The Scornful Lady Will Have Her Revenge

The Fractured Vow

The grand ballroom of Bellmont Estate glittered with the warm glow of a thousand candles.

Music swirled through the air, a gentle waltz that barely concealed the hum of whispers.

Lady Eleanor Bellmont, Duchess of Everleigh, stood at the edge of the room, her elegant silver gown shimmering like moonlight on water.

Her gloved fingers gripped a champagne flute as her gaze followed her husband, Duke Alaric Bellmont, weaving through the crowd. 

But he wasn't alone. 

Her sister, Celeste, trailed after him, her golden curls bouncing with every step.

Celeste laughed at something Alaric whispered, her hand brushing his arm with the familiarity of a lover, not a sister-in-law. 

Eleanor’s chest tightened as she observed them.

For weeks, rumors had plagued her, whispers of stolen glances and hushed encounters.

Tonight, the truth was written in the way they moved around each other—like planets caught in each other’s orbit. 

“Enjoying the evening, my dear?” Alaric’s voice startled her.

He stood before her, his sapphire eyes alight with feigned innocence. 

Eleanor forced a smile.

“It’s lovely, as always. You’ve outdone yourself.” 

“And yet, you look distracted.” He reached for her hand, his touch sending a chill down her spine.

“Shall we dance?” 

Before she could answer, Celeste appeared beside him, her cheeks flushed.

“Oh, Alaric, don’t forget you promised me the next dance.” 

Eleanor froze.

Her fingers tightened around her glass until it threatened to shatter.

“A promise to my sister, is it?” she said, her voice laced with an edge that Alaric pretended not to notice. 

“Oh, Ellie, don’t be jealous,” Celeste said with a laugh, looping her arm through Alaric’s.

“He’s only being polite.” 

“Of course.” Eleanor’s tone was cool, but inside, a storm brewed. 

As the two glided onto the dance floor, Eleanor’s mask began to crack.

She turned on her heel and fled the ballroom, the laughter and music fading into silence as she ascended the grand staircase to her chambers. 

The moment the door closed behind her, she tore off her gloves, flinging them onto the vanity.

The ornate mirror reflected her pale face, her dark eyes gleaming with unshed tears. 

A knock at the door broke her reverie. 

“Come in,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. 

Her maid, Clara, entered, her face lined with worry.

“Your Grace, is everything all right?” 

Eleanor hesitated, then nodded.

“Fetch me a bottle of the Bordeaux from the cellar.” 

Clara hesitated.

“Are you sure, my lady?” 

“Do as I say.” 

When Clara returned, Eleanor poured herself a glass, her mind spinning with thoughts.

The betrayal wasn’t just Alaric’s—it was Celeste’s too.

Her sister, her confidante, had stabbed her in the back. 

By the time the bottle was half-empty, Eleanor had formulated a plan. 

The next morning, Eleanor descended to breakfast with a renewed sense of purpose.

She greeted Alaric with a kiss on the cheek, her demeanor as warm as ever. 

“My darling,” she said sweetly, “I’ve been thinking. We haven’t hosted a hunt in ages. Wouldn’t it be delightful to have one this weekend? Celeste could join, of course.” 

Alaric blinked, surprised by her enthusiasm.

“A splendid idea. I’ll arrange it.” 

Eleanor smiled, but her heart was cold.

This hunt would be more than a social affair.

It would be the first step in reclaiming her dignity—and making them pay for their betrayal.