“Princess Esmerelda, His Majesty the Emperor is calling for you,” the maid announced gently upon reaching her. Maria, Esmerelda’s personal maid and sole companion, had to repeat herself, as the princess was lost in a reverie that held traces of both longing and sorrow, her eyes clouded with an immense sadness.
As the words sank in, Esmerelda’s heart quickened with fear. Her father hadn’t summoned her in two weeks, ever since she’d been confined to her room—for daring to meet his gaze while he was speaking to her. What could he want with her now? She rose slowly, following Maria down the corridor toward his study, her fingers twisting together nervously. At the study door, she took a deep breath, forcing herself to appear calm, though she knew her father relished her fear and would be more likely to punish her if she appeared afraid.
Entering the room, she kept her head low. “Your Majesty,” she said with a bow, standing meekly before the emperor.
Her stepmother’s voice cut through the silence. “Standing like a commoner again, I see,” she scoffed from the sofa where she sat with Esmerelda’s stepsister, Philia. “After all those etiquette lessons, you still can’t manage the posture of a princess.” Philia snickered, clearly enjoying the spectacle.
The tea table was laid out with pastries and delicate china, hinting that they were preparing for their afternoon tea. Esme knew she was not there to join them. While the family shared every meal together, she was always excluded, only a “princess” in title. The rumors in high society were no secret: her family’s disdain for her had led others to treat her with the same disregard. Even the palace servants felt free to insult or ignore her, some going so far as to shove her aside when she crossed their paths.
Esme’s stepmother, Reagan, smirked as she commented on Esme’s “poor posture.” She knew full well that Esme had never received a single etiquette lesson; any manners she’d picked up had come from secretly watching Philia’s lessons from afar. Reagan had caught her spying more than once and punished her harshly, forcing her to work like a maid until her feet bled, back when she was only seven years old.
“You will meet the Duke of Xolotl in two days’ time to prepare for your wedding,” her father said, barely glancing at her.
Surprised, Esme murmured, “Father, I didn’t know I was engaged—”
Her words were met with a brutal shove from her half-brother, Crown Prince Damarcus, who had just entered the room to join the family. “How dare you question Father!” he snapped, his face twisted in anger. “You don’t need to know anything. You only need to obey.”
As Esme gathered herself to stand, her gaze inadvertently met her half-brother’s eyes. For the briefest moment, there was a spark in her—a quiet defiance or perhaps a strength she’d forgotten she possessed. Her eyes, usually downcast and subdued, held a glimmer that seemed to pierce straight through him.
Damarcus stiffened, his smug expression faltering as something unfamiliar rose in his chest: intimidation. The realization ignited a volatile rage. Without warning, he lunged forward and struck her hard across the face, the slap echoing through the room like a gunshot.
Esme stumbled from the force, her cheek stinging sharply as she tried to regain her balance. Her vision blurred from the impact, but she fought to stay upright, refusing to let them see her fall. Damarcus’s face was a mask of fury as he stood over her, breathing heavily, almost frothing at the mouth.
“How dare you look at me like that?” he snarled, his voice thick with malice. “Who do you think you are, meeting my eyes like an equal? You are nothing,” he spat, his words dripping with venom as he looked down at her with a twisted satisfaction.
Across the room, her stepmother and Philia burst into mocking laughter, their eyes gleaming with sadistic delight at the unfolding scene. Esme forced herself to hold steady, her face throbbing but her head bowed, letting her hair shield her expression as she swallowed back tears. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.
The emperor’s gaze barely lifted from his papers, dismissive of the violence that had erupted in his study. Damarcus continued to glare, a smirk of triumph creeping onto his lips, as if her pain had somehow restored his control.
Inwardly, Esme felt something stir—a new resolve, faint yet growing. She wouldn’t break for them, no matter how many times they tried to beat her down. She would endure, and soon, she would escape this nightmare of a family.
After what felt like an eternity of listening to their chatter, filled with veiled barbs about her, her father finally nodded, allowing her to leave.
As Esme turned to go, Philia intercepted her, smiling with sickly sweetness. “Congratulations, sister! You’re getting married. Isn’t that wonderful?” Her eyes glittered maliciously. “I’ve had to reject at least twenty proposals myself, but here you are, finally finding someone who’ll take you.” She leaned in closer. “It must be exciting to finally have a suitor, even if he had no choice.”
Esme’s heart sank, knowing Philia’s words rang painfully true. Her family’s low regard for her had made her undesirable to the rest of society. She was rarely seen at events, forbidden from attending high-society gatherings where she might meet potential suitors or friends.
Ignoring Philia’s taunts, Esme left the room. Just before she exited, she overheard her father telling a maid that her fiancé would be coming to dinner. Clearly, they had no intention of letting her attend, hoping to keep her an embarrassment hidden from sight.
But as she walked away, a new resolve hardened within her. She would go along with the plan, marry the Duke of Xolotl, and finally escape the clutches of the family that had scorned her all her life. This marriage, though arranged and unwelcomed by them, could be her one chance at freedom.
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