Chapter 1
Winterbourne Manor was hosting a grand welcome banquet for the true heiress, with every noble from the Royal Capital in attendance.
But the one standing in the center, receiving all the blessings, was the fake heiress, adorned in jewels and finery.
When someone asked why the host of the banquet hadn't appeared yet, Helena, Duchess of Winterbourne, smiled and explained, "My daughter has been rather unruly. She's still in the dungeon reflecting on her mistakes."
She ordered the butler to fetch her from the dungeon.
"Your Grace, Lady Elara is dead," the butler reported.
The whole family was furious, thinking she was pretending to be dead again to stir up trouble. That was until the Royal Emissary opened the dungeon door in front of everyone, and Elara's body was shown to all the nobles.
*****
Seven days ago.
I was shivering in the cold, dark dungeon. I couldn't remember how long I'd been locked up, but I'd already slept more than a dozen times. I figured it must have been about seven days.
Since I was thrown in here, no one had brought me any food. It was like they'd forgotten I even existed.
Every day, the only thing I had was the stale water in the bucket.
In the first few days, my stomach felt like a fist was squeezing it, my intestines twisting and cramping. I could even hear the hollow sound of my empty belly.
After a while, the pain slowly faded away.
My body started to feel cold.
I could even smell the aroma of bread.
The smell was drifting from somewhere far off.
It smelled fresh, like it had just been pulled from the oven.
I couldn't help but laugh.
Bread? In a dungeon?
I must really be dying.
Turns out, when you're about to die, you really do see your whole life flash before your eyes.
Curled up against the cold stone wall, my mind drifted back to that alley in The Slums, the one that reeked all year round.
It was a place of utter poverty.
Three children would fight until they were bruised and bleeding over a single moldy loaf of black bread.
In the winter, with no charcoal to keep warm, I'd wrap myself in whatever rags I could find. If I were lucky, the baker would toss out the bread he couldn't sell.
But when luck wasn't on my side, I'd go three days without a single bite.
At least in the slums, I knew that when I was hungry, I had to scrounge for food.
No one would whip me for picking up half a loaf of bread from the trash.
No one would ever point right at my face and say, "You're the duke's daughter now. How could you stoop so low?"
But they never cared if I had anything to eat.
A year ago, a carriage with the Winterbourne Crest pulled up right in front of me.
They told me I wasn't lowborn.
I was the duke's real daughter, missing for eighteen years.
I was so stunned, I could barely breathe.
That was Alistair, the Duke of Winterbourne.
One of the kingdom's most prestigious nobles, second only to the king.
His lands stretched across dozens of towns, with more manors and knights than you could ever count.
Most people would never even catch a glimpse of him in their whole lives, and even those nobles I used to look up to would have to bow their heads and pay their respects when he walked by.
And a man like that was actually my father.
I kept pinching myself in the carriage, trying to see if I was really awake.
It really hurt.
This was real.
I finally had a father.
I had a mother, too, and two older brothers.
I finally had a home.
On my first day at Winterbourne Manor, they set out a lavish dinner just for me.
There was golden roast goose, rich creamy soup, soft white bread, and a spread of gorgeous pastries and sweets I'd never even dreamed of.
Mother watched as I devoured everything, her smile growing more and more forced with each bite.
Father set down his fork.
"Elara, slow down," he said.
Adrian, my eldest brother, frowned. "This isn't the slums. No one's going to steal your food here."
My second brother, Cedric, burst out laughing.
"Father, are you sure she's really a Winterbourne?" he said, half-joking.
Suddenly, every pair of eyes in the room was on me.
I quickly set down the bread and swallowed the mouthful I hadn't even finished yet, nearly choking in my rush.
After that day, I never shared a meal with them again.
Father said I couldn't return to the dinner table until I'd learned true noble manners.