Storm Reawakened

The Wedding Night

Why is Winston with the Prince? It doesn't make any sense. Or does it? If I'm supposed to apply the plot points of this story that have somehow gone astray, then maybe I'm not totally off the mark.

I might be an imposter invading Evara's life, transmigrating into a body and life I have no right in claiming, but all her sharp and overpowering memories leave out Winston...it's like he doesn't exist.

Who is he? And how is he related to the organization or the Royals? And can I trust Eli Hawthorne with this discovery?

"You're awfully quiet," Hawthorne remarked in his intensely observant voice—as if attuned to my thoughts straying to him.

My head snaps up with eyes finally taking in our surroundings. We've returned to the garden; all the pink peonies in vases still remain and candles are skillfully arranged to light a path that leads deeper into the garden where a marbled gazebo fixed with columns and a balustrade in a hidden alcove with shrubbery and vines twisting against the cool white marble, gleams.

"Why are we here?" I blurted, stunned by everything that seems to scream 'romance.' Although dark, the scenery is somehow bright and dazzling, colours bursting in all their vividness.

My anxiousness must have been misread, because Duke Hawthorne smugly crosses his arms over his chest and leans in, the moonlight and the candles flickering his features into something haunting—in the best way possible.

Hawthorne raises a brow, his eyes swimming with amusement since I've recoiled as if afraid of developing an allergic reaction from all the romantic glamour. "Relax, I'm not going to taint your perfectly intact reputation."

We both know that Evara's barely salvageable reputation was and is probably still sinking. He wants to play like that? Fine. I did say I'd give him hell.

"Is that so?" I asked in venomous sweetness. "Good, because I wouldn't want to make you uncomfortable, Duke. Considering out of the two of us, I'm evidently the more skilled one."

"And just how skilled would you be, Duchess?" he asked lightly, unwavering.

Narrowing my eyes with a prim smile, I place a hand against my hip. "Enough to corrupt your perfect saintly veneer."

Hawthorne straightens nodding once, nonplussed. "Ah." The only thing I have to go by—that I've cracked that disinterested demeanour is a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Sighing, I loosen my combative pose. "No, seriously. Why are we here?"

"To simply wait. We can't go back to the ballroom and I'm not sure you want to deal with what's waiting for us back in our room."

"What? But the guests—" I began, completely ignoring the comment about our shared bedroom situation.

Hawthorne raises a hand, cutting me off. "Are all fleeing to their respective rooms or hailing their servants to fetch carriages and leave the manor."

Grunting in frustration, I huff and watch strands of hair fly. "Well, this has definitely been entertaining. I think my mother has given our families and society by extension, more reason to loathe me."

What a shit show. That was nothing short of a disaster of a reception! The only thing in all my professional career to come close to this madness is when a princess themed Sweet Sixteen ended up in a warlike food fight. I could still smell cake mingled with the overpowering scent of hotdogs in my hair days later.

"I just can't seem to catch a break, can I?" I mumbled, deflating like a sad balloon of all the hot air that was once inside of me.

"Memorable to be sure," Hawthorne offered—I'm assuming in what he considers words of comfort. I arch a brow, surprised by how well he's taking everything. I thought he would be pissed and accusatory, not sympathetic...I was betting on him being so angry that he'd want to kick me out the very next day, the glorious Hawthorne name torn by my—Evara's existence.