The room was grand—no doubt about that. Tall windows draped in embroidered curtains let in soft light, and the bed was large enough to fit three of her. Everything gleamed like angels had scrubbed it: polished floors, carved furniture, silk-lined walls.
Mae looked around slowly but without awe. It wasn't like she hadn't seen luxury in her previous life. She knew people lived like this, drapped in gold. It was still better then how she lived before, Not just better it was everything she could never have had, And yet, she couldn't focus on how pretty it was, not when her mind was still tangled in the words Lawrence had spoken to her.
She lay on the bed, the softness catching her off guard. A breath she hadn't realized she was holding escaped her lips. The mattress felt like clouds compared to the straw-stuffed cot she'd been curled up on the past few nights. Her eyes drifted up to the canopy—curtains cascading like a waterfall of silk—and for a brief moment, She got a feeling like she had started living the life pf that Another girl. One who looked just like her before she has even taken up the deal.
She didn't understand how that was even possible. The resemblance to Marianne as they said, What were the odds that a girl who looked just like her existed in this world—and in a noble household, no less?
Mae's brow furrowed. She wanted to see Marianne with her own eyes.
And the offer Lawrence had made… Was it really that bad? Not that he'd given her much choice. But the truth was, she had nowhere else to go. No safety. No guarantee of a future. How long would the jewelry last her in a strange kingdom where even basic safety came at a price? She could be kidnapped again. Or worse.
The thought made her stomach knot.
A job. That's what this was. And if she played it right, she could walk away rich enough to buy a peaceful life—maybe even a quiet little house with a garden. Something her previous life had never given her. Maybe, just maybe, this was how fate made up for all that she'd lost.
She rolled over, staring at the ceiling, still pondering—but the thought of seeing Marianne refused to leave her head.
Just then, a knock came at the door. She sat up, expecting Lora, but it was a different maid. That made Mae's lips twitch downward in mild disappointment.
"My lady," the maid said softly. "Would you like to dine in the hall or have dinner brought here?"
Mae hesitated, then asked, "Am I eating alone?"
"Yes, my lady."
"…Fine. I'll come."
She followed the maid down a quiet corridor, still lost in her thoughts. When they entered the dining hall, Mae stopped in her tracks.
The table stretched absurdly long, as if they were expecting an entire town to join. Dishes of every kind decorated the center—steamed vegetables, roasted meats, glazed pastries, soft cheeses, fruits Mae hadn't even seen before.
She raised a brow, deadpan. "Are we feeding a kingdom?" she muttered, earning a nervous smile from the maid.
Grumbling to herself, Mae chose a seat—at random, not caring where—and stared at the feast. It was ridiculous. Wasteful. Rich people and their need to show off, she thought bitterly.
Her mind flashed back to the meal she'd eaten at the inn. Borderline rotten, that is what the common folk ate, others even worse , so now the sheer amount of food before her offended her slightly. But again she was hungry– She picked up a slice of bread and a modest portion of stir-fried chicken with vegetables, intentionally ignoring the rest.
As she ate, the guilt weighed on her more than the food.
But she kept chewing. The bread was soft and warm, freshly baked. The chicken tender, perfectly cooked.. It was good—too good. And maybe that made it worse.
She sighed.
When the maid approached again, offering tea or dessert, Mae shook her head. "No. I'm done. And next time," she added, looking her directly in the eyes, "please don't bring out this much food. It's… frustrating."
The maid bowed slightly. "Yes, my lady."
They returned to the room, and before the maid could leave, Mae turned to her.
"Please tell the duke… I'm willing to act as Marianne," she said. "But only under two conditions: First, I want to see her for myself. And second, everything he promised—needs to be in writing. I want a contract. Signed."
The maid nodded quickly. "I'll inform His Grace."
Mae entered the room alone, this time with a heavier step.
Helen sat in the dim stillness of Marianne's chamber, her hands resting tightly over the curve of her daughter's pale fingers. The sun had long risen, yet she hadn't left the room. Most nights, she only went to her quarters to sleep for a few hours—if at all—and returned before dawn. Fear was her constant companion. The fear that her daughter might slip away in the quiet of night, never to open her eyes again.
The rhythmic rise and fall of the her body the only sign of life. Marianne lay motionless, unmoving beneath the fine silk sheets, her face too still, her skin too cold. Helen watched her like a hawk, counting each breath with weary eyes.
A soft knock broke the silence.
The door creaked open and Melissa, one of the senior maids, entered hesitantly. She looked unsure of how to speak, wringing her hands as she crossed the threshold.
Helen lifted her head. Her voice was hoarse. "What is it?"
Melissa stepped forward. "The Duke… he's asked that we prepare the Princess," she said, her tone careful. "He wants the room cleaned and her—bathed, changed. Someone's coming to see her."
Helen froze. Her hand instinctively gripped the edge of Marianne's bed. "Is the Crown Prince here?"
"I—I'm not sure, my lady," Melissa stammered. "I'm just following orders. He didn't say who the guest was. Only that the Princess must be dressed and presentable."
Helen stood up abruptly, her pulse racing. "No… no, this can't be. Not now."
She brushed past Melissa without another word, nearly breaking into a run as she made her way to Lawrence's office. Her shoes echoed sharply against the polished floors, her breath shallow with panic. If the Crown Prince had come to see Marianne and found out about her condition...
But when she arrived, the guards outside Lawrence's study stopped her with firm but respectful gestures. "The Duke is in a meeting, my lady," one of them said. "You'll have to wait."
"With who?" Helen asked sharply. "Who is inside?"
They remained stone-faced, silent.
Frustrated, Helen stepped back. She looked around—servants passed with lowered gazes, and a few dared to stop near her. Their expressions were a strange mixture of sympathy and unease.
One footman approached quietly. "My lady… I'm sorry. We… we all heard what's happened to the Princess."
Helen's throat tightened. She didn't need to ask how the word had spread—whispers moved faster than arrows in a palace. What had been a tightly held secret was now unraveling.
"If the Crown Prince finds out," one housemaid muttered nearby, "there'll be no way to explain it."
Helen swallowed the lump in her throat and turned back toward Marianne's wing. There was nothing else she could do now but wait—for Lawrence, for answers, for something that felt like control.