The duffel bag sits on my bed, nearly full now.
After breakfast with Lady Maryanna—after her careful words about gratitude and duty and everything this family has done—I came straight here. Started packing the moment my door closed behind me.
I fold my last sweater and place it on top. The borrowed gown still lies crumpled on the floor where I left it last night. Navy silk, pearls returned to their velvet box on the dresser.
I won't need either where I'm going.
The television murmurs in the corner, afternoon news I turned on for background noise while I decide which bus station to walk to. I check the closet one last time. Empty hangers swing like accusations.
Where will I go? I don't know. How will I survive with no money and no name worth claiming? I don't know that either. But Maryanna's offer of contentment—her comfortable cage dressed up in duty—sits like poison in my stomach.
I'd rather starve on my own terms.
The television's tone shifts. Something in the reporter's voice makes me turn—a gravity that doesn't belong to ordinary afternoon news.
Breaking news.
The screen shows the palace draped in black. Flags at half-mast. Guards standing motionless while flowers pile against the iron gates like offerings to a tomb.
"—confirmed just moments ago. Her Majesty Queen Lorea has passed away."
I freeze, one hand still on my duffel bag.
The reporter speaks in hushed reverence. The palace in mourning. Crowds gathering in the capital square. Candles being lit by strangers who loved a woman they'd never met.
The Queen is dead.
I sink onto the edge of my bed, news and a wave of dizziness washing over me. The Queen had been ill for months—everyone knew that. The tabloids tracked her every doctor's visit, every canceled appearance, every worried whisper from palace staff.
And now she's gone. The last of her line.
Which means House Montclair is next. Catherine's family. Cousins to the crown, one heartbeat away from the throne for generations.
The irony hits me like a slap across the face.
Hunter didn't just humiliate me last night. He secured his future. Catherine will be queen now, and Hunter—Hunter will be king consort. He'll stand beside her in the palace, wearing a crown that should have been impossible for a Valdren to touch.
He chose perfectly. Strategically. Traded me for a throne while I stood in borrowed pearls believing he might actually love me.
I laugh, but it comes out broken. Bitter.
"In her final moments," the reporter continues, "Her Majesty made a startling revelation. The Queen disclosed the existence of a secret heir—a hidden grandchild, kept from public knowledge for nearly two decades."
My hand stills on the duffel bag's zipper.
"The identity remains undisclosed, but palace sources confirm—"
"Can you believe this nonsense?"
I turn. Vivienne stands in my doorway, having changed into something designer and cutting. She gestures at the television.
"Some bastard crawling out to steal Catherine's throne. How terribly inconvenient for her."
"The Queen just died," I say quietly.
"Yes, and left behind quite the mess." Vivienne examines her nails with studied boredom. "Though I suppose it doesn't matter. Whatever orphan they've dug up won't last a week against the Montclairs. Catherine's family has been preparing for this moment for generations."
She's already calculating how this affects her brother's prospects. Some things never change.
Then I hear it. Gravel crunching outside. The low purr of an expensive engine.
Vivienne's head snaps toward the window. A black car pulls up to the manor. Sleek. Official.
Bearing the royal crest on its door.
"What on earth—" She disappears from my doorway, heels clicking against hardwood.
I stand frozen. The royal crest. Here. Probably come to inform the Valdrens about succession protocols, given Hunter's engagement to Catherine. Perhaps they need to discuss the timeline. The wedding. The coronation.
My feet carry me downstairs anyway. Curiosity, maybe. Or masochism. Or simply the need to see, one last time, the future Hunter chose over me.
The foyer is already crowded when I arrive. Lady Maryanna stands rigid by the front door, posture unnaturally stiff. Hunter hovers behind her, face carefully blank.
I stay back. Three steps behind, as always.
A man in palace livery stands in the entrance, uniform black and gold, pressed to perfection. His eyes scan the room—past Maryanna, past Hunter, past Vivienne—and land on me.
On me.
"Miss Christina." He inclines his head. "You are summoned to the palace immediately."
I almost laugh. "I think you want Lady Catherine. The Montclairs live across the city. I can give you directions if—"
"Her Majesty Queen Lorea was your grandmother," he continues, as if I hadn't spoken. "Your mother was Princess Clara, sole heir to the throne."
"No." The word comes out before I can stop it. "That's—no. You have the wrong person."
"You are the sole surviving heir. The throne is yours by birthright."
"That's impossible." My voice rises, cracking on the edges. "I'm no one. I'm—I don't have parents. I don't have family. I'm an orphan who showed up on this doorstep nineteen years ago with nothing but a blanket."
The man's expression doesn't waver. "You are Princess Christina Ashford. Your identity was concealed for your protection."
"Stop." I'm shaking now, hands trembling at my sides. "Stop saying that. I don't know who told you this, but they're wrong. They're lying. I'm not—I can't be—"
I look at Lady Maryanna, expecting her to explain the mistake. To laugh at the absurdity. To tell this man he's clearly confused and send him on his way.
But her face is white. Not confused. Not surprised.
Terrified.
And I realize, with a horror that stops my breath—she's not going to correct him.
Because there's nothing to correct.
"You knew," I whisper.
Maryanna doesn't answer. Doesn't move. But the truth is written in every rigid line of her body.
"You knew this whole time." My voice breaks. "Nineteen years. You knew who I was. You knew what you were stealing from me. And you let me believe—you made me believe I was nothing—"
"Christina." Hunter steps forward, reaching for me.
I flinch away. "Don't. Don't you dare touch me."
I look at Vivienne, frozen mid-sneer with shock bleeding through her composure. At Hunter, whose face has gone gray. At Maryanna, who built her empire on the bones of the child she was supposed to protect.
They knew. Maybe not all of them—maybe not Hunter, maybe not Vivienne—but Maryanna knew.
And she chose this anyway.
"Miss Christina." The man in livery gestures toward the door. "The car is waiting."
I should refuse. Should demand proof, documents, evidence. Should insist this is all some elaborate mistake or cruel joke.
But I look at Maryanna's face—at the fear she can't quite hide—and I know it isn't.
I climb the stairs one last time. The duffel bag sits on my bed, packed to disappear into nothing.
I pick it up.
When I descend, the Valdren family still stands frozen in the foyer like a tableau of guilt. I walk past them without a word. Past the borrowed paintings. Past the stolen furniture. Past nineteen years of lies.
The man opens the car door.
I slide inside, clutching the bag that holds everything I own.
Through the tinted window, I watch the manor shrink behind me. The house that was never my home. The family that was never my family.
I'm leaving. Just like I planned.
But not as a ghost anymore.
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