THE PROXY BRIDE: His bride. Her Secret.
"Smile, or no library time."
Selene—seven years old then, golden hair gleaming, eyes already cold—sneered at Amara’s muddy shoes. "You’re not my real sister," she whispered during the vows. "Real sisters don’t smell like dirt."
That night, Marcella moved into Étienne’s suite. The next morning, Amara’s bedroom was relocated to the staff quarters—a room smaller than the library’s closet, smelling of mothballs and neglect. When she tried to join breakfast in the ballroom, Marcella blocked the doorway. "Children eat with the servants," she said, adjusting Selene’s diamond hairclip. "You’ll take meals here." She slid a tray of cold toast through the door. "And no more library time. Those books ar