian Attenborough
Lady Reya Attenborough

His knees sank into the damp earth, soil and grass soft beneath him. For a moment, the world fell away, leaving only the names before him and the ache in his chest. This was the one place he came when the noise grew too loud—when the weight on his shoulders threatened to crush him.

But even here, peace was restless. Anya had been pulling away from him these past days, and he knew he deserved it. The truth was, he understood her distance. Yet what scraped raw at him was not her silence, but her transformation. The clothes. The defiant air in her posture. Rebellion stitched into fabric. The outfit was too close, far too close, to what Mara used to wear. His jaw clenched at the thought.

Mara. The very name was acid in his mouth. That woman had been his undoing. To see Anya warm to her—to smile at her with that rare, bright smile—cut deeper than he'd like to admit. And now she dressed like her. No... no, Anya was a good girl. His sister. His blood. There was no way he would let Mara sink her polished claws into her and twist her into something else.

"I will save you, Anya," he murmured, his voice low but fierce with promise.

Reaching out, he plucked a single long-stemmed bloom from a nearby bush—a simple, graceful flower—and placed it carefully between the two gravestones. The petals trembled slightly in the morning breeze, a fragile sentinel between the parents who had loved them and the vow their son now made.

 The quiet snap of twigs beneath her feet sent a jolt of anxiety through Edward, forcing him to spring to his feet. His gaze zeroed in on a pair of brown eyes that haunted his every nightmare. Her fiery red hair danced lightly in the evening breeze, each strand a stark contrast to her fair skin. Both of which he found entirely enticing. Yet he found his resolve, raising a firm hand between them.

"You stay away from me," he declared, his voice steady but with tension lacing his evry word. Mara ignored his warnings and approached with measured steps. Anger surged within him, clouding his judgment as he seized her wrist and pulled her away, the air thick with unspoken emotions.