Anne forced a light laugh, setting her cup down with a faint clink. "My sister has always had a fondness for philosophy. She spends too much time with books, you see. Sometimes she forgets how the real world works."
Her tone was playful, and affectionate on the surface but Selene caught the undercurrent. The subtle dismissal. Anne was already trying to cut her down, to make her seem detached, and impractical.
Selene smiled as though she hadn't noticed. "Perhaps. But books teach one to see beyond the surface. And the surface, as we know, is often the easiest thing to disguise. You don't even know me."
The words slipped easily, and softly, yet with the weight enough to still Anne's tongue.
Damian's lips curved, slow and deliberate. "True."
Anne's fingers curled against the armrest of her chair. The movement was small, but Selene's eyes, sharp now, and honed by memory caught it.
She let the silence stretch for just long enough before she softened her smile, turning the conversation away, appearing gracious. "But forgive me, Mr. Ashford. I speak too boldly. I forget that not everyone finds the hidden threads worth their time."
"I do," Damian said at once, the firmness in his tone startling even Anne into stillness.
Selene inclined her head, hiding the flicker of triumph in her chest.
Yes. This was different. This was hers.
The tea stretched into late afternoon. The air shifted with the sun's descent, casting golden light across the terrace. The servants poured fresh cups, and brought trays of sugared almonds, with slices of cake layered with cream.
Anne spoke, laughed, and flattered. She tugged at Damian's attention with every glance, every word, and every flick of her lashes.
His gaze returned to Selene, again and again, as though magnetized.
He asked about her studies, her thoughts on art, and her opinion of politics. Questions he would not have wasted on her in the last life, when she had been meek and pliable.
And Selene answered with measured grace, offering enough insight to intrigue him, but never enough to reveal the sharpness of her mind entirely. Every glance, and every word, was deliberate.
Anne knew it. Selene could feel the tension humming beneath her sister's skin. She could see the cracks forming in her smile.
By the time the last of the tea had cooled, Anne excused herself with feigned sweetness, claiming she had promised to walk with Lady Ashford's younger daughter.
It was a lie. Selene knew Anne despised idle chatter with anyone who couldn't serve her ambition. Anne just could not bear sitting there a moment longer, and watching her prey slip from her grasp.
"Don't be long," Selene murmured as Anne rose, her voice smooth as silk.
Anne's eyes met hers briefly, and in that flash, Selene saw the glimmer of hostility, and the spark of resentment. The mask had cracked.
Then Anne was gone, with her skirts swishing against the marble.
Selene turned her gaze back to Damian. He had not moved, neither had he shifted even slightly. His dark eyes lingered on her with unnerving intensity.
"You and your sister," he said slowly, "are not alike."
Selene's heart gave a single, hard beat. But she only tilted her head, lips curved in a serene smile. "She's not my sister. Even if she was, no siblings ever are."
He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms against the table. The sun caught the edge of his jaw, with the faintest sheen of light sliding along sharp bone. "She is… restless. You are calm. She seeks to charm. You…" His eyes narrowed faintly, as though trying to pierce through her mask. "You do not need to."
Selene's hand tightened faintly around her teacup. The words sank into her like molten glass, burning, and dangerous.
Fate was playing with her again. These words weren't in her memory. He never cared to pay attention to her on their first meeting.
She remembered the man he would become. The man who would strip her of dignity, and who would tear her down without mercy. Yet, here he was, younger, with his words grazing against her skin like the edge of a blade, testing her.
Careful. She needed to be careful.
"I think," she said softly, lowering her gaze just enough to appear demure, "that people often see what they wish to. Perhaps you mistake composure for calm."
His lips curved faintly. "Perhaps." he agreed, but his eyes told her he didn't believe it.
They rose from the terrace, walking slowly along the lake's edge. The air had cooled, carrying the faint scent of water lilies and damp earth.
Damian walked beside her in silence for a while. His presence was heavy, and commanding, even without words.
At last, he spoke. "Do you always speak in riddles, Miss Sinclair?"
Selene allowed herself the faintest laugh, soft and lilting. "Only when I fear the truth might be too sharp to handle."
He glanced at her sidelong. "And what truth do you think I cannot handle?"
Her steps slowed, and her gown whispered across the gravel. She looked at the water, and at the swans gliding across its glassy surface. Her voice was quiet, but steady.
"That all of us wear masks. Some are prettier than others. But all the same, masks."
Damian stilled.
Selene's pulse hammered in her chest. She hadn't said such words to him before. Not in her last life. Back then, she had been too eager to please, and too desperate to hold onto whatever scraps of kindness he offered.
This was new. This was dangerous.
And yet, when she turned her head, his expression was not anger.
It was interest. Real, sharp, cutting interest.
"You are not what I expected," he said finally.
Selene smiled faintly, her gaze returning to the water.
They walked on, and by the time they returned to the grand hall, the light had faded into twilight. The chandeliers burned bright, scattering golden fire across the marble floors.
Richard Sinclair and Lord Ashford emerged from the study. Their conversations were hushed, but both men were smiling, satisfied.
Richard's eyes fell on Selene first, his pride was obvious. "Ah, my daughter. Did you enjoy your walk?"
Selene inclined her head, smiling with practiced ease. "It was lovely, Father."
Richard looked at Damian, searching his face for approval.
And Damian—Damian Ashford, heir of one of the most powerful families in the empire—did something Selene never thought she would see.
He nodded. Once. Curt. But unmistakably approving.
Richard's chest swelled with pride, his hand clapping against his daughter's shoulder.
Selene lowered her gaze, hiding the storm behind her eyes.
This wasn't how it had been. This wasn't the future she remembered.