Chapter 31
Sunlight filtered through the thin linen curtains, casting trembling shadows across the pale walls of the room. Vidalia slowly opened her eyes, still wrapped in the familiar warmth of her quilt. The manor's morning silence felt almost gentle—almost peaceful.
Three years.
It had been three years since she had returned to Sullivan Manor, after her brief yet unforgettable stay with the Reinharts.
She still remembered clearly the day she had timidly but resolutely asked her uncle to give her the old Sullivan mines. She didn't know why the idea had come to her so naturally—perhaps a premonition. But instead of laughing it off, Count Reinhart had agreed without asking a single question. A few days later, she had left with the documents in hand and her heart swollen with a strange, quiet satisfaction.
That night, she had cried silently in her aunt's gentle embrace. She had felt… at home. For the first time.
And yet, she had had to return.
The moment she crossed the threshold of Sullivan Manor, the atmosphere had closed around her throat. Everything felt colder. More strained. And above all, Angela—her sister and mistress—was on edge. Haughty, tense, easily irritated. Vidalia had understood quickly. The whispers. The looks. Servants falling silent the moment she entered a room…
The rumors had done their work, and their primary target was none other than Angela.
And Vidalia… smiled in the shadows.
She was not proud of how she felt. But she could not deny it: watching her sister gradually lose her composure filled her with a quiet relief. She did nothing to fuel the rumors—but she did nothing to extinguish them either.
People whispered that the Reinhart family had found their lost niece.
That they had even bought the abandoned stone mines for her.
But no one knew who she was.
Some claimed the niece must be spoiled and demanding for the Reinharts to spend so lavishly. Others said servants described her as gentle and beautiful—almost unreal. Yet the same question always returned: why buy an empty mine for a child?
No one spoke of Vidalia.
And that suited her perfectly.
Time flowed on, like a calm river concealing dangerous undercurrents beneath its surface.
Edgar and Angela continued to be seen together—at least in public. Camélia, for her part, withdrew into an elegant silence. The rumors narrowed their focus onto this awkward trio: the arrogant girl, the wounded fiancée, and the prince with the fickle heart.
As for Orion… he rarely came to the manor. When he did, he avoided his parents and barely spoke to Angela. But Vidalia had noticed that he did not avoid her. On the contrary. At first discreet, scarcely polite… then more present, gentler. Sidelong glances. Trivial questions asked for no reason at all. One day, he had brought her a small cake, saying he had too many. She had smiled—but said nothing.
And little by little, he stopped pretending indifference.
She, meanwhile, continued to walk behind her sister like an obedient shadow. But whenever she could, she slipped away to Camélia's side. The two young women had become inseparable, accomplices in both sorrow and hope. Camélia made her laugh; Vidalia made her talk. They understood one another without judgment.
And then there was Arzhel.
Her friend.
A burst of fire in this life that felt too narrow and too lonely. Every break, she returned to the Reinharts' estate and rediscovered that simple, wholehearted warmth. Arzhel made her run, teased her gently, brought her cakes—or stole hers. He listened to her.
And Vidalia… she began to see him differently.
Not as a brother. Not quite.
He had known her when she was nothing more than a silent little thing wandering the corridors. He had been her friend, her accomplice, her refuge. And now…
Now it was different.
When he looked at her, she felt warm.
When he laughed, her stomach twisted.
When he stood too close, she felt her cheeks burn.
She told no one.
But she could no longer deny it.
Arzhel was no longer "just Arzhel."
And that terrified her.
Today, she was fourteen.
Her body had changed without her truly noticing. She had remained slender, but her curves had emerged—soft, delicate. Enough to be looked at differently. Enough that even Angela frowned when a valet stared a little too long.
She was no longer a child.
And yet, everything was almost the same.
Almost.
Edgar had not set foot in the manor since that infamous first visit—likely to silence the rumors. Officially, he remained close to Angela. Unofficially… Vidalia had noticed those looks. The ones he cast in her direction, thinking she would not see them.
Perhaps she was mistaken.
Perhaps not.
She sighed softly, pushing back the covers. The wooden floor was warm beneath her feet. She slipped into her servant's dress—now a little too tight. The fabric clung to her waist, her newly rounded hips, without ever seeming improper. She pressed her lips together, thoughtful. It would need letting out soon.
She adjusted her veil with practiced ease, cloaking her face in the mystery she wore like a second skin. Then she opened her bedroom door and stepped into the corridor, silent as ever.
Angela's room awaited.
Another day was beginning.
A detour through the kitchens had become her favorite ritual.
There, amid the scents of melted butter and ripe fruit, she reclaimed each morning the quiet joy of her well-oiled routine.
"This is for Miss Angela," the cook said, setting a generously laden tray onto the cart. Perfectly golden croissants, sugar-dusted brioche, berry jellies, peeled clementines, sun-swollen grapes… even a small glass of rose cream.
Vidalia surveyed the sugary mountain with a knowing smile.
Angela, of course, would never finish it all.
She placed her hands on the cart and gave it a gentle push, sending it rolling down the corridor with the satisfaction of a servant on a mission.
Once again today, she would feast.
For the past year, Vidalia had become her sister's sole personal attendant. The two other maids assigned to Angela had been demoted to the laundry under the pretext of insubordination—a maneuver by the stepmother, no doubt. Perhaps she had hoped Vidalia would crumble under the workload, rebel, exhaust herself. Perhaps even Angela had been waiting for her to fail.
But the outcome had been… quite different.
She had adapted.
More than that—she had flourished.
Vidalia handled everything. From morning to night, she dressed Angela, styled her hair, chose her perfumes, arranged appointments, wrote letters from dictation, corrected missteps, cleaned jewelry, sorted fabrics, accompanied her to teas, balls, and visits from young nobles seeking alliances. She followed Angela like a shadow—ever present, ever silent, erased yet indispensable.
A nursemaid.
A secretary.
A maid.
A confidante.
"A babysitter," Vidalia thought wryly, rolling her eyes as an ironic smile tugged at her lips.
But it wasn't only fatigue and submission.
Surprisingly—and against all expectations—those long days had not withered her.
On the contrary.
Angela, with her precious manners, barely touched her meals, recoiling from anything too sweet, too rich, too "common." Vidalia, practical as ever, let nothing go to waste. And so she began to eat better. To sleep better. To slowly fill with life.
The waxen pallor of the silent child faded. Her gaze grew sharper. Her skin brighter. Her movements more assured.
And her body…
At fourteen, Vidalia no longer bore the frail silhouette of the past. Her shape had matured—gently but surely: a small but firm chest, rounded hips, a slender waist, and harmonious curves her too-tight clothes could no longer truly hide. The servant's dress now hugged her torso with unsettling fidelity, and the sleeves pulled at her arms whenever she bent forward.
She drew attention.
She knew it.
Not only from valets or passing young nobles, but also from older ladies who frowned in disapproval.
And most of all—from Angela.
Her sister sometimes studied her with a dark, almost jealous look, as though discovering an unsuspected threat. As though the silent little servant might one day eclipse the radiance of a future princess.
And perhaps that was true.
"But I'm still veiled," Vidalia thought with amusement. "They look without truly seeing. And that suits me just fine."
She stopped before Angela's door and paused. Drawing a deep breath, she placed both hands on the laden cart and turned to Naya—the tiny fairy hovering nearby, a mute spark of light at her side.
"Ready?" she whispered with a conspiratorial smile.
Naya answered with a delicate crystalline chime.
Then, with a smooth motion, Vidalia pushed the door open. The cart crossed the threshold with a soft creak of wheels, and the routine resumed.
But deep inside her, as she once again slipped into the role of the obedient servant, something stirred.
An odd sensation.
Like a premonition.
She was no longer the child she had been.
And soon—
She would no longer be who they believed her to be.