The Devil's Duchess-Chapter 55: The Greed that ruined his love

The dream came like it always did—uninvited, inevitable and drenched in the scent of smoke and blood.

Berith stood in the remnants of a war camp, mud and blood still on his boots. Ash clung to the jagged edges of his armor like a second skin, and the banners behind him—torn, singed, victorious—swayed with triumph.

The war was over. He had won or so they said.

Berith will soon be returning home to open arms, to warmth, to her.

Marcella.

The sun was setting behind Cardania as he arrived at Montclair Manor. The great wrought-iron gates creaked open, servants stalling as if unsure whether to welcome him or mourn for him. They just looked at him with pity.

Berith stepped into the manor. No music drifted from the high balconies. No lingering trace of jasmine perfumed the corridors where she used to walk.

She was gone.

Berith mounted his black steed again in that same armor and rode through the capital of Cardania like a phantom. He did not stop until he reached the outermost quarters of the royal court.

He saw her there, in the gardens behind the southern tower. Her face glowing with a smile that did not belong to his world anymore. Her head tilted back, laughter spilling like sunlight through leaves. Her hand rested lightly on the arm of the man beside her with intimacy.

Lucian. The Crown Prince. The heir to Cardania.

At first, Berith thought it as a cruel illusion. But then Marcella turned to Lucian, her fingers grazing his chest with a tenderness Berith remembered like a wound and kissed him like she had done it a hundred times before.

And worse..Lucian smiled, that golden prince. The kingdom’s beloved son. The brother-in-arms he had once trusted with his life.

Berith’s pulse roared in his ears. He stepped into the light.

Lucian noticed him first. The Crown Prince stood abruptly, a flicker of guilt or fear crossing his golden features. "Duke Berith.."

But Berith was already staring at her.

Marcella stood by the fountain draped in crimson, the kind of red worn at court to signal power. Her laughter still lingered in the air, now cruel in his ears. It shouldn’t have hurt. He had survived worse things than betrayal and yet.

Their eyes met. For a moment, Berith saw it, the slip in her mask.

Then, the soft sting of remorse is replaced by a cunning sly smile. "Duke Montclair," Marcella addressed him like a footnote, like a queen greeting a servant. "We weren’t expecting you until next week."

Berith’s throat clenched around the weight of words he hadn’t prepared to say. His voice was ragged, raw from disbelief. "...Why are you here?" he asked.

Marcella didn’t flinch, her hands were folded neatly before her, her spine straight, "This is where I belong," she replied, as if it had always been obvious.

Berith turned to Lucian, foolishly to hear something else. A denial. An explanation. A lie, even. "...You?" he rasped.

Lucian didn’t hesitate. He moved closer to her, slipping an arm around Marcella’s waist like it had always been his place. "Marcella is my wife," the Crown Prince declared. "The Crown Princess and the future Queen of Cardania."

A big betrayal hit him deeply. Berith had crossed battlefields for Cardania, razed cities in the name of crown and carved victory from ruin with blood on his hands and her name on his lips. But nothing had ever torn through him like this.

"I never divorced you," Berith retorted, voice trembling with restrained fury. "And you..how dare you speak of marriage when this is nothing but adultery?" He stepped forward.

Lucian moved like a shield, arm outstretched to block his path. "You were the one who ended the marriage, Duke Berith," he said coldly. "You signed the divorce papers before you left for the frontlines. Even though she wrote letters to you, you never responded."

Divorced? Berith was awestruck. He froze, blood running cold. "I never signed any divorce papers," he said, each word sharpened by disbelief. "and I never received a single letter. Instead, I was the one who used to write to her, but she never responded to my letters."

He turned to her.

Marcella.

No longer the girl who had once kissed his sword hand and promised to wait.

There was a triumphant smile plastered over her face, a queen who had checkmated the king before he even took the board. There was no guilt in her gaze.

"You forged it," Berith whispered, horror blooming like fire in his chest. "my signature, didn’t you?"

Marcella tilted her head, just slightly, like a wolf admiring its kill. "Why would I ever do that, Your Grace?" she asked softly, the edge of a smile ghosting her lips. "Forging a divorce? That would be treason."

"You were my wife. And while I was spilling blood for Cardania, you were warming his bed.."

"Lucian loved me!" she snapped, all pretense burning away.

Berith stared at her, to the light he had carried into every dark place. Marcella now stood, wrapped in crimson silk and betrayal, fingers curled around Lucian’s arm.

"You seduced him," He snarled, his voice cracking at the last words. "You betrayed me."

Marcella didn’t answer. Her gaze drifted back toward the rose bushes behind the tower—blood-red petals blooming without shame.

As if the war, the love, the man she had betrayed were nothing more than a passing storm on her way to the throne.

*****

Berith jolted upright with a ragged gasp. The chamber was cold, but his skin burned. Sheets clung to him, twisted and soaked through with sweat. Every breath scraped his lungs raw, her name still strangling the back of his throat.

The dream no, the memory still clung to him.

His hand shot to his chest. The Gate inside him thrummed violently, like a war drum lodged behind his ribs. It pulsed with memory, with rage.

The image of her, cloaked in red, laughing in Lucian’s arms—it hadn’t faded. It sat behind his eyes, like a wound that hadn’t scabbed.

Berith squeezed his eyes shut, but it was still there.

The heartbreak. The bone-deep, shattering betrayal.

The kind that didn’t just bruise. It rewrote you, turning love to poison.

Berith walked to the garden, the same garden where hours earlier, he had stood with Marcella beneath the ash tree and watched her reaction split open at the mention of his vision.

He stood barefoot in the grass, clad in nothing but his night robe, its deep black fabric clinging to his frame. The linen stuck to his spine, still damp from sweat that had not yet dried from the nightmare. His dark hair fell over his eyes, wild and disheveled, as he stared up at the night sky.

The moon was full. A perfect white coin in the heavens, indifferent to the rage it illuminated below.

Berith raised a hand and lit the end of a slender soltran smoke leaf roll—a long, gold-wrapped cigarette. The flame glowed against his face, catching the sharpness of his cheekbones, the cold gleam of thought in his storm-gray eyes.

He inhaled.

The taste was bitter, spiced with herbs and memory. He exhaled slowly, letting the smoke curl toward the stars.

His mind still burned.

Marcella had taken everything—his trust, his name, the love he had once worn like armor and now?

It all clawed at him like an old wound suddenly reopened. Now she was back with that same face, still calling herself his wife as though the blood she spilled had been nothing more than spilled wine.

His jaw clenched, his breath came in shallow bursts, as though even the air refused to soothe him.

This was rage. A quiet, blistering fury that curled in his chest, hot, old and unforgiving.

"Still my wife," Berith whispered to the dark. "But not for long." He took another drag from the smoke leaf, then dropped the glowing stub into the grass.

Marcella thought she was still playing the game alone. She didn’t know the board had already changed.

This time, Berith would not lose, and definitely not his heart.

The wind stirred again.

Marcella stood on her balcony, high above, in the tower overlooking the garden. She was drawn to the scent of smoke below.

Her violet gaze narrowed. She saw him..his tall frame dark against the moonlight, the cigarette between his fingers glowing as he lifted it to his lips. The robe hung open enough to expose the breadth of his back, a mess of old scars like stories never told.

Marcella frowned. Berith looked... unguarded. There was something about him tonight that terrified her more than the battlefield ever had.

He had nearly cornered her with that memory. The Flameball. The silver gown. The tear. The laughter. Her humiliation laid bare by his lips like he had been there.

Only Marcella had traveled back to time, only she had been given a second chance by the fate.

Berith couldn’t remember.

Yet..the way he had said it, the way he had looked at her, the way his eyes never asked a question, only waited for her answer like he already knew it.

Was it possible?

Her stomach twisted. A part of her wanted to confront him but another part told her to wait. Wait until she’s sure.