Elena
From wearing silk gowns to drabs rough linens. From banquet tables to discarded trays. From favored daughter to invisible maid,
Invisible. Until someone needed to sneer. Or wanted something scrubbed. I was starting to feel
Tlike Lila.
The borrowed servant dress chafed at my shoulders, rough and ill–fitted. I tugged it tighter anyway, a poor mimicry of control, My hands shook, pat slightly, as I passed another set of closed doors.
Laughter filtered faintly through the crack beneath one–women still in the running, still competing for my place.
Lila was probably among them, draped in borrowed gowns, smiling that coy little smile of hers while Damon drank it in like she was something with value. As if she hadn’t slithered into the role meant for me.
As if she hadn’t taken everything.
My fists clenched. I walked faster. My skin was crawling, hot under the collar despite the cool air that clung to the hallways this deep in the palace. I needed out of this corridor. Out of my own mind.
I turned a corner I hadn’t noticed before, drawn to a heavier wooden door tucked between two columns. It was slightly ajar.
Curiosity, or maybe spite, moved my feet.
The hinges creaked as I slipped through–and the air inside shifted. Cooler. Dustier. Still.
It was a gallery.
W
Not the grand hall filled with portraits and oil–gilded ancestors paraded for visiting nobility. No, this was something older. Private.
The scent of aged parchment and dried paint clung to the air. There were no tour guides or velvet ropes. Just a room full of painted ghosts watching from the walls.
My breath caught.
Paintings lined the walls in staggered rows, their edges catching candlelight like thin halos. Wolves in battle. Couples mid–dance. Court ceremonies, blood rites, crowning ceremonies rendered in fine, deliberate strokes.
And then–her.
I stopped cold. My heart stuttered, then roared. What the hell?
–
The painting stood taller than the others, slightly off–center, like whoever placed it couldn’t decide if it deserved reverence or hiding.
Her dress was a midnight blue, her hands clasped in front of her with a faint smile playing at her lips. And the most beautiful hair pin
“Natalie,” I read the name plate aloud.
I stepped closer on instinct, unable to stop myself. My breath rushed out of me and the resemblance struck like a
Same hair. Same curve of cheek. Same tilt of head.
slap.
さ
The same lips Damon stares at. The same eyes he watches too long when he thinks nobody notices. The same stubborn tilt to the chin he pretends not t
No. Not the same. Not Lila.
adore.
Chapter 87
Goddess, whispered. My knees nearly gave out
Everything clicked. Like the last puzzle piece slid into place and suddenly the picture was clear and protesque.
He hadn’t thosen Lila. He had chosen his dead mate Again.
A replacement. A replică. A walking, breathing shadow of the woman he’d already lost. That’s why she was favored. Vitry the hadit een after he forgave he; and circled her like a man possessed.
Because she wasn’t Lila to him. She was Natalie reborn.
I stumbled backward, palm catching the edge of a display pedestal. The cool marble steadied me for a moment, thought my thoughts spun at everything that was both obvious and impossible.
It was never about strength. Never about wit of strategy or bloodline.
He’s obsessed. Still obsessed.
Lila didn’t earn anything. She looked like the dead Luna.
That’s all it took. Anger flared hot and fast, surging through my chest like wildfire. The injustice of it. The cruelty. I gritted my teeth.
She stole my place using someone else’s face and my name. The betrayal bloomed so violently in my gut I thought I might vomit.
And Damon, the oh–so–mighty King, he didn’t even see it. Or maybe he did. Maybe he knew–and didn’t care. Maybe that made it easier.
I turned back to the painting, hands curling into fists at my sides. Her face smiled back–calm, composed, untouchable.
I wanted to tear it off the wall.
Instead, I whispered, “He doesn’t love you, Lila. He loves her.”
I pressed my palm against the cool wall next to her likeness, voice low, venomous now. “And I’m going to make sure he knows the difference.”
My hand left a smudge on the surface as I stepped back. My spine straightened. I had no crown. No lover. No child.
But I had the truth now. And I would use it.
Spinning on my heel, I stormed back to my borrowed quarters. I bolted the door shut and dragged a chair beneath the handle for good measure.
My hands shook as I lit the stub of a candle. It flared to life, casting the small servant room in flickering amber light.
The space was barely wider than a closet–just a narrow cot, à cracked basin, and a warped desk pressed under the window. But tonight, it felt like a war
room.
I knelt, reached under the loose floorboard beneath my cot, and pulled out my secret bundle: a roll of parchment, smudged charcoal, and a thin graphite stylus–contraband for a servant, and more valuable to me than any gold.
I sat down on the hard stool, hands trembling as I unrolled the blank sheet. The candlelight flickered wildly, casting sharp shadows across the page.
My jaw ached from how tightly I clenched it. My whole body buzzed like I’d swallowed lightning.
I could still see her face–Natalie’s face. Lila’s face. No. Not Lila.
I began to sketch.
The lines came fast at first–angled, angry strokes, more emotion than form. But as my hand steadied, the features took shape: the high cheekbones, the heart–shaped mouth, the sweep of dark lashes. The expression was serene, Regal. Infuriatingly familiar.
Chapter 87
Too familiar.
My fingers smudged the charcoal to shade beneath her chin. I added the glint of moonlight to her hair, a suggestion of sapphire fabric around her shoulders. The more I drew, the colder I became. The heat of my earlier fury hardened into something sharper Controlled Useful
When I finished the sketch, 1 sat back and stared at it. Natalie looked back at me, soft and beautiful, caught in stillness forever
Just like Damon wanted her.
I swallowed hard. The sharp edge of jealousy pressed against my ribs again, but I refused to let it take me under, to tears. Not ever again.
I reached for a second sheet of parchment. This one was for me.
The plan poured out in clipped, ruthless lines. No flowery language. No sentiment.
First, Send the sketch anonymously to the King. No accusations. Only suggestion. Let the resemblance speak. Then, let doubt grow. And wait for the fracture.
I sealed the plan with the sketch folded inside. A plain outer wrap. No flourish. Nothing to give me away.
Just a packet of quiet destruction.
I held it for a long moment, staring at the rolled edge, imagining it on Damon’s desk. Imagining his face when he unwrapped it. The widening of his eyes. The realization dawning like a second moonrise.
He wouldn’t act immediately. No, he would stew. Brood. Ruminate. But the idea would fester.
And once it starts to rot, Lila won’t stand a chance.
I smirked. The first real one in days.
“You’re not his mate,” I whispered to the darkness. “You’re just a reflection.”
The candle guttered suddenly, like the room itself had shivered. I didn’t care. I blew it out. Let the smoke curl up into the ceiling like a benediction.
Then I tucked the packet beneath my cloak, ready for delivery.
Let her enjoy her precious little fantasy for now. Because tomorrow, the mirror breaks.
AD
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