Charlotte's knees weakened, and she gripped the edge of a nearby chair to steady herself. The room was spinning, her chest heaving as though she had just run a marathon.
Marriage? To a prince? What was this madness?
She swallowed hard and forced herself to speak, her voice shaking. "I don't… I don't understand. This isn't my life. I don't even know any Prince Salvador. I was at the museum just a second ago and..."
The older woman rushed to her side, cupping her cheeks with trembling hands. "Listen to me, child. You are too nervous. We know you dislike the idea of this marriage, but there is no other choice. Salvador is powerful, cruel even, but if you go against him, all of us will suffer. Please, my dear, for our sake, endure it."
Charlotte's mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air. Endure it? For their sake? They were strangers, she does not belong here. She had never seen this woman in her life, and yet the woman looked at her with the fierce love of a mother.
One of the maids stepped forward timidly, holding a tray of steaming tea. "My lady, drink this. It will calm your nerves."
Charlotte stared at the porcelain cup, her thoughts tangled. She muttered under her breath, "What's happening to me? Why does everyone think I belong here?"
The woman which Is her supposed mother, took the cup from the maid and pressed it into Charlotte's hands. "You must gather yourself. Tonight is the ceremony. Salvador's men will come soon to escort you to the palace. If you are not ready, he will not take it lightly."
Charlotte almost dropped the cup. Palace? Ceremony? She wanted to scream again, to shake them and demand answers. Instead, she forced herself to sip the tea. It was sweet, floral, almost too calming, like it was meant to silence her thoughts.
Her eyes drifted to the massive portrait again. The painted version of herself stared down with an expression that was unreadable, almost cold. If this was not her, then where was the girl in that portrait?
Maybe she is the real daughter. Maybe I've been dragged here to replace her.
Her stomach knotted.
"My lady," another maid muttered gently, her hands folded in front of her apron. "We should prepare your bath. The prince's messenger will arrive before sunset."
Charlotte nearly dropped the cup again. "Messenger? No, wait, I think you're all making a mistake. I am not who you think I am."
But their expressions only softened in pity, as if she were a frightened child. Not a single one of them doubted her identity.
Her supposed mother smoothed a hand over her hair, the way mothers comfort daughters. "Charlotte, my precious, there is no escaping fate. Salvador chose you. For us to survive, you must become his bride."
Charlotte's breath caught. The word fate clung to her like chains. She wanted to shout that this wasn't fate, this was a nightmare.
But before she could argue further, the sound of distant drums echoed through the window.
Her heart jumped.
The maids exchanged nervous glances. One muttered, "The royal procession has begun."
Charlotte set the cup down with trembling hands. Her skin prickled.
Whatever world she had fallen into, whatever story she had been forced into, it was pulling her deeper with every second.
And soon, she would come face to face with the man they called Prince Salvador.