Chapter 1

The news swept through the Blackwood Manor: the real Princess Consort was returning.

Knowing my time as a stand-in was over, I quietly made my exit.

To keep the Blackwood Manor running smoothly, I handed over all the daily affairs to the staff, making sure nothing would fall apart in my absence.

Strangely, everyone stayed silent, not a single word spoken.

The silence was suffocating, as if I were uttering a final farewell.

Just as I was about to step out of the main gate, Mr. Hawthorne, the butler, stepped in front of me, his expression tangled with emotion.

"Aren't you going to wait for His Highness to return?" he asked.

*****

Mr. Hawthorne's voice was gentle.

But it struck the silence like a stone thrown into still water, stirring a heavy, uneasy ripple through the room.

I looked up at him.

This old man had spent his whole life in the Blackwood Manor, and now his face was etched with deep lines, full of struggle and reluctant sorrow.

Wait for him to come back?

How absurd, I thought.

I replied, my tone flat, as if I were discussing someone else's business.

"Mr. Hawthorne, when His Highness returns, the one he wants to see is Jessamine Ashford, the future Princess Consort.

"Not me, the stand-in, the fake who's been living someone else's life for three years."

As my words settled, the air seemed to freeze, growing even more suffocating.

The maids and servants bowed their heads lower still.

Some barely managed to choke back their sobs.

I felt nothing, not even a flicker of emotion, just a barren, icy emptiness inside.

Three years ago, I was just an orphan, barely scraping by on the streets, when the Ashford family picked me out.

Jessamine, the real heiress of the Ashford Estate, was gravely ill.

And Prince Theron, the war hero, was on the brink of death from his wounds.

And just like that, a ridiculous marriage was arranged to bring good fortune.

Jessamine, born and raised in luxury, would never agree to marry into a household where she'd be little more than a living widow.

So, I, an orphan whose birth chart matched and whose face bore a faint resemblance to hers, became the perfect pawn.

Mrs. Ashford pinched my chin, her voice cold and dripping with disdain.

"Ginevra, just play your part as the stand-in Princess Consort. Once Jessamine gets better, you won't miss out on your reward," she said.

"When that day comes, you'll get a stack of dollars and your freedom," she added.

Freedom, I thought, what an irresistible word.

I nodded, and from that moment on, I became Jessamine's shadow, locked away in this gilded cage.

For three years, I acted as the Princess Consort, never once slacking off.

With Prince Theron unconscious, the Blackwood Manor was falling apart.

Everyone was scattered, the books were a mess, and the treasury was nearly drained.

I spent a whole year sorting out the chaos, hunting down every corrupt servant, and straightening out the accounts.

Then, over the next two years, I tightened the purse strings and found ways to bring in extra cash, slashing the Mansion's expenses by a solid thirty percent.

The staff went from sneering at me to fearing me, and now, they depend on me for everything.

But none of it could ever warm Prince Theron's heart.

When he finally woke up and saw me, there wasn't a trace of tenderness in his eyes, just cold scrutiny and indifference.

He knew I was just a stand-in, a tool meant to bring him luck.

So for three years, he never once truly looked at me.

Every month, on the first and fifteenth, he'd show up at my courtyard like clockwork.

There was never any real marriage between us.

He'd just sit in that armchair all night, silent and lifeless, then leave at dawn.

The words we spoke to each other wouldn't even fill the preface of a book.

Now, his beloved Jessamine, the real one, had finally returned.

And me, the stand-in? It was time for me to be cast aside.

"Your Highness..." Ivy, my maid, said softly.

She walked over with a plate of lavender honey scones, her eyes red like a rabbit's.

These were my favorite treats; her baking was the best in the capital.

I picked one up, taking my time with each bite.

It was so sweet that the taste lingered, turning into a sour ache deep inside me.

"Don't make them anymore, it's such a shame to waste," I said softly.

Ivy's tears finally broke free, rolling down her cheeks in big, glistening drops.

Martha, the cook, squeezed her way over with a jar and stuffed it into my bundle without a word.

"Your Highness, these are my homemade pickled gherkins. Take them with you for the journey; they'll help keep your appetite up," she said.

Her rough hands clung tightly to my arm, her palms feverishly warm against my skin.

The guards at the gate had somehow formed two silent lines, opening up a clear path for me to walk out of the Mansion.

Each one stood with a grim, solemn face, like soldiers about to head into battle.

I glanced at them, at all those familiar faces, so full of care and worry.

Three years.

I always thought I was just a passing guest, but in this cold, unfeeling mansion, I'd managed to leave behind a bit of warmth.

But all that warmth I left behind, what did it matter in the end?

The loyalty of everyone in this mansion still couldn't outweigh Prince Theron's offhand remark: "She's back."

I tore my gaze away, swallowed the storm of emotions inside, and picked up the bundle at my feet.

"Mr. Hawthorne, step aside," I said.

My voice was steady, but there was a finality in it that left no room for protest.