Chapter 3
The café had been packed since its opening three days ago.
Everyone seemed eager to catch a glimpse of my "fall from grace"—the disgraced noble girl reduced to serving coffee.
Whispers followed me, eyes lingered a little too long, but I paid them no mind. Behind the counter, dressed in simple cotton instead of silk, I found an odd sort of peace in grinding beans and tallying numbers, free from the weight of a title I no longer carried.
Then came a commotion from the street—a lavishly decorated carriage pulled up right outside.
A maid drew the curtain aside, and Charlotte stepped out, her face meticulously painted, her gown a swirl of embroidered roses. Gold hairpins and pearls gleamed in her elaborately styled hair.
Flanked by four stout maids, she swept into the café with an air of triumph. "Vivian, it's been too long," she chirped, her tone dripping with false sweetness.
Setting down the ledger, I met her gaze without expression. "What brings you here, Ms. Linwood?"
Her eyes scanned the crowded room, and a flicker of resentment crossed her features. She hadn't expected this—not after my father disowned me, not after the broken engagement.
From her sleeve, she produced a gilded invitation, holding it high so every onlooker could see. "Edward and I are to be wed in three days. I thought I'd deliver your invitation myself," she announced, voice ringing clear.
A hush fell over the café. Patrons leaned in, some even setting down their cups to watch.
My fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the counter, but my face remained calm. "Thank you for your kindness, Ms. Linwood."
"Oh!" Charlotte gasped suddenly, and with a theatrical flourish, she tore the invitation to pieces. Shreds of crimson paper fluttered to the floor like dying butterflies.
"How careless of me, I nearly forgot—you're the jilted one. Such bad luck shouldn't taint my wedding," she sighed, feigning regret.
Laughter erupted around us, sharp and mocking.
I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms, forcing back the surge of anger. "You're welcome to stay for coffee, Ms. Linwood. If you've come to make trouble, however, I must ask you to leave."
"Welcome?" Charlotte sneered, her pleasant mask slipping into something venomous. "Do you still think you're the prime minister's prized daughter, Vivian? He has cast you out. The whole kingdom knows you're discarded goods. Now you're nothing but a common shopkeeper—how dare you act so high and mighty?"
With a sharp gesture, she signaled her maids. "Teach her some manners. Remind her what commoners are meant to look like."
The four women lunged forward, grabbing me by the arms and shoving me down.
My forehead struck the stone doorstep with a sickening thud. Pain exploded, warm blood trickling into my eyes, blurring the scene.
"Let me go!" I struggled, but their grip was iron, pinning me helplessly against the cold stone.
Charlotte looked down, satisfaction gleaming in her eyes.
She nudged my shoulder with the tip of her polished shoe. "Strip her. Let everyone see what the prime minister's darling has become."
There was a ripping sound as my cotton dress tore at the collar, exposing the thin shift beneath.
Men in the crowd hooted; women whispered behind their hands. No one moved to help.
Despair washed over me, cold and familiar—memories from my previous life, of humiliation and helplessness, surged up, threatening to pull me under.
"Stop!" The bellow cut through the air like a thunderclap.
The maids pinning me down cried out in sudden pain, their grip vanishing.
Freed from their weight, I struggled to lift my head. A figure moved through the onlookers with ghost-like speed, swift and lethal.
Where he passed, Charlotte's maids fell to the floor, groaning before they could even raise a hand in defense.
Charlotte staggered backward, clutching a nearby table for balance. "You! Who are you? How dare you interfere with the affairs of the Grant family? Do you have a death wish?"
The man stood before me, silhouetted against the afternoon sun. His ragged clothes fluttered in the breeze, his frame gaunt yet straight.
When he slowly turned, my breath caught—it was the blind beggar, the one I had given my hairpin to!
His eyes held no focus, yet they fixed unerringly on Charlotte's direction.
Recognition dawned on Charlotte's face, and her initial fear melted into scorn. She raised an embroidered handkerchief to her mouth, her laughter shrill. "Well, well! A blind beggar! So this is what you've sunk to, Vivian? Couldn't marry Edward, so you've taken up with filth like this? How utterly shameless."
Another wave of laughter rose from the crowd. Their jeers stabbed at me like knives.
My hands shook with rage, words of protest rising to my lips. "Charlotte, don't you dare slander me!"
"Slander you?" She chuckled, sweeping her gaze over the crowd of onlookers. "With this beggar jumping to protect you like that, if you say there's nothing going on between you two, who'd buy it?"
But the beggar moved first. He was a blur. One moment, he stood still; the next, a sharp crack echoed through the café. His palm had connected with Charlotte's cheek in a brutal, ringing slap.