[HEROINE'S POV]
"Homewrecker!"
"Slut!"
"Whore!"
One look was all it took for people to hurl those titles, none of which described the real me.
The whole thing felt utterly scripted, and I couldn't shake the feeling that God Himself was against me.
My beauty, they had always said, was a gift. Perhaps it was, as it was the only thing that had pulled me out of slavery.
Introduced into the House of Varencourt, one of the minor and powerless aristocratic families, my sole purpose was to replace their dead daughter. I understood my role early on. I was coddled my entire life, but in such a suffocating manner that I often thought the streets were a preferable prison.
All my life, I have known nothing but suffering, as if I were designed for it.
Yet, my Aunt Milly, the only "mother" I have ever known, insists that everything is God's work; that this pain is purposeful, shaping me for the life I am truly meant to lead.
She told me simply to trust the process, and I did.
But one profound question always haunted me: If God is truly real, then why allow suffering to exist at all?
Why should I smile? Why should I endure? Why should I be the pretty, kind little thing I was crafted to be and save everyone else?
I just desperately wished someone would save me, too.
"Why are you wearing a pink dress?! Only I can wear that!" The black-haired girl, Cressida, shrieked.
"That's right! Only her majesty can wear it!"
"Are you trying to copy her or something?"
Cressida was my first and primary source of misery.
She led the clique of noble friends I was forced to join. You'd expect nobility to be refined, but she was as brash and rough as an improperly polished street-find.
They enforced absurd, unwritten laws I constantly struggled to follow: only certain colors on Wednesdays and Thursdays, patterns strictly reserved for Fridays.
This was the noble life?
What struck me as deeply unfair was that, unlike me, she was never instructed to be kind or agreeable.
Everything she desired or demanded was instantly handed to her on a silver platter.
It confounded my young mind. I had always been taught that kindness was rewarded.
Consequently, I lived in perpetual anxiety, agonizing over every word and action.
I suffered under a crushing, baseless guilt, terrified of being judged a bad person.
But I persevered, holding onto the faint hope that she might one day reciprocate genuine friendship.
Even as she called me "friend," I understood my true position was closer to a pet than human.
My fear proved true one afternoon at tea, when I had the misfortune of dropping cream on her exorbitantly priced footwear.
"Lick my shoes clean," Cressida commanded. "You made a mess."
It felt like a thousand needles were pricking my skin, yet no sound broke the sudden, paralyzing silence. I dropped to my knee, and my tongue obeyed the order, dragging over the rough leather.
I was compelled to rationalize this humiliation as God's divine plan. "This is only a trial," the mantra whispered in my head.
Day by day, the pressure mounted until I finally broke.
On the edge of a cliff, my feet were moments from dropping off when a hand snatched me back harshly, sending me sprawling onto my rear. Towering over me was a figure cloaked entirely in black.
"Don't lose hope. You are the heroine of this novel," they whispered, then leaned down, their hand resting gently on my head.
My entire perspective on reality fractured in that instant.
A torrent of memories and information flooded my brain, leaving my body utterly paralyzed.
The vision showed everything: the future suffering I was destined to face, and the ultimate good ending that would follow.
And the startling truth:
"I'm... in a novel?"
As it turned out, my Aunt Milly's words held true.
This torment was indeed God's orchestration, because my life was nothing more than a meticulously written script.