Eira was only seven when she was "chosen."

Before that, she belonged to no one. Orphaned at four in a car crash she couldn’t remember—a blur of screaming tires, broken glass, and the taste of blood on her tongue. Every time she tried to recall her parents’ faces, her head throbbed like a cruel warning. All she remembered was the rain.

The orphanage was not cruel, but it was not kind either. It was survival. Days bled into nights under flickering tube lights, meals served on scratched trays, and too many children packed into one crumbling building. Some children screamed. Some just... stopped talking.

Eira learned not to speak unless spoken to. She folded her clothes just right, ate in silence, and never cried loudly. Crying invited attention. Attention brought punishment.

She was small for her age, but quiet and smart. She read everything she could get her hands on—old encyclopedias, faded fairy tale books with missing pages, even the warning posters stuck on the notice board. Books became her refuge, her little rebellion. In them, she could be anyone.

She was ten the first time she found the old library hidden at the back of the orphanage—abandoned, locked, forgotten. The lock was broken. She slipped in, heart pounding. Dust coated everything. Shelves leaned like tired bones, books stacked like secrets.

No one else went there. It became hers. Her kingdom. Her cathedral.

There, she whispered stories to herself. Imagined she was a princess in hiding. Or a knight in disguise. Anything but a forgotten girl with secondhand shoes.

One gray afternoon, everything changed.

The matron came storming into the dormitory. “Everyone! Line up. Now. Someone important’s coming. Rich. Powerful. And they’re adopting.”

The room exploded in panic. Children scrambled to fix their hair, smooth their clothes, hide their bruises. Eira sat on the corner of her bed, quietly pulling her frayed socks up to her knees.

The whispers started before the car even pulled in.

“A Range Rover,” someone gasped. “White.”

Mrs. Renoir walked in like she owned the world. Tall. Thin. Drenched in perfume so sharp it made Eira’s nose sting. She wore heels that clicked like warnings.

Behind her came Mr. Renoir. Dark suit. Sunglasses inside. Silence clung to him like a second skin.

They scanned the room like hunters.

Mrs. Renoir’s gaze stopped on Eira.

“She’s small.”

“But pretty,” Mr. Renoir replied. “Those eyes are rare.”

That was all it took.

She was adopted by the end of the week.

At first, she was enchanted.

The Renoir mansion looked like a dream—a place so big her footsteps echoed. Her room had a chandelier and a window seat. The sheets smelled of roses. Her closet overflowed.

They called her ‘Eira’ like a brand. Enrolled her in etiquette classes, piano lessons, posture training. Her laughter was corrected. Her opinions dismissed.

They praised her beauty but flinched at her touch.

No bedtime stories. No warm hugs. Just rules. Appointments. Expectations.

She wasn’t a daughter. She was a showpiece.

“Don’t slouch. Don’t speak unless asked. Smile sweeter.”

At fifteen, she overheard a conversation between Mr. Renoir and a business partner.

“She’s a long-term investment,” he said. “The right marriage, the right alliance—we’ll climb higher.”

Her stomach twisted.

They didn’t love her. They owned her.

Years passed. She stopped hoping. But then came Vincent.

Their first meeting was at a banquet. She wore lavender. He wore navy blue. He was tall, thirty-two, charming in the way powerful men are. When he kissed her hand, she shivered.

“You’re far too beautiful to look so sad,” he had whispered.

Eira smiled for the first time in weeks.

He was kind. Gentle. At least on the surface. He remembered her favorite flowers, gave her poetry books, asked about her dreams.

One evening, she nervously brought him to the abandoned library outskirts . The same kind of place she used to hide in.

“I like it here,” she told him. “It’s the only place that feels like mine.”

He didn’t laugh.

Instead, he touched her cheek. “Then it’s yours. No one else’s.”

And that night, under the quiet light of an old lamp, she thought: Maybe this is it. Maybe I can belong.

The engagement was announced two months later. The media called it a perfect match. Her parents beamed like they'd won a trophy. Eira smiled for cameras, nodded when spoken to, dressed like the ideal bride.

She began to believe the dream.

Until two days before the wedding.

It was supposed to be a surprise. A sweet gesture.

She arrived at his estate with a handwritten letter and a charm bracelet she had saved for months to buy. The maid let her in quietly. “He’s upstairs,” she whispered.

Eira climbed the stairs. Her heart light.

She heard voices before she reached the bedroom.

Laughter. A woman’s laugh. His.

She stopped.

The door was half open.

Vincent. Shirt unbuttoned. On the bed. Wrapped around a woman in red lace. His fingers tangled in her hair.

“I’ll sell her eventually,” he said, sipping wine. “She’s pretty. Obedient. The market’s always hungry for girls like her.”

Eira froze.

The letter slipped from her hand.

He looked up.

“Ah,” he said smoothly. “Didn’t expect you.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Her breath shattered.

“You said you’d take care of me.”

“I will,” he smiled. “Until I’m bored.”

She ran. Straight to her parents. Screaming. Crying.

“He’s using me! He wants to sell me!”

Her mother sighed. “Men say things.”

Her father sipped whiskey. “He’s still wealthy. The deal is signed.”

“You’re really—really going to let him ruin me?”

“Don’t embarrass us.”

The wedding happened. Her silence was bought with threats.

Married life was a prison.

She was never his wife. Just a servant. A toy.

He mocked her. Starved her. Told her she was lucky to be kept.

One night, sick and bleeding, she dragged herself to his room. She wanted help.

She opened the door.

He was with the mistress again. Laughing.

He saw her.

“Get out.”

When she didn’t, he threw her. Hard.

Later, when his business started failing, he said to the woman, “She’s still worth something. I’ll sell her. Maybe overseas.”

Eira slapped him.

He shattered a vase on her face.

Blood ran down her cheek.

He grabbed her hair. Slammed her to the floor.

“You are nothing,” he spat. “Trash in silk. Weak. Always have been.”

She whispered, sobbing, “Why are you doing this?”

“Because you don’t matter.”

He began choking her.

As the world went black, she thought, even a villainess in a cursed fairytale would be better than this.

At least villains get remembered.....

[ pls support this story...it will motivate me to write more]

Eira expected death.

The choking. The pain. The darkness closing in. Her last breath had carried the desperate wish to live in a fairytale—even as the villainess.

But when she opened her eyes, she didn't feel pain. She felt... warmth.

Softness.

Silk.

The ceiling above her was not the cracked plaster of her old prison. It was painted with gold leaf and silver constellations, stars that shimmered as if someone had captured the night sky just for her.

She gasped.

The bed beneath her was enormous, wrapped in layers of crimson velvet and embroidered sheets that smelled like fresh jasmine and aged perfume. The pillows were stuffed with something far softer than anything she’d ever touched.

Her head throbbed. Something was wrapped around it—a soft, white cloth, slightly damp.

She blinked slowly. Her hands gripped the fabric.

Her hands.

They were pale. Delicate. The nails painted in a deep maroon, shaped to perfection. Not hers.

She scrambled off the bed. Her legs trembled beneath her as she padded barefoot across the thick fur rug. A tall mirror stood at the far end of the room, framed in blackened gold roses.

She froze.

The girl staring back was not her.

Jet-black hair fell to her waist. Her skin, porcelain white. Her eyes were dark, almost haunting. Her lips—painted red, full, almost cruel in curve.

She took a shaky step back.

“What is this?” she whispered. “Who...?”

The door burst open. A maid ran in, followed by a tall man in a stiff black coat with sharp eyes and thin lips.

“Lady Anastasia!” the maid exclaimed, quickly bowing, fear flickering across her face.

The man adjusted his cuffs. “She’s awake. Finally.”

“Anastasia?” Eira repeated slowly. “I… I’m not—”

But her voice faltered. They weren’t listening.

“You hit your head during the engagement ceremony, My Lady,” the man continued. “You were descending the grand stairwell when you slipped. Your head injury was severe. You’ve been unconscious for three days.”

“I… what engagement?”

“With His Grace,” the man replied. “The Duke of Ravenspire. You were both signing the ceremonial pact when one of his men whispered something insolent in your ear. I believe.”

Eira blinked.

None of that sounded like her. But it did sound like the kind of drama written in old fantasy novels.

“Where… am I?” she asked.

“In the southern wing of House Veraxis,” the man said. “Your estate.”

Eira shook her head slowly. “This… this is a mistake. I’m not this woman. I’m not—”

“Your mind must be fragmented,” he said. “We will begin mild medicine in the evening. The sooner you return to normal, the better.”

“No,” she whispered. “I don’t want medicine.”

The man raised an eyebrow. “You always take it.”

“Well, I won’t now.”

With a sigh, he motioned the maid to remain and walked out.

The maid lingered awkwardly by the door.

“What’s your name?” Eira asked.

“E-Ellyn, My Lady.”

Eira hesitated. “Tell me… was I truly that bad before?”

Ellyn looked down, fingers twisting her apron.

“You were… strict. Unpredictable. People feared you. But you were also… lonely, I think.”

A pause.

“You were arguing with the Duke before you fell,” Ellyn added in a whisper. “I wasn’t there, but the guards said he came to warn you. Something about your purchase of the East District? He said it would harm the locals.”

“And… what did I say?”

“You told him that it wasn’t your job to care what peasants suffer through. You said… ‘I build. I invest. If that makes me cruel, so be it.’”

Eira’s stomach twisted.

That didn’t sound like her. But it sounded like someone—cold, focused, proud.

“Did he leave angry?”

“He stormed out. And you… you were furious. You threw your wineglass at the wall. The hall was silent.”

Eira felt dizzy.

It was like waking up in someone else's crimes.

“Thank you, Ellyn. You may go.”

The maid bowed and slipped out.

Eira stared at her reflection again.

Her lips twisted in confusion.

What kind of story was this?

Who had she become?

And why did everyone look at her like she was a monster?

She didn’t have answers.

Not yet.

But something told her: the real story hadn’t been written yet.

It would begin now.

With her.

The next morning was golden and too quiet. Sunlight poured through the tall windows of House Veraxis, dust motes dancing like forgotten spirits. Eira stood in front of the carved marble washstand, still half-certain this was some twisted dream.

She had woken with a headache and a name that didn’t belong to her—Lady Anastasia Veraxis. But the mansion was real. The people feared her. And she… she wasn’t dreaming. Not anymore.. she accepted it and was secretly loving it

Wrapped in an emerald silk robe that felt like water against her skin, Eira wandered through the halls, unsure where she was going. She passed portraits of grim-faced ancestors, tapestries woven with family crests, and heavy double doors that led to rooms she didn’t dare enter yet.

Her heart pulled her to the far side of the east wing, where she stumbled upon a private study. The wood-paneled walls smelled of ink, rose oil, and something ancient. On the desk sat a stack of parchment, a broken quill, and a leather-bound journal.

Curious, she picked it up.

Inside, the handwriting was sharp, neat, guarded.

>> Day 14 after the Winter Gala.

I saw Aris’s old notebooks today. Mother had them packed away in the attic like broken furniture. He deserved better. He always deserved better.

Eira’s brows furrowed. Aris?

He was two years older. Brilliant. Gentle. Too gentle for this house. Our parents never let him breathe. It was always numbers. Profits. Honor. Legacy.

They say he died of fever.

They lie.

He died of pressure. Of silence. Of being too good in a place that wanted him ruthless.

The people he fought for never stood for him when it mattered.

Now they expect me to carry his torch.

I hated the silence after him. I hated their eyes. I hated the expectations.

But more than that, I hated myself—for not being enough to save him.

So I became what they wanted.

Sharp. Strong. Loud.

If they wanted a Veraxis, I’d become the cruelest one of all.

Eira turned the page. There were more entries.

>>Day 22.

I visited the East District again. The orphanage is collapsing. They keep asking for help, for leniency. I told them I wasn’t a charity. But Aris would’ve helped them. He would’ve stayed.

I can’t be him. I can only be the one who survives.

Eira closed the journal slowly, her chest aching. “You weren’t evil,” she whispered. “You were ..i don’know what it is ...but ..you were soft somewhere.”

She stood, brushing a hand over the wood grain of the desk.

“If I’m living this life… I’ll live it our way. Lighter. Kinder. But still fierce.”

She chuckled softly. “And rich. Let’s not pretend I’m giving up the mansion...of course not.. lets see how to live this life !!”

With that, she tied her robe tighter and slipped out of the room, humming a tune from her world—a silly love song from some long-forgotten drama.

She wandered down the grand corridor, tracing her fingers along the marble pillars, barefoot, completely at ease in a palace meant for someone with thorns. Her feet padded silently, and her hum echoed softly.

Then she felt it.

A cold aura.

Presence.

Tall. Still. Watching.

She turned.

And froze.

A man stood at the far end of the corridor, half-shrouded in shadow. He was dressed in tailored black, his posture perfect, his expression unreadable.

Dark hair.

Eyes like winter storms.

Sharp cheekbones. Strong jaw.

Her heart skipped.

He looked exactly like—

No.

He was the Duke.??!!!

Her breath hitched.( ..heart beat ×2)

This was him. Her childhood book crush. The one she used to doodle hearts around in her diary. The man she always said she would choose if she were the villainess.

And now he was real.

Staring at her like she was a puzzle he wasn’t patient enough to solve.

“You’ve recovered,” he said, voice low and smooth.

“I suppose so,” she said, trying to stay calm. “Did you need something, Your Grace?”

He stepped closer, eyes narrowing slightly.

“You are barefoot ??!!” he noted. “That’s… unusual.”

She blinked, then glanced down. “Oh. Yes. I… like to feel the cold floor sometimes. Clears the mind.”

He stared. “You hate the cold.”

[she slammed her face in mind...]

His eyes swept over her—robe, hair, bare feet, the trace of warmth in her voice.

“You’re not wearing perfume either. And your hair isn't pinned. It’s strange.”

“Are you here to discuss my hygiene habits, or ...?” she asked with a faint smirk.

His jaw tightened. “I came to finalize the dissolution of the East Estate transfer. I trust you’ve regained enough sense to cancel that decision?”

Eira blinked. “Why is that estate so important to you?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Because that land houses the Ravenspire Orphanage. Hundreds of children. You’d have bulldozed it for another luxury hall.”

Her chest tightened. “Orphanage?”

“Yes. Orphans. Children without families. Not that you’d care.”

She forced a breath. “I’ll look into it.”

“You said that before,” he replied coldly. “Then raised the price on them by thirty percent.”

She met his gaze. “Maybe I mean it this time.”

He said nothing, just stared.

Then turned away.

“I’ll be back in two days,” he said over his shoulder. “Decide by then.”

She watched him go, heart pounding.

Then turned back toward the study.

“I’ll fix it,” she whispered.

“Even if my own story had killed me… even if hers ends in blood—let me rewrite it. Let me save her. And maybe… just maybe… I’ll save myself too. This time, I’ll live. I’ll live the life we both deserved.”