The Girl Who Knew Too Much - Seducing the Man Who Destroyed My Family

POV: Evangeline Ashford

Timeline: Day 1 – Morning

The stairs felt wrong under her feet.

Evangeline descended slowly, one hand trailing along the polished banister, reacquainting herself with a body that felt both intimately familiar and utterly alien. Eighteen-year-old muscles moved differently than twenty-three-year-old ones wasted by disease. Her center of gravity had shifted. Even her breathing felt strange—deep and easy, lungs clear of the rattle that had accompanied her final months.

She paused at the landing, where morning light streamed through the tall windows overlooking the east gardens. Her gardens. Or they had been, before the Crown seized everything.

The roses were in full bloom—her mother's prized Damascus varieties, deep crimson and blushing pink. In three months, they would be torn out by Crown soldiers searching for "hidden documents." In six months, weeds would choke the beds. In a year, the entire garden would be a wasteland.

Unless she stopped it.

"Miss Evangeline?"

She turned to find Helena climbing the stairs, a pressed day dress draped over her arm. The maid was younger than Evangeline remembered—barely twenty, her face still round with youth, not yet carved lean by hardship. She'd been so loyal. Even at the end, when there was no money for wages, Helena had stayed.

"I brought your morning dress," Helena continued, a small frown creasing her brow. "Are you quite well? You look pale."

"I'm fine." The words came automatically, but Evangeline softened them with a smile. "Just didn't sleep well."

"Bad dreams?"

You have no idea.

"Something like that." Evangeline accepted the dress, her fingers brushing Helena's hand. Solid. Warm. Real. "Helena, how long have you been with our household?"

The maid blinked at the unexpected question. "Nearly three years now, miss. Why do you ask?"

Three years. Which meant she'd been here for the incident with Lord Pemberton's stolen silver—the accusation that had nearly gotten her dismissed until Evangeline's father had investigated and discovered the real thief. Helena's loyalty had been earned that day.

Good. Evangeline would need people she could trust.

"No reason," she said lightly. "Just curious. I'll change and be down directly."

She returned to her room and let Helena help her into the dress—a simple morning gown of pale green muslin that would have seemed impossibly luxurious after years in threadbare wool. The maid's efficient fingers worked the buttons and laces while Evangeline's mind raced.

Six weeks until her father was summoned to court. She needed a plan, needed to understand exactly what had happened in her first timeline and how to prevent it. But more than that, she needed to understand the larger game.

Cassian Thornwell hadn't acted alone—she knew that now. The evidence against her father had been too perfectly constructed, too comprehensive. Someone had spent months, perhaps years, building a case. And in her quest for revenge against Cassian, she'd helped destroy him using the exact same methods.

Which meant the real architect was still out there.

Marquess Julian Everhart. It had to be. He was the only one who'd benefited from both destructions, who'd risen to become the King's chief advisor in the aftermath. She'd been so blind, so consumed by rage that she'd never questioned why he'd been so helpful, so eager to provide information about Cassian's vulnerabilities.

She'd been a weapon, and Everhart had wielded her perfectly.

"There," Helena said, stepping back to admire her work. "Beautiful as always, miss."

Evangeline studied her reflection. The girl staring back looked innocent, untouched by tragedy. No one would ever suspect what lived behind those eyes—the knowledge of death and betrayal, the cold calculation that had taken root where naive trust once lived.

Perfect.

"Thank you, Helena." She turned from the mirror. "I should go. Mother is waiting."

The breakfast room overlooked the west gardens, where morning light painted everything gold. Her mother sat at the table in a pool of that light, looking like something from a painting—delicate features, honey-brown hair arranged in soft curls, lavender morning dress that complemented her fair complexion.

Celeste Ashford looked up as Evangeline entered, and her smile was so bright, so alive, that Evangeline nearly stumbled.

"There you are, darling." Her mother set down her tea cup. "I was beginning to think you'd sleep until noon. You've been doing that more often lately."

Because in this timeline, Evangeline was still just a girl with nothing more pressing than dress fittings and social calls. The weight of foreknowledge sat heavy in her chest.

"I'm sorry, Mother." Evangeline took her usual seat, accepting a cup of tea from the servant. "I had the strangest dreams."

"Oh?" Her mother's expression shifted—a flicker of something that might have been concern, or recognition. "What sort of dreams?"

Evangeline hesitated. Her mother's prophetic dreams. She'd dismissed them in the first timeline as anxiety, never understanding that Celeste Ashford possessed a gift she'd inherited from her grandmother. A gift that had driven her mad when her visions came true and she couldn't prevent them.

"Nothing clear," Evangeline said carefully. "Just... feelings. Like something important was about to happen."

Her mother's teacup rattled slightly against the saucer. "I see."

The silence stretched between them, weighted with things unsaid. Evangeline studied her mother's face, noting the fine lines around her eyes that hadn't been there in her earliest memories, the slight tremor in her hands.

"Mother, have you been having dreams as well?"

Celeste looked away, out the window toward the gardens. "Your father says I worry too much. That I see shadows where there are none." Her voice was soft, almost distant. "Perhaps he's right."

"What do you dream about?"

"Evangeline—"

"Please."

Her mother sighed, setting down her cup entirely. "Dark water rising. A tower falling. Ravens circling the manor." She shook her head. "Foolishness. The mind plays tricks when one reads too many gothic novels."

But it wasn't foolishness. Evangeline remembered now—her mother had tried to warn them, in her own way. Had begged her father not to go to court, had insisted something terrible was coming. He'd dismissed it as nerves, as a delicate constitution, as anything but what it truly was.

Prophecy.

"I don't think it's foolish," Evangeline said quietly. "I think you should trust your instincts, Mother. Even when others don't understand."

Celeste's eyes snapped back to her daughter, suddenly sharp and focused. "You're different this morning."

Evangeline's pulse quickened. "What do you mean?"

"I'm not sure. Something in your eyes." Her mother leaned forward, studying her with unsettling intensity. "You look like someone who's seen something they shouldn't have."

The observation cut too close. Evangeline forced a laugh, reaching for a scone she didn't want. "I think you're letting your imagination run wild, Mother. I'm the same as I've always been."

"Are you?"

Before Evangeline could formulate a response, the breakfast room door opened and her brother bounded in with the unstoppable energy of a fourteen-year-old boy who'd yet to learn that dignity mattered.

"Morning, Mother! Morning, Evie!" Thomas planted a kiss on their mother's cheek before throwing himself into a chair and immediately reaching for the bacon. "What are we discussing so seriously? You both look like someone died."

Evangeline's breath caught. Thomas. Alive, healthy, his brown hair sticking up in the back where he'd forgotten to brush it properly, his eyes bright with intelligence and mischief. Thomas, who'd wasted away in a slum tenement, who'd died in her arms calling for their father.

"Evangeline?" His expression shifted to concern. "Are you crying?"

She touched her cheek and found it wet. "No, I—" She brushed the tears away quickly. "Something in my eye. I'm fine."

But Thomas was already out of his chair, coming around the table to peer at her face with the intensity he brought to everything. "You're definitely crying. Did someone say something mean? Do I need to challenge them to a duel? I've been practicing my footwork."

Despite everything, Evangeline laughed—a real laugh that felt strange in her throat after so long without joy. "No duels necessary, you menace. I'm just having an emotional morning."

"Ladies," Thomas pronounced gravely, "are mysterious creatures."

"And boys," their mother said with fond exasperation, "are incorrigible. Sit down and eat properly, Thomas. You're not a barbarian."

He grinned and returned to his seat, but Evangeline caught him shooting her concerned glances between bites of toast. Thomas had always been perceptive, even at fourteen. She'd have to be more careful.

Her father arrived as the clock chimed eight, still in his riding clothes and smelling of horses and morning air. Adrian Ashford was a tall man, broad-shouldered and strong despite the gray threading his dark hair. He'd always seemed invincible to Evangeline—right up until the moment they'd put the noose around his neck.

"Good morning, family." He kissed his wife's forehead, ruffled Thomas's hair, and squeezed Evangeline's shoulder as he passed. "Beautiful day. The north fields are coming in well. We should have an excellent harvest."

A harvest they'd never see. The Crown would seize it as "payment for damages" after the trial.

"That's wonderful news, dear," Celeste said, but her smile was strained.

Adrian noticed, his expression shifting to concern. "Celeste? What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Just tired."

"You've been tired a great deal lately." He took his seat but kept his attention on his wife. "Perhaps we should send for Dr. Kensington."

"I'm fine, truly." Celeste's hands twisted in her lap. "Just... Adrian, have you given any more thought to the King's invitation?"

Evangeline's attention sharpened. The invitation. She'd forgotten about the preliminary invitation—the one that had come before the official summons. In her first life, her father had been so honored by the King's attention, so eager to prove his loyalty.

"I have," her father said. "And I think it's an excellent opportunity. The King rarely invites minor nobility to consult on border matters. It's a sign of trust, Celeste."

"Or a trap," Evangeline heard herself say.

Every eye turned to her.

"I beg your pardon?" her father asked, bemused.

She'd spoken without thinking, but now she committed to it. "Forgive me, Father, but doesn't it strike you as odd? You've never been involved in border negotiations before. Why now? Why you specifically?"

Adrian frowned. "I've managed our northern holdings for twenty years. I know the terrain, the people, the political landscape. It's not so strange that the King would value that experience."

"But he has dozens of advisors who already specialize in border matters. Lords with more influence, more political power." Evangeline set down her teacup with deliberate care. "What makes you worth the King's attention now?"

"Evangeline," her mother said softly. "That's quite enough."

But her father was studying her with new interest. "No, let her speak. What are you suggesting, daughter?"

This was dangerous ground. If she pushed too hard, too fast, she'd seem irrational or paranoid. But she had to plant the seed of doubt, had to make him cautious.

"I'm suggesting that we live in dangerous times, Father. The court is a nest of vipers, everyone jockeying for position and power. An invitation that seems like honor could just as easily be someone positioning you as... as a convenient scapegoat, should they need one."

The silence that followed was profound.

Thomas stared at her like she'd grown a second head. Her mother's face had gone pale. And her father... her father was looking at her with an expression she couldn't quite read.

"That's quite a dark imagination you've developed," Adrian said finally. "Have you been reading your mother's gothic novels?"

It was said lightly, but there was something beneath the words—not dismissal exactly, but thoughtfulness.

"I'm just concerned," Evangeline said, backing off slightly. "You're a good man, Father. An honest man. Those qualities aren't always rewarded at court."

"Which is precisely why the King needs honest men," Adrian countered. "If all the good people refuse to engage with politics because it's dangerous, then we leave the field to the wolves." He reached across and patted her hand. "I appreciate your concern, truly. But you mustn't worry. I'm not some naive fool walking blindly into danger. I'll be careful."

But he wouldn't be. Evangeline knew that now. Her father's fatal flaw was his faith in justice, his belief that truth and honor would prevail. It was what she'd loved most about him, and what had killed him.

"Promise me," she said urgently. "Promise me you won't trust anyone at court implicitly. That you'll question everything, even—especially—things that seem advantageous."

Adrian's expression softened. "I promise. Though I'm curious what's brought on this sudden political awareness. Last month you were more concerned with your new riding habit than affairs of state."

Last month, she'd been a different person. A child, really, with a child's priorities.

"I've been thinking about the future," Evangeline said carefully. "About the kind of world we live in. It seemed prudent to pay more attention."

"Well, I approve of the thinking, even if the conclusions are a touch cynical." Her father returned to his breakfast. "Now, speaking of the future, I've had a letter from your aunt in the capital. She's invited you to stay with her for the season."

Evangeline's heart skipped. The season. The endless round of balls, dinners, and social engagements where the nobility of Valcrest gathered to see and be seen. In her first life, she'd gone reluctantly, finding the whole affair tedious and artificial.

But this time was different.

This time, Cassian Thornwell would be there.

"When?" she asked, keeping her voice level.

"Three weeks. Your aunt's letter suggests arriving before the Autumn Gala—apparently it's the social event of the year, and every eligible young lady should attend." He smiled. "Though I suspect she's more interested in showing off her accomplished niece than in your social education."

Three weeks. The timeline was tighter than she'd hoped, but it could work. The Autumn Gala was where society gathered before the more formal winter season began. It was where connections were made, where alliances were forged.

Where a determined young woman could position herself in the path of a duke.

"I'd like that," Evangeline said. "Very much."

Her mother's expression was troubled, but she said nothing. Thomas, meanwhile, pulled a face.

"Lucky you, getting to escape to the city while I'm stuck here with tutors and ledgers." He brightened. "Unless Father lets me come? I could be useful! I'm very good at dancing now. Only stepped on Miss Pemberton's toes twice at the last assembly."

"I'm sure that's exactly what Evangeline needs," Adrian said dryly. "Her fourteen-year-old brother stepping on eligible young men's toes at formal balls."

The conversation shifted to lighter topics—Thomas's studies, the upcoming harvest festival, her mother's plans for the winter gardens. Normal, everyday things that would have bored Evangeline senseless in her first life.

Now, she treasured every moment.

But beneath her smile, her mind was already racing ahead, planning, calculating. Three weeks to prepare. Three weeks to transform herself from a naive country girl into someone who could navigate the treacherous waters of court politics.

Three weeks before she came face to face with Cassian Thornwell.

The man who'd destroyed her family.

The man she would seduce, manipulate, and destroy in turn.

Or—and this thought whispered seductively in the back of her mind—the man who might be innocent of the crimes she'd attributed to him.

Either way, she would learn the truth.

Whatever it cost.

After breakfast, Evangeline retreated to her father's study. He was out riding the property with his steward, which gave her the opportunity she needed.

The study was exactly as she remembered—walls lined with books, a massive desk covered in papers and ledgers, the faint smell of tobacco and leather. Her father's sanctuary, where he'd spent hours managing the estate, corresponding with neighbors, handling the thousand small crises that came with running a northern holdings.

And where he'd kept his private journal.

Evangeline found it in the third drawer down, hidden beneath a stack of agricultural reports. The leather binding was new, not yet worn by years of handling. She opened it carefully, paging through entries until she found the current date.

Her father's handwriting was precise and measured, each letter carefully formed. He wrote about the harvest projections, about a dispute with a neighboring lord over water rights, about Thomas's progress in mathematics.

And then: Received an invitation today from the King himself. Celeste is troubled by it, though she won't say why. I confess, I'm flattered. To be consulted on border matters by His Majesty is an honor I never anticipated. Perhaps our family's fortunes are finally turning.

Evangeline's throat tightened. He'd been so pleased, so hopeful. He'd had no idea he was being led to slaughter.

She flipped forward, looking for the entries that came after—but of course they didn't exist yet. This timeline was unwritten, pristine with possibility.

She turned to a blank page and hesitated, pen hovering over paper.

Then, in careful script that mimicked her father's hand, she wrote: Note to self—investigate Marquess Julian Everhart's interest in northern holdings. Confirm all legal documents personally. Trust no one at court without verification.

It was risky. If her father noticed writing he didn't remember doing, he might think he was losing his mind. But it was also necessary. She needed to plant seeds, create patterns of suspicion that would keep him alert.

She was replacing the journal when she heard footsteps in the hall.

"—quite serious this morning," her mother's voice drifted through the door. "Did you notice?"

"She's growing up, that's all." Her father's deeper tone, patient and fond. "Girls become serious at that age. Start thinking about their futures."

"It's more than that, Adrian. She knew things. About court, about danger. Where would she learn such things?"

A pause. "Perhaps she's been paying more attention than we realized. She's always been bright."

"But this was different. She looked at Thomas like..." Her mother's voice broke slightly. "Like she was memorizing him. Like she thought she might never see him again."

Evangeline pressed herself against the side of the desk, barely breathing.

"Celeste, darling, you're reading too much into it. Evangeline is fine. We're all fine."

"Are we?" Her mother's question hung in the air. "I dream of dark water, Adrian. Of towers falling. Of our daughter standing alone in ashes. And when I woke this morning and looked at her, I saw—" She stopped abruptly.

"Saw what?"

"Nothing. I'm being foolish."

"Tell me."

Another pause, longer this time. "I saw a woman who'd already lived through the worst day of her life. Which is impossible, because she's barely lived at all." Her mother's voice dropped to a whisper. "Unless she hasn't."

The silence was absolute.

"That's..." Her father struggled for words. "That's not possible, Celeste. You know that isn't possible."

"I know what I saw."

"You saw our daughter at breakfast, having a serious conversation. Nothing more." But his voice held doubt now, uncertainty. "Though I admit, some of her warnings were... unsettlingly specific."

"What if she knows something we don't? What if she's trying to protect us?"

"Then we'll listen," her father said firmly. "We'll be cautious. But we won't assume supernatural explanations for natural phenomena. Agreed?"

A soft sigh. "Agreed. Though I still think—"

"I know what you think. And I love you for it. But let's not borrow trouble from the realm of fantasy when the real world provides enough of its own."

Their footsteps retreated down the hall.

Evangeline released her breath slowly, her heart hammering against her ribs.

Her mother knew.

Perhaps not the details, perhaps not the full truth. But Celeste Ashford's gift had recognized something in her daughter—some echo of tragedy, some shadow of what had been and what might be again.

It should have frightened her. Instead, Evangeline felt a strange sense of relief.

She wasn't entirely alone in this.

And perhaps, if she was careful, her mother's prophetic dreams could be an asset rather than a liability.

She slipped out of the study and headed for her room, mind already turning to the next problem: How did one go about seducing a duke?

Especially when that duke was the most dangerous man in the kingdom, and the seduction might be the only thing standing between her family and destruction.

She had three weeks to figure it out.

Three weeks to become someone capable of playing the deadliest game in the capital.

Three weeks to prepare for war disguised as a waltz.

The thought should have terrified her.

Instead, Evangeline smiled.

Let the game begin.The Girl Who Knew Too Much