Chapter 11

“Who are they? Can they not walk up to me and show some courtesy?” Sandra’s voice cut through the air the instant her eyes landed on Lady Barbara and the veiled woman at her side.

Her tone was laced with venom, offended that a noblewoman of Barbara’s bearing could walk past her without offering a proper greeting.

Lois’s stomach twisted, her pulse slamming against her ribs. She tugged closer to Barbara, almost hiding herself behind her, but it was too late—Sandra had already seen them.

Lady Barbara halted mid-step, her face calm though her eyes flickered with unease. She turned, forcing a polite smile as she moved forward, deliberately keeping Lois shielded behind her.

“I am Viscountess Barbara,” she said smoothly, lowering her head with a graceful bow. “It is a pleasure to meet you, my lady.”

Sandra sneered, her gaze sharp as a blade. “Did you not see me before? Or are you simply too insolent to acknowledge my presence?”

“I beg your pardon, my lady,” Barbara replied, her voice steady though blunt. “I haven’t yet had the chance to visit the palace and pay my respects. So I did not know you, nor did I recognize your presence here.”

Sandra’s eyes narrowed, then darted to Lois, veiled and silent. Her lips curled with curiosity.

“And who is that? Why is she covered like a phantom? I have not seen a pregnant maid before,” she asked with false sweetness that barely veiled her malice.

Lois bowed her head lower, her heart hammering as she forced a foreign accent into her voice, masking the tone Sandra knew too well.

“I am only an ordinary, hideous-looking maid, my lady,” Lois murmured. “I would never dare offend your noble sight with my face.”

Sandra’s brows twitched at the sound. The voice was unnatural, forced—but still, who cared about the appearance of a faceless, ugly servant? She scoffed to herself and dismissed the thought, though something tugged in the back of her mind.

“Well then,” she said, tossing her hair back with pride, “I’ll be needing you at the palace soon enough. I’m hosting a soirée for the most respectable nobles in the kingdom. Do not fail me.”

“I will see to it, my lady,” Barbara answered with a short bow, eager to leave. She turned at once, motioning for Lois to follow.

But before they could escape, Sandra’s sharp voice lashed out:

“Stop!”

Lois froze. Her heart thudded so violently it rattled her bones. Of all people, not Sandra—not her sister who had stolen her mate, framed her, destroyed her life. Not the viper who had wrung every drop of pain and humiliation from her existence.

She would not be seen like this—pregnant, veiled, vulnerable. Never again.

“Tell me,” Sandra said mockingly, her eyes glinting with cruel delight, “how ugly must your face be that I would find offense at it? Is there really a woman more repulsive than Lord Barbara himself? Hahaha!”

Her laughter rang out, sharp and cutting. A chorus of giggles followed from the noble ladies who lingered nearby, eager to echo Sandra’s cruelty.

“Unveil her,” Sandra commanded, a wicked smile tugging her lips.

Barbara stepped forward sharply, her eyes flashing. “My lady, that is beyond reason. We will not waste our time entertaining insults to Beta Barbara, not directly, not indirectly.” She gave a swift bow, voice firm and cold. “We take our leave.”

Without waiting for Sandra’s reply, Barbara turned and strode off, Lois following quickly in her shadow.

But Sandra’s eyes lingered. Something about the way the veiled woman walked—her steps, her aura, the subtle grace. It was familiar. Too familiar.

Sandra stiffened. That gait… that presence. It was Lois.

No. It couldn’t be. Lois was supposed to be dead—or rotting in some godforsaken island, enslaved, broken. She was a ghost that should not exist here. Lady Barbara wouldn’t dare harbor such a wanted fugitive in her estate. Surely not.

…Or perhaps, Sandra thought bitterly, it was only a resemblance. A cruel trick of memory.

––– ꁞ ꁞ ꁞ ꁞ –––

“Faster, now!” Barbara barked as soon as they burst from the modiste. The footman obeyed at once, the carriage jolting into motion.

Inside, Lois pressed a hand against her chest, breathing hard, then suddenly burst into a nervous laugh. “That was… that was too close!”

Barbara glanced at her, then laughed as well, relief flooding them both until their giggles filled the carriage.

“She is insufferable,” Barbara muttered at last, shaking her head. “How did you ever endure a stepsister so authoritative and vile?”

Lois’s smile faded, her eyes clouding with memories that still bled fresh.

“I was nothing but a slave in my father’s mansion,” she said quietly. “From the time I turned fifteen, I wasn’t even allowed to sleep in my own room. I was sent to the attic. Cold, dusty… Lady Vetta would sneer that the chambers were ‘too luxurious for a slave like me.’”

Her voice cracked as she recalled the years of torment. Pain laced her words, her body trembling as if she could still feel the chill of that attic pressing against her bones.

Barbara’s heart softened. She reached over, wrapping Lois in a tender embrace. “You’re safe with me now,” she whispered.

––– ꁞ ꁞ ꁞ ꁞ –––

“You cannot be serious!” Sandra screeched, her voice high with shock as porcelain shattered against the marble floor. The teacup she’d been holding lay in jagged pieces at her feet.

“I am serious, my lady,” Rita said urgently, her eyes glinting. “I saw her. I swear it. It was Lois—the king’s runaway slave. Pregnant, veiled, but unmistakable. She left the modiste with Viscountess Barbara. I am certain.”

Sandra’s chest heaved, fury and dread twisting together inside her. She had been right—her instinct, her suspicion when she first laid eyes on that veiled figure.

“That wretched wench!” she spat, her voice breaking with rage.

“Should we inform the king?” Rita pressed eagerly, leaning forward. She had long since learned that attaching herself to Sandra’s power was her only path upward in the cutthroat palace. The higher Sandra rose, the higher she might be dragged as her loyal shadow.

“I am yours to command, my lady,” Rita added smoothly. “With a word, I’ll tell the king everything—that his runaway slave hides in Lady Barbara’s abode.”

“Silence!” Sandra’s eyes flashed like molten steel as she rounded on her maid. “Let one more word leave your filthy mouth and I’ll have your tongue torn out and feed it to my vultures.”

Rita’s face blanched. She bowed her head quickly, trembling under Sandra’s venom.

“Berra,” Sandra snapped. “Get this trash out of my sight.”

Berra obeyed, ushering the frightened maid away, though not too harshly. She knew Rita had her own secrets, her own leverage—and secrets were weapons in the palace.

Sandra stood there, her fists clenched, lips bitten raw. Her rage twisted into something darker—an oath, a curse she muttered inwardly as her chest heaved.

“She will not return here with a child,” she hissed under her breath. “No. She will not live long enough to birth him.”

Her eyes burned, fury and anxiety raging like a storm.