The days that followed were quiet but far from simple. The manor stood on the far end of Rosethorne’s estate — not the grand ancestral home, but a smaller one gifted out of duty, not affection. It was her father’s way of saying: you’ve shamed the name, but I will not see you destitute.

The manor was modest by noble standards, draped in ivy and still carrying the faint perfume of rose oil and dust. It was the kind of place built for peace, not pride. And for Willa — now living as Vina Rosethorne — peace was an unfamiliar, delicate thing.

Her memories blurred between worlds. She would see memories of her past life while at the same time memories of Vina's life. It was overwhelming to the point she couldn't discern between memories or Reality.

Sometimes, she would wake in the mornings expecting the dull hum of her apartment, the smell of cheap coffee, and the echo of loneliness she had long accepted as normal. Other mornings, she’d wake to the sound of her son’s laughter — bright, startling, real — and wonder which version of her life had been the dream.

The servants noticed first.

“Madam has been quieter lately,” whispered Clara, her head maid and closest confidant.

“Quieter?” the cook laughed softly. “She used to weep or rage. Now she looks at Master Aleric like he’s the sun itself.”

They weren’t wrong.

Aleric — small, soft-haired, with a gaze too knowing for his years — had been the first thing to tether her to this new reality. His arms fit around her neck like they had always belonged there, and though he still called her Mother, Willa often felt unworthy of the title.

He was Vina’s son, not hers.

And yet, every time his tiny fingers wrapped around hers, every time his sleepy voice mumbled “Mama, stay,” her heart swelled and broke at once.

Flashbacks came in flickers. Willa's past life.

A hospital bed. The beeping of machines. Her own voice begging to feel something — anything.

The ache of rejection from men who called her “too much,” “too strange,” or “too hard to love.”

The hunger that went beyond flesh — a craving to belong, to be claimed, to be seen.

She’d been small in her old world — brittle from skipped meals, hollow from years of forcing herself to need less.

Here, in Vina’s body, she was… whole.

Her reflection startled her at first: a soft curve of hips, faint stretch marks that shimmered like silver threads, plump cheeks, skin with color again. This body carried life, love, loss — all in one frame.

And strangely, she loved it.

She ran her fingers along her waist one morning and whispered to her reflection, “You survived more than you think.”

Another flashback from Vina's Memories.

Her father hadn’t visited since her illness. Not once. His final words before sending her here still echoed:

“You chose ruin over reputation. Pray your child grows wiser than his mother.”

And yet, she couldn’t hate him.

He was a man of that time — one who saw love as leverage and daughters as debts to be married off.

But Aleric’s existence, even born from heartbreak, was proof that she could still build something good from the wreckage. She saw him as a burden but also as an opportunity. 

End of flashbacks.

'I don't know how Vina could see her own child like that. Although he may not be my child, I will care for him as if he were. I'll give him the love and care Vina as a mother should have.'

Life in the manor found a rhythm after I 'awakened'.

Mornings began with soft sunlight on the nursery’s curtains. Aleric would toddle toward her bed with his stuffed fox, giggling, demanding breakfast.

Afternoons were filled with lessons — reading, embroidery, and etiquette Clara insisted on re-teaching her (“you’ve forgotten your noble grace, my lady,” she’d say with a huff). She couldn't bring herself to say that she wasn't really Vina. That Vina had died from illness, and she had taken over her body. Who would believe that.

And evenings… those were her favorite.

She’d sit near the hearth while Aleric drew messy circles on parchment, his tongue poking out in concentration. Sometimes, Willa would hum songs she didn’t remember learning, lullabies that somehow belonged to both her lives.

The numbness in her began to thaw. Slowly yet frighteningly alarming, she didn't know if it was a good thing or if it was a bad thing.

One night, as snow whispered against the windows, Clara found her gazing into the flames.

“You’re changing, my lady,” the maid said gently.

Willa smiled faintly. “For better or worse?”

Clara hesitated, then smiled back. “For real, I think.” Willa looked at the windows then, noticing for the first time the season's changing. 

And for the first time since waking in another woman’s life, Willa allowed herself to breathe without guilt.

She wasn’t healed — not yet.

But she was here.

Alive. As a mother. As a noble. As a another.

And though the world still whispered behind closed doors — about the scandalous daughter, the fallen noble, the single mother — Willa found herself caring less and less. Maybe because it still didn't feel real to her yet.

The warmth of her son’s laughter was enough to drown the rest. Somehow she knew it could only get better from here.

In the city, far beyond Rosethorne Manor, a messenger galloped through the rain. A sealed envelope bearing a crimson crest rested in his satchel—an invitation that would, in a few weeks’ time, call Lady Vina Rosethorne back into the glittering eye of society.

And though she didn’t know it yet, that invitation would lead her directly into the path of the man whose name was whispered with both awe and fear.

The Duke. The one from Vina's memories.

He stood out a lot in vina's memories, and in her manor he was all the servant's gossiped about.