On the eve of my coronation, my mother erased me from the royal bloodline, declaring Rose—my lowly scullery maid—the true heir of Beaumont. My once-doting father met me with contempt: "How could I share blood with a slave's spawn?" At the palace gates, my childhood love, the king, turned me away—only to welcome Rose moments later, his voice dripping with affection: "Nothing stops you from being my queen now." To ensure Rose's unblemished debut, Mother ordered the guards to break my legs and discard me like trash. As I lay dying in the storm, fever ravaging my broken body, the face in the rain puddle stared back—undeniable proof of my mother's features. Then I awoke—reborn on the day of my disownment. I woke to the day it all went wrong. Caskets of jewels and silks, gifts from the palace, were being carried into the Beaumont estate like a river of treasure. Yet, as I stood there, a chill that had nothing to do with the morning air settled deep in my bones. I felt as if I’d been struck by lightning, unable to muster even a flicker of joy. The maids in the courtyard buzzed around the lavish gifts, their chatter a meaningless drone. My eyes, however, found her instantly. Rose. Huddled in a corner with a broom, she didn't join the others. She just swept silently, her gaze darting towards the treasure, a poison of envy and resentment clouding her eyes. A girl like Rose, a mere drudge, was someone even my personal handmaidens wouldn't deign to speak to. And yet, this insignificant, overlooked girl… My legs trembled, a ghost of that agony, sharp as shattered bone, shooting through me. Because I knew. This very evening, the mother who had cherished me would storm into my chambers with the elders of our house. Her face, usually a mask of serene grace, would be twisted with a venom I’d never seen. She would point a trembling finger at my face and scream: "Behold! The slave's whelp who has stolen my daughter's place for more than a decade!" "Honored elders! Today, I cleanse the name of House Beaumont!" In my memory, my mother wielded a thin, cruel cane, bringing it down on me again and again. The places it struck blossomed into ugly, purple bruises, a testament to her newfound cruelty. I had been raised like a delicate flower, sheltered from the slightest harm. Seeing this stranger who wore my mother's face, I choked back the pain. "Mother! What are you saying? I am to be crowned tomorrow! How can I not be your daughter?" She paused at my words, and for a fleeting second, relief washed over me. I thought I could reason with her, understand this madness. But her eyes were chips of ice. She turned to the elders, her voice ringing with cold conviction. "You all see it! This pretender still dreams of a crown. If she were to succeed, she would bring shame not only upon our house, but upon the entire kingdom!" "Today, as the Duchess of Beaumont, I declare that Catherine is no longer a daughter of this house! Her name will be struck from our family records!" I was trapped in a vortex of gazes—pity, shock, scorn, and a sickening flicker of triumph from the servants. But what broke me was my mother’s eyes. The love that had once warmed me was gone, replaced by a raw, undisguised hatred. She spat the word "slave" at me, her noble bearing, her years of practiced grace, all forgotten. It was as if I was her most reviled enemy. How? How could the woman who had treasured me for sixteen years, who had held me as the jewel of her life, suddenly despise me? A sob tore from my throat, and I fell at her feet, trying to clutch at her gown as I had done so many times as a child seeking comfort. "Mother, I am your daughter... I am..." She recoiled, kicking me squarely in the chest. "Silence! You are the daughter of a slave!" Her gaze, now filled with a tearful, tender light, found Rose cowering in the corner. "The true lady of this house... forced to serve this impostor for sixteen years!" "Rose," I whispered the name, the memory sharp as glass. The girl who was still just a cleaner, her face hidden behind a thick fringe of hair, stepped forward, trembling. "Yes, my lady? What do you require?" Though my courtyard was full of servants, I remembered her. She’d started in the kitchens, a small, clumsy girl, always bullied by the others. One day, she'd let a pot burn, nearly starting a fire, and the head cook had beaten her mercilessly. I’d taken pity on her—a girl my own age—and had her moved to the courtyard to do simple sweeping. I never imagined my act of kindness would be seen as an insult. That night, cradled in my mother’s arms, Rose had spoken in a pitiful whisper. "Me? Your daughter? A lady of the house? How can that be...? I'm just a cleaner here. Anyone can spit on me." My mother’s heart had broken for her. "You are not a cleaner! You are the jewel of this house! From this day on, we'll see who dares to harm you!" Watching the tender scene replay in my mind, I couldn't help but speak my past words aloud in a bitter murmur. "If you were unhappy with your duties, you could have said something..." In the memory, my mother's hand had cracked across my face. "Silence! How dare you, a slave's child, speak to Rose like that? Do you still think you are a lady?" My cheek had swelled instantly. One of the elders, a man who had watched me grow, spoke with hesitation. "My lady Duchess, how can you be so certain? That Catherine is not your child?" "Because I have proof!" my mother had declared, her voice ringing with triumph. "My true daughter was born with a small, crescent-shaped birthmark on her temple." She had swept aside Rose's hair, and there it was, for all to see. A small, faint blue mark. The room was empty now, save for me and Rose. "My lady, I'm not assigned to your personal chambers..." she began, her voice meek. I cut her off. Closing the distance between us, I ripped the heavy fringe of hair from her forehead. There it was. The birthmark I didn't have. Seeing her flinch and cower, I didn't mince words. "You already know what's going to happen today, don't you?" A flicker of confusion—or perhaps, practiced innocence—crossed her face. "My lady? I... I don't understand what you mean." I didn't miss the glint of something else beneath the fear. I leaned in, my voice a low, deliberate whisper. "Rose. Beaumont." Her eyes darted away, but not before I saw it: a flash of triumph mixed with her feigned confusion. A cold smile touched my lips. "A rat from the gutter," I murmured, my voice dripping with scorn. "You’ve certainly schemed hard to reach the palace floors, haven't you?" Her mask shattered. Her face darkened, the meekness vanishing like smoke. "Catherine," she sneered, "are you introducing yourself?" Just as I suspected. She knew everything. With her victory so close, she saw no more reason to pretend. She strode to the center of the room, to the magnificent gown displayed on a mannequin. The Queen's Gown. It had taken a hundred weavers half a year to create, a breathtaking masterpiece of silk and gold thread. Rose caressed the exquisite fabric, her eyes burning with an ambition she no longer bothered to hide. "The title of Lady Beaumont is mine. And the throne of the Queen will be mine, too." She turned to me, her face alight with petty victory. "This gown should be under royal guard until the coronation. Do you know why it's here, in your room?" She leaned closer, her voice a triumphant hiss. "It's because Arthur wanted me to see it first. A private viewing, for his true queen." She had admitted it. She and King Arthur were already lovers. He knew what was coming today. He was in on it all. And the me of my past life had been blissfully, stupidly, waiting to marry him. I had walked straight into their trap, a lamb to the slaughter, and never suspected a thing. In the years of his ascension, every prince had vied for the support of House Beaumont. But only Arthur, being closest to my age, had gotten near me. He was the one who would ride for hours just to pick the first spring blossoms for me. The one who would recklessly scale the walls of our estate, all for a single glimpse. "To others, you are Lady Catherine Beaumont," he would whisper, his breath warm against my ear. "But to me, you are just Catherine. It has nothing to do with titles or status. Even if you were a commoner, you would be the queen of my heart." A young man’s promises. So earnest. So easy to believe. So easy to break. The moment I lost my title and my name, the very gates of the palace were barred to me. The boy who was my last hope for salvation simply turned his back. Then, he emerged from the gates to welcome Rose. "Rose, my love," he’d said, his voice carrying on the wind. "Nothing can stop you from being my queen now." From her sedan chair, Rose had shot me a look of pure, mocking triumph. "Did you really think he scaled those walls for you? He was climbing for the quiet maid who tended your gardens. He brought you all those flowers because he knew you'd share them with the staff, and that I would get one, too." Her smile was a slash of red. "What good were your sixteen years as a duchess's daughter? The truth is, Catherine, you never even stood a chance." Listening to her taunts, seeing the guilt flicker in Arthur’s averted eyes, I finally understood the words his chamberlain had spoken to me just moments before, a gentle but firm refusal. "The late king decreed that the eldest daughter of House Beaumont would be the future queen. Even if His Majesty holds some affection for you, my lady, he cannot defy his father's final command." Arthur. His charming eyes, so full of practiced devotion, could make anyone feel like they were the center of his world. My gaze fell upon the wedding gown before me. With a swift, deliberate motion, I pulled a long, sharp pin from my hair. Rose gasped and scrambled back. "Are you mad?! If you dare to harm me..." The pin sliced through the priceless silk, a clean, vicious tear. I tossed it aside. "You're new to this world, Rose," I said, my voice dangerously calm as she stared in horror at the ruined gown. "You'll learn that the more beautiful something is, the more easily it can be destroyed." She rushed forward, cradling the torn fabric as if it were a dying bird. "Do you have any idea how precious this is? What am I supposed to wear tomorrow?!" I shoved her aside, snatching the gown back. "This is my gown. You needn't worry about it." Her eyes were daggers of pure hatred. "He doesn't love you!" she shrieked. "And after today, you'll be nothing but a slave's daughter! You dare to still dream of being queen?" I raised an eyebrow and pushed open the doors to the antechamber, where my handmaidens were already gathered, drawn by the commotion. "What are you waiting for?" I commanded, my voice ringing with authority. "This woman has lost her mind. Drag her out." My maids, loyal and unhesitating, seized a stunned Rose, clapping a hand over her mouth. "Fifty slaps to the face," I added coolly. "Then lock her in the stables. Let her cool her head." Rose, with a sudden burst of strength, bit down hard on a maid's hand and screamed, "We'll see how long your arrogance lasts!" Another maid immediately struck her across the face, and a rough cloth was stuffed into her mouth. I heard one of them mutter, "What was she thinking? A mere cleaner, insulting her lady." I looked down at the struggling, muffled form of Rose on the floor. "I’d be quiet if I were you. Don't tempt me to change my mind and have you dealt with right here, right now." My voice dropped to a glacial whisper. "You wonder how long I can be arrogant? For now, I am the mistress, and you are the servant. Have sixteen years as a slave taught you nothing?" Fear warred with rage in her eyes, but before she could react, she was dragged away. Watching the sun begin its descent, I clutched the ruined gown. "Prepare the carriage," I ordered. The Gilded Needle was the most renowned tailor in the capital. Its proprietor was a master artisan, sought after only by the highest echelons of nobility. But when I presented the gown and my request, he shook his head, his face etched with worry. "Lady Catherine, this gown is a masterpiece. You know the work that went into it. It is impossible to repair it in a single night." "If you can't, someone else can. I wish to see your master." "You jest, my lady. My master knows nothing of needlework. How could he possibly fix this?" "Oh, he can fix it," I said, my voice serene. "And if he can't, he can replace it." That night, in the pouring rain of my past life, someone had offered me a hand. But with my legs broken on my own mother's orders, my spirit had already died. This time, I would not allow myself to be trampled into the dust. The sky was bleeding into shades of twilight when the door finally opened. The man who entered surveyed the room, his eyes finally landing on me. "Do you have any idea what you are doing?" he asked, his voice a low baritone. My gaze fell to the intricate chessboard he kept in the room. "Even the most flawless strategy has a weakness," I replied, meeting his eyes. "And even if I must become a pawn in my own game, I will still win this wager against fate." Returning from The Gilded Needle, I was met not by a storm, but a hurricane. My parents stood there, their faces contorted with rage, protectively cradling a weeping Rose, her cheeks swollen and red. The accusations were harsher this time, the curses more vile. One of the elders, the same man from my memory, spoke up. "My lady Duchess, how can you be so certain? That Catherine is not your child?" My mother’s voice was laced with venom. "When Rose was born, the labor was difficult. I never saw her face. That was when some treacherous soul saw their chance to switch the infants." I seized on the flaw in her story. "If you never saw the newborn's face, Mother, how can you be so sure your true daughter has a birthmark on her temple?" I expected hesitation, a moment of doubt. Instead, she strode forward and slapped me, hard, all remnants of our shared history incinerated in her fury. "It seems you won't accept the truth until it's shoved down your throat! Guards! Bring in the slave!" Her voice was a shriek. "Let's reunite you with your wretched mother. Consider it my final act of charity after sixteen years of raising you." Even though I had lived this before, the pain was a fresh wound. Tears welled in my eyes. Sixteen years. From a stumbling toddler to the most celebrated lady in the capital. Even if we shared no blood, had she not raised me? Did she not know the core of my being? My mother was frail, prone to terrible headaches every winter. It was I who sat by her bed through every snowfall, tending to her personally, never entrusting the task to a servant. How could she cast aside sixteen years of love and devotion so easily? A woman in rough-spun clothes, her body covered in bruises, was dragged before us. She screamed, her voice cracking with terror. "Stop hitting me! I confess! I did it! I switched my daughter for the Duchess's baby! Rose is the true lady of the house! Please, stop... I'll pay with my life! Is that not enough?!" Before anyone could react, the woman launched herself headfirst at a nearby stone pillar. A sickening crack. And then, silence. The key witness was dead. Case closed.
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