Dear Lilia,
Do you remember the stories you used to read to me when we were children?
The ones filled with princes and magic, with dragons slain and maidens always rescued in the end. Stories where suffering was temporary, and happiness arrived as surely as dawn.
Perhaps you don't remember. I do. I remember every single one. I held them close, like charms, as though believing hard enough might one day make them real. But there was one story I loved more than all the rest—the one you told me again and again, until its words carved themselves into my bones.
It was about a servant girl who slipped into a grand ball she did not belong to, her borrowed finery glittering like a lie, and somehow enchanted a prince simply by existing. In the end, she was chosen. Lifted from obscurity, wrapped in silk and promise, and granted a happiness that seemed eternal.
I have to admit something to you, Lilia—something I never dared to say aloud. I loved that story not because it was the most beautiful, but because I was jealous. Achingly, shamefully jealous. The envy gnawed at me like a slow poison, seeping into my thoughts, settling deep inside my chest, until I could hardly tell where the story ended and my longing began.
Who could have known that I would one day come to live the very life I once envied?
A girl of no consequence, plucked from the margins of the world. Chosen. Elevated. Loved by my very own prince charming.
Perhaps, then, I am not as cursed as everyone says.
Oh, I must sound as though I am bragging, don't I?
That was never my intention. I only wanted you to know—wanted someone to know—that I am still here. That I did not disappear after you. That I learned how to smile when I am expected to, and how to accept happiness when it is placed carefully into my hands.
So wherever you may be now, Lilia, whatever silence has claimed you, please believe this: I am living as you always wished I would. I wake each morning. I am cared for. I am loved.
I am happy.
With love,
Your sister,
Charlotte
***
"I see that you still end your letters with only the name Charlotte."
Charlotte froze, her pen trembling in her hand. Slowly, she turned, and relief immediately washed over her.
"Edward…" she whispered, heart lightening the moment she recognized him. He was already there, so close that she hadn't realized how near he had been, leaning just slightly against her side. His presence was quiet, natural—so familiar that it hardly felt like he had moved at all.
A soft smile curved his lips, gentle and steady, the kind of smile that always made her feel safe. His nearness was a comfort she didn't have to think about, a quiet reassurance that had always been there.
"Yes," she murmured, letting herself sink into the closeness, into the calm certainty of him. Somehow, just being near him made everything else fade, leaving only the warmth and the quiet peace he always brought.
Edward leaned even closer, his shoulder brushing hers, his presence warm and steady. His gaze met hers, sharp yet soft at once, as though he could see every thought she tried to hide.
"But why?" he asked, his voice low, a faint edge of amusement threading through the words. "You should be ending your letters with Monclair now, after your name."
Charlotte froze for a moment, catching the slight pout tugging at the corners of his lips. He tried to hide his displeasure, but it was there—subtle, like a shadow she could sense but not name. Best not to mention it, she decided; she didn't want to see that expression deepen into actual irritation.
She let out a soft laugh, leaning just slightly toward him in a gesture that was equal parts comfort and defiance. "But Edward, we haven't even married yet. Didn't you tell me you still need to convince some people before they'll accept our marriage?"
He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing just enough to be teasing, though the warmth behind them never wavered. "Convince them or not," he murmured, the faintest edge of a smile brushing his lips, "it doesn't change how things should be between us."
Charlotte's heart fluttered. His words were casual, almost careless, but the weight behind them pressed gently against her chest in the best way. She caught herself glancing at his hands, steady and sure, and imagined the ease with which he would take hers when the time came.
"You're very sure of yourself," she said softly, her voice carrying more warmth than words could hold.
Edward's lips curved into a smile, a hint of arrogance threading through it. "You don't need to worry about them," he said lightly, his tone confident, almost teasing. "I'm sure it won't take much effort to change those old farts' minds."
Charlotte gasped, unable to hold back her amusement, and lightly swatted his shoulder, laughing. "Edward!" she exclaimed, playful indignation dancing in her voice.
He chuckled, the sound easy and warm, matching the lightness of her laughter. "What's wrong?" he asked, tilting his head slightly, his eyes bright with curiosity and that infuriating charm she could never resist.
"That's rude!" Charlotte chided, still laughing, her cheeks warm from amusement.
"Is it?" Edward countered, his tone teasing as he reached out and gently pinched her chin, tilting her face so she met his gaze directly. His eyes were soft, steady, and full of something fierce that only she could feel.
"I'm sorry, my Fleur," he murmured, his voice low and tender, the playfulness giving way to quiet sincerity. "It just… it upsets me, knowing that someone is trying to keep us apart."
Charlotte's laughter faltered, her heart tightening at the weight behind his words. She felt the warmth of him so close, his presence steady and protective, and for a moment, the world outside—the politics, the whispers, the obstacles—faded completely.
Charlotte's smile softened, gentle this time, eyes shimmering with quiet certainty. She leaned forward, pressing her lips to the man before her. The height difference forced her to tug him closer by the collar, pulling him into the warmth of her.
When she broke the kiss, she didn't let go. Her hands slid to his shoulders, holding him firmly, still pulling him down just enough for him to hunch slightly under her insistence.
"I already said yes, didn't I?" she murmured, her voice steady, unwavering. "So I'm not leaving… not even if the whole world opposes."
Edward could feel his heart hammering in his chest—rapid, insistent, as if it wanted to leap out and hand itself over to her. Every moment she lingered, every word she spoke, made it thrum louder. If she asked for it, he would give it without hesitation.
"Charlotte," he said, his voice low but steady, a faint edge of anticipation threading through it, "did you pack your bags like I told you to?"
"Oh, yes, I did," she replied, her voice playful, teasing, the faint curve of a smile tugging at her lips. "I wonder why you made such an odd last-minute request, though… are we going on another vacation?"
Edward returned her embrace, his arms closing around her with a strength that made her feel both cherished and protected. It was far firmer than hers, and Charlotte couldn't help but lean into him, feeling the steady beat of his chest beneath her ear.
"No, we won't be going to one this time," Edward said softly, his voice calm and certain, yet carrying a quiet, teasing confidence.
Charlotte tilted her head, curiosity dancing in her eyes, and before she could even form a question, Edward answered. "This time… we'll be moving to my home."
Her breath caught. Shock spread across her face for only a heartbeat before it melted into a bright, uncontainable smile. Without thinking, she pressed quick, eager kisses to his cheeks and lips, murmuring I love you between them, each one carrying the weight of her joy and relief.
Edward laughed, warm and rich, the sound vibrating against her like sunlight. "Is that how much you wanted to go there?" he asked, amusement flickering in his eyes, though the gentle tilt of his head made him look entirely tender.
"Yes!" Charlotte exclaimed, laughter bubbling through her as her hands gripped his shoulders. She leaned in closer, unwilling to let go, feeling the reassuring press of his arms around her.
After a long, lingering embrace, they finally broke apart, though the warmth of his arms still seemed to cling to her. Together, they made their way to the waiting carriage. Charlotte's eyes followed the maids and butlers as they carefully transferred her belongings from one carriage to another.
'I guess I've been buying a lot of things lately,' she thought, a small smile tugging at her lips. The sight of her accumulated possessions reminded her of the life she left behind in the past, of stones and scorn.
But the thought barely took root before it was interrupted. Edward's hand brushed against her thigh, light and deliberate, sending a jolt of awareness straight through her. She froze for a heartbeat, the warmth of his touch lingering longer than expected, drawing her attention away from everything else.
Her pulse quickened, a familiar flutter rising in her chest. Edward had a way of claiming her attention effortlessly, completely, as he always did.
"Pervert…" Charlotte muttered, her cheeks warming as she looked away.
Edward chuckled softly. "Why would you say something so harsh, my Fleur?" he asked, his tone kind and amused, as though genuinely wounded by the accusation.
She glanced back at him, flustered but smiling. "At least wait until we actually arrive at our destination," she said, lowering her voice. "Doing anything in the carriage is a bit… improper."
Edward laughed, light and easy. "Alright, alright," he said, surrendering with exaggerated good grace. "I won't do anything."
Even so, his hand remained where it was, warm and reassuring against her thigh.
Charlotte let out a small sigh of relief and shifted closer, resting her head against his shoulder. The steady rise and fall of his breathing soothed her almost immediately. "Then I'll rest until we arrive," she murmured sleepily. "Wake me up when we get there, please."
"Of course," Edward replied, his voice gentle as the carriage began to move.
With that promise, Charlotte closed her eyes, comforted by his presence, the rhythm of the wheels beneath them, and the certainty that she was not alone as the road carried them forward.
Sleep felt as though it had claimed her for only a heartbeat.
When Charlotte stirred again, it was not to the gentle sway of the carriage or the warmth of Edward's shoulder, but to stillness.
A deep, unfamiliar stillness. She lay beneath a thick, heavy blanket, its weight comforting, the bed beneath her impossibly soft—too soft, almost, as if it were meant to keep her from moving at all.
She blinked, slowly taking in the room around her.
Empty. Silent. The walls unfamiliar.
'Was I dreaming?' she wondered.
But the thought dissolved as quickly as it formed. This was not the room she had been given back in Rosenveil. The curtains were different. The scent in the air was wrong—cleaner, older, touched by something she could not name. Even the light filtering in through the window felt foreign, as though it belonged to a place that did not yet know her.
Charlotte drew the blanket closer, her heart beating just a little faster.
'Not a dream, then…'
Charlotte rose from the bed slowly, savoring the soft weight of the blanket one last moment before letting her feet touch the floor. The room was breathtaking—every detail exquisite, every piece of furniture carefully chosen, every fabric rich and warm. Even the smallest ornament seemed impossibly valuable, as if a single item could have cost a fortune.
She stepped to the door and opened it.
The corridor beyond was completely empty. No servants hustled about, no distant voices called across the halls—only the soft echo of her own footsteps.
Charlotte moved forward, wandering from one room to the next. Each chamber was more splendid than the last, with polished floors, high ceilings, and carefully arranged furnishings. But no one was there to greet her, to guide her, or even to acknowledge her presence.
Eventually, the halls gave way to gardens, and Charlotte realized she had wandered far from the bedchamber. She paused at the heart of a carefully designed maze, where a fountain glittered in the moonlight. Relief washed over her as she drew her shawl tighter against a sudden chill.
Charlotte lowered herself onto the edge of the fountain, lifting the hem of her skirt to massage her tired feet. The ache from walking for so long had grown insistent, and she welcomed the pause.
For a moment, she simply sat there, letting the quiet calm of the empty estate settle around her, enjoying the rare peace of having the entire place to herself.
She had been massaging her feet for what felt like hours, letting the gentle trickle of the fountain water wash over her senses, when a sharp snap rang out just a few meters away.
Charlotte froze, her heart skipping a beat. Her shawl tightened around her shoulders as she slowly lifted her head, eyes scanning the neatly trimmed hedges.
There he was. A boy—around her age, though his presence carried a quiet weight, an almost unsettling composure for someone so young. His hair was a deep, glossy black, falling just so across his forehead, but it was his eyes that made her pause completely. They were an impossible shade, a pink tinged with red, luminous and intense, glinting as if they could see straight through her.
Her breath caught in her throat. The way he stood—slightly forward, yet poised, calm yet alert—reminded her of someone she knew too well.
'Just like Edward…'
The boy's gaze held hers without wavering, unblinking and unreadable, yet somehow magnetic, drawing her in with a force she didn't understand. Every instinct told her to speak, to move, yet her feet felt glued to the fountain's edge.
For a long moment, they simply regarded each other—strangers, yet bound by some quiet, inexplicable recognition.
After a long, suspended silence, Charlotte finally forced her voice forward, soft and careful, carrying the sweetest note she could manage.
"Hello… my name is Charlotte," she said, letting her lips curve into a tentative smile. "What's your name?"
The boy did not answer. He remained still, watching her with those impossible pink-red eyes, bright and luminous, holding her gaze as if he could see every thought she tried to hide.
Charlotte's chest fluttered, a rush of unease and fascination mingling together. She shifted slightly, gripping her shawl tighter, but the boy did not move. Then, without a sound, he stepped forward.
Charlotte froze. Her pulse spiked, her feet refusing to carry her anywhere, as though some quiet force had rooted her in place. He moved with a calm, measured grace, the kind of poise that made him seem both young and impossibly mature at once.
He stopped a mere meter away. Close enough that she could see the subtle curve of his lips, the sharp line of his jaw, and the soft gleam of moonlight in his black hair. And those eyes—pink with a faint, burning red undertone—held her entirely. They were not just observing; they were drawing her in, quietly, irresistibly.
"Eric…" he said at last, his voice soft but certain, carrying a calm weight that made the world around her feel impossibly still.
Silence fell again, but it was not empty. It hummed with the tension of two people sizing each other up, a delicate, unspoken exchange that thrummed in her chest. Charlotte felt a curious mixture of awe, hesitation, and the faint, thrilling pull of recognition.
Charlotte let out a soft sigh, realizing what she hadn't expected: he was a commoner, just like her. For the first time since arriving in this vast, quiet estate, she felt a small measure of ease. Social standings, etiquette, all the invisible rules that weighed on her seemed to vanish.
A small smile lifted her lips. "I see… it's a pleasure to meet you, Eric." She extended her hand, soft and open, letting the gesture carry all the friendliness she could muster.
For a heartbeat, he simply stared at her hand, his eyes wide, uncertain. He didn't move.
Charlotte tilted her head, confusion flickering across her features. 'Why isn't he taking my hand?' she wondered. 'Is he perhaps… germaphobic? Or have I been too forward—even for a commoner?'
Quickly, she began to retract her hand, muttering, "Neverm—"
But before she could finish, Eric's hand closed gently around her wrist, tugging it slightly toward him.
Charlotte blinked in surprise, her mind catching up to the motion.
"Pleasure to meet you, too…" he said softly, his voice quiet, careful, almost shy.
Charlotte felt the smallest warmth spread through her chest. The tension in the air shifted, no longer awkward, but intimate in a quiet, unspoken way.
"So… what are you doing here, Eric?" Charlotte asked, tilting her head, her voice soft but curious. "Judging by the moon's position, it's quite late into the night. Aren't you going to sleep?"
Eric shook his head, calm and deliberate. "I can't sleep."
Charlotte's brows knitted together as she tried to place the feeling. A small, amused smile curved her lips. "Oh! I think I read about this in a book once… something called… insam—wait, no, maybe it was inser? Huh… I can't quite remember the name—"
"Insomnia," Eric said quietly, his voice smooth, almost gentle, as if the word itself was nothing more than a fact. "I have insomnia."
Charlotte blinked, a soft laugh slipping past her lips. "Ah… insomnia! Of course. Why didn't I think of that? Well… I suppose that explains wandering the gardens at this hour, then."
She glanced at him, curiosity sparkling in her eyes. "Does it happen often?" she asked lightly, trying to keep the conversation easy. "I mean… not being able to sleep, I mean."
Eric's gaze met hers, steady and calm, the faint glow of his pink-red eyes catching the moonlight. "Often enough," he said simply. "But it doesn't bother me much."
"That's no good," Charlotte said gently, a small frown tugging at her lips. "Even if it doesn't bother you, it's still not good for your body."
She straightened slightly, determination brightening her features. "Tell you what—if you help me, then I'll also help you with your insomnia."
Eric tilted his head, the faint moonlight catching the sharp angles of his otherworldly face, making him look even more intriguing. "Help you?" he repeated, his voice calm but curious, as if testing whether she truly meant it.
Charlotte's smile widened, soft but confident. "Yes," she said, leaning forward just a little, eyes sparkling. "I can't sleep either—sometimes. And I could use a little… guidance. Maybe we can help each other."
Eric regarded her for a long moment, pink-red eyes unreadable yet flickering with something almost like amusement. Then he gave the slightest nod. "Very well… I suppose we can try."
Charlotte's heart lifted.
"Then… could you help me first?" Charlotte asked, tilting her head, her voice soft but steady, carrying just enough warmth to break the silence. "I'm lost, you see. I need some direction."
Eric's eyes, bright with that impossible pink-red hue, met hers, steady and calm. "What's the name of your room?" he asked, his tone measured, almost gentle.
Charlotte hesitated, then shook her head lightly. "I… don't know. All I remember is that there was a portrait inside. I think it had an angel on a grassy plain. That's all I can recall."
For a fraction of a second, Eric paused, his gaze sharpening, as though he had noticed something in her words. Charlotte, unaware, simply fidgeted with her shawl, glancing around at the quiet gardens.
"Then that room would be in the east wing," Eric said at last, his voice calm, precise. He stepped closer, the faintest movement that brought the air between them to life without breaking the measured distance. "Follow me," he added, a quiet invitation, not a command.
Charlotte fell into step beside him, the soft crunch of gravel beneath their feet the only sound in the stillness of the garden. The moon hung high, casting silver light over the neatly trimmed hedges, the fountain glimmering faintly behind them as they made their way back toward the shadowed hallways.
"So…" Charlotte began, her voice breaking the silence, tentative but curious. She stole a glance at him as they walked. "What's your role here, Eric?"
Eric's gaze flicked toward her, calm, unshaken, his pink-red eyes catching the moonlight in a way that made them seem almost alive. "I simply manage some of the affairs in this place," he said evenly. "It's nothing important."
Charlotte nodded slowly, her mind working. 'So… he must be a butler, or perhaps an accountant.' And yet… he seems far too young. 'He must be incredibly capable to hold such responsibilities.'
There was something about him—calm, composed, precise—that suggested more than his words admitted. She found herself unconsciously matching her pace to his.
The two walked in quiet companionship, their footsteps echoing softly through the vast hallways. Conversation had been sparse, only bits and pieces drifting between them like whispers on the air, until finally, they arrived in front of Charlotte's room.
"Wait here a moment," Charlotte said to Eric, her voice light but purposeful, and slipped inside. Eric's gaze followed her for a moment, calm and steady, before he leaned against the doorframe, watching her rummage through the room with quiet patience.
Charlotte moved with practiced confidence, her eyes scanning the table beside her bed, the neatly arranged drawers, the closet, until at last they landed on the item she sought.
"I found it!" she exclaimed, her excitement breaking the stillness of the room.
Years of knowing Edward had taught her one thing with absolute certainty: he had unpacked and arranged everything meticulously the moment they arrived at the manor. She could stake her life on it. Every book, every trinket, every detail had been placed with his characteristic care.
And there it was—her cure for insomnia.
Charlotte clutched her items and hurried to Eric's side, her heart lifting with a little thrill of excitement.
"Tada!" she exclaimed, holding out the small pouch and the storybook toward him.
Eric tilted his head, pink-red eyes narrowing slightly in quiet confusion as he examined the items in her hands. The tiny pouch, the delicate cover of the book.
Charlotte noticed his hesitation and let out a soft, light laugh, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "This must look a little strange to you, huh?" she said, cheeks warming. "These are… my cures for falling asleep. I made the tea leaves myself, and the storybook—well, it's my absolute favorite. Reading it always helps me sleep at night."
Her eyes flicked up to his, bright with quiet hope. "I thought… maybe it could help you too."
After a brief pause, Eric took the items from Charlotte's hands, his movements calm and deliberate. "Thank you," he said softly, the words carrying more weight than she could explain.
Charlotte smiled, a warmth spreading through her chest. "Goodnight, Eric. I hope… you'll be able to sleep well, every night," she said, her voice gentle, almost a whisper.
He nodded once, quietly, and began to walk away. Charlotte's gaze followed his retreating figure, the calm rhythm of his steps fading into the stillness of the hall.
When the door clicked shut behind her, she let out a long breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. She padded across the room and sank onto her bed, the weight of the day finally catching up to her.
Exhaustion pulled at her limbs, and she muttered softly to herself, half-lidded eyes closing, "I'll just go back to sleep now…"
And with that, the gentle embrace of sleep reclaimed her, quiet and complete, leaving only the soft rustle of the sheets and the faint glow of moonlight spilling across the room.
When Charlotte awoke once more, the warmth of the sun filtered through the window, brushing her cheeks with gold. The blanket was soft against her skin, and the firm arms around her held her in a quiet, unyielding embrace.
"Good morning," Edward murmured, his voice low and gentle, a smile playing on his lips.
Groggy and half-buried in his hold, Charlotte nuzzled closer, savoring the safety of his presence. "Good morning… where did you go last night?" she asked, her voice still thick with sleep.
Edward bent down and pressed a soft kiss to her temple. "Nowhere important," he replied quietly. "I just needed to take care of some matters."
Charlotte blinked, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Is that so?"
"Yes," Edward said with quiet certainty, his pink-red eyes warm and steady. "And remember our conversation from last night? Those old farts won't be troubling us about our marriage anymore."
A rush of relief and affection bloomed inside her chest, and she instinctively curled closer into him, letting the quiet triumph of the morning—and the man holding her—fill her completely.
"And how did you manage that?" Charlotte asked, tilting her head, a soft smile brushing her lips. Her voice carried the sleepy warmth of morning, gentle and unassuming, as though the world could not touch her here.
Edward's smile deepened, slow and knowing, his gaze glinting with quiet amusement. "That, my Fleur… is a secret," he said, voice low, almost a whisper meant only for her.
Charlotte giggled, the sound light and bright, spilling over the sheets like sunlight. "Oh… my future husband is so mysterious."
Edward leaned closer, just enough to brush the warmth of his presence against her. "And good thing for that," he murmured, playful yet firm, "I've heard it's the key to a long and happy marriage."
Charlotte laughed freely, her heart fluttering in the delicate morning light. For a single, perfect moment, the world narrowed to this room, to the soft warmth of the blanket, to the steady, comforting presence of Edward.
***
Dear Lilia,
I suppose… this is my fairy-tale ending.
Married to my prince charming. Living happily.
***
A maid hummed quietly to herself as she moved through the master's bedroom, polishing surfaces, straightening sheets, attending to every corner with meticulous care. Nothing could be left imperfect, nothing left to chance.
Then she saw it—a dark line, glistening against the polished wood of the closet. Crimson, stark, and undeniable.
Her hands froze—not with panic, but with the practiced calm of someone who had long understood the unspoken rules of this house. Screaming would serve no purpose. Questioning would bring nothing but punishment. The body had to be hidden. Always hidden.
A shiver ran through her spine, but she moved with swift precision, the motion almost ritualistic. Every step had been done before, every detail accounted for. She moved the body, covering, concealing, erasing it from the room as if it had never existed.
A butler appeared quietly in the doorway, silent and watchful. Their eyes met, a brief, wordless understanding passing between them.