CHAPTER 1: The Price of Being Chosen

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.....

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