It was early morning when Charlotte woke up , she frowned as she looked around but didn't recognize the room she was in .
This was not ot the familiar warm linen of her home, she knew as comfort, but something colder—expensive, perfumed, untouched by warmth. For a moment, she thought this wasn't real and that this was another dream stitched together by exhaustion and panic , then she tried to sit up and her body obeyed slowly, as if it no longer trusted her. A sharp ache pulsed behind her eyes, and her throat burned with the memory of bitterness—of hands steadying a cup, of a voice too gentle to be kind.
'Drink', her sister had said ,her breath hitched.
"No," she whispered, the word fragile, barely real.
The room answered with silence.
It was vast—stone walls dressed in dark tapestries, a window tall enough to remind her how small she was now. Heavy drapes framed the morning light, and everything smelled of restraint: wood polish, old money, old blood and control .
This was not her room ,this was not her life .
Her gaze fell on the mirror across the chamber, and dread tightened her chest. She moved toward it on unsteady legs, each step a quiet rebellion against whatever fate had been decided without her consent.
The woman in the glass looked nothing like her usual self , but she was familiar painfully familiar .
Her hair had been braided in the style her sister favored, the one that spoke of elegance and grace . A delicate necklace rested against her collarbone—her sister's favorite. Even the pale blue gown clinging to her frame was not hers. She would never have chosen something so severe, so… final.
Her hands shook as she pressed them to the glass.
"They think I'm you," she murmured.
The truth crashed into her like ice water.
They had taken her name. Her future. Her body.
She remembered reaching for her sister, trusting, always trusting and drank the tea which took everything from her .
She felt her whole world collapse , this wasn't a dream her head throbbed, memories returning in broken shards as tears leaked from the corners of her eyes without permission, as though her body had understood the truth before her mind dared to.
The cup in her sister's hands.
The warmth of her smile.
She had trusted her.
The realization hurt worse than any betrayal she ever faced .
A sob tore free before she could stop it, small and broken, her shoulders curling inward as if she could fold herself small enough to disappear. She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, terrified someone might hear the sound of her coming undone.
"I didn't agree to this," she whispered into the silence. "I didn't…" her voice failed her .
Her knees gave out, and she slid down until she was sitting on the floor, back against the mirror, forehead pressed to the cold surface as tears finally came in earnest. They fell freely now—hot, relentless—soaking into fabric that had never been hers.
She thought of her sister then.
Not the traitor she had become, but the girl she used to grew up with, who used to swear they would never hurt each other. The grief of that loss carved deeper than anger ever could.
How could you give me away? she wanted to scream. How could you watch me be taken and call it love?
A knock at the door shattered her fragile cocoon.
"Lady Scarlet" a servant called softly the name struck her like a blade.
She wrapped her arms around herself, shaking.
"That's not me," she whispered, tears slipping down her chin. "That's not my name."
When she didn't reply the door was forced open without her consent and in came the maids ready to prepare her for the day .
She didn't resist as they stripped her , bathed and dressed her in the finest dress and jewels but not once did she dare stare at her reflection , too afraid to face the truth .
The maids didn't bother indulging in any conversation with her maybe because they could see how broken she wasto reply , thought in her mind .
The door opened, and the mansion breathed her in—expectant, uncaring. She was guided down long corridors, her sorrow swallowed by stone and candlelight, her grief made invisible beneath silk and etiquette.
Then she saw him.
The lord stood near the tall windows, his back straight, his presence heavy and final. He turned when she entered, eyes cold and distant, skimming over her as if she were already known.
Already claimed , he turned gracefully as his green and bored eye stared back at hers .
He was tall_darkly dressed his presence commanding even in stillness .
' Lady Alvarez ' he greeted in acknowledgement as he turned to stare at her
She felt something inside her break completely.
Not who are you?
Not are you afraid?
Her throat tightened until it hurt to breathe.
She wanted to tell him she was not meant to be here.
No one was coming to save her.
She would marry under another woman's name. She would sleep in another woman's place. She would be loved—or hated—for someone else's reflection.
And every night, alone in this cold manor, she would mourn the girl she had been—
The sister who trusted.
The daughter who dreamed.
The woman who was never supposed to be here.
And now—
A knock sounded at the door.
She flinched.
"Lady Evelyne," a man's voice called from the other side. Formal. Certain. "The Lord awaits you for breakfast."
Her heart stuttered painfully.
Lady Evelyne.
Her sister's name.
She opened her mouth to scream, to tell them they were wrong, that she was not the one promised, not the one prepared to be cold and graceful and unyielding.
But no sound came.
Because somewhere deep inside, she understood the cruelty of it: no one would listen. The contract had been signed. The vows arranged. The lord—this man she had never met—was expecting a wife carved from her sister's shadow.
And she was all that had arrived.
When the door opened, she caught her first glimpse of the manor's master across the hall—tall, darkly dressed, his presence commanding even in stillness. His eyes flicked toward her with brief acknowledgment, not curiosity, not warmth.
Expectation.
He did not look at her as a woman to be known.
He looked at her as something already owned.
Her chest burned.
He will never see me, she realized. Only her.
As servants guided her forward, she felt herself folding inward, grief pressing against her ribs until breathing hurt. She had been traded like an object, renamed like a mistake, dressed for a role she had never agreed to play.
And yet, as the lord's gaze lingered a moment too long—sharp, assessing, unreadable—she wondered with quiet terror whether surviving this lie would require her to become something colder than either of them.
Not his wife.
Not her sister.
But a woman erased—and reborn in silence.