Leah stood on the balcony of the royal guest quarters, the moon casting its silvery glow over the palace gardens of Gaia. The serene landscape felt like a distant dream—beautiful yet foreign. The weight of her past hung over her like a thick fog. The whispers of her own mind, haunted by the memory of her late sister Priscilla, reminded her of an unshakable truth: she didn't belong here. Not in this palace, not in this life, and certainly not pretending to be someone she wasn't.
The sound of approaching footsteps broke her reverie. She turned, her heart skipping a beat as Rowan, the King of Gaia, emerged from the shadows. His presence, commanding yet gentle, filled the space around her. His eyes held a softness that made her pulse quicken and her carefully guarded thoughts scatter.
"Leah," Rowan said, his voice low, almost melodic in the stillness of the night.
She forced herself to turn fully toward him, her breath catching. Despite her efforts to remain composed, his steady gaze unsettled her. Too many times, she had caught his eyes lingering on her longer than propriety allowed, his words imbued with a kindness that threatened to unravel her defenses.
"Your Majesty," she managed, her voice steady in defiance of her fluttering heart. She lowered her gaze, unwilling to meet his penetrating stare for too long.
Rowan smiled, stepping closer. "You don't have to be so formal. It's just us."
The intimacy in his words made her tense. Respectful distance had been her armor, a reminder of their different worlds. "Forgive me," she murmured, biting her lip. "Old habits die hard."
His chuckle was warm, almost disarming. "You don't need to act like you don't belong. You're welcome here, Leah. Truly."
She glanced at him, her chest tightening at the sincerity in his gaze. He meant well, she knew, but his kindness was dangerous. She couldn't let herself believe it. She couldn't forget who she was—or who she wasn't.
"Thank you," she said softly, turning her gaze back to the moonlit gardens. "But I don't think I can ever belong."
A heavy silence settled between them. She could feel his eyes on her, a weight she both dreaded and craved. When he finally spoke, his voice was thoughtful. "I've noticed something about you, Leah. You distance yourself. Avoid the spotlight. Why?"
The question hit her like a gust of wind, exposing the insecurities she had tried so hard to conceal. She hesitated, her hands tightening on the balcony railing. "I guess… I'm just trying to keep up appearances. To be the image of Priscilla."
Rowan's brow furrowed. "And who told you to be her?"
Her voice wavered. "Everyone. My family. They needed me to take her place. And I've never been able to escape it."
He stepped closer, his voice quieter now, but firm. "You don't need to be Priscilla anymore. I see you, Leah. And you're more than enough."
His words stirred something deep within her, a flicker of hope she hadn't dared to feel. But the doubts were quick to return. "I'm not who you think I am," she whispered.
"Then who are you?" Rowan's voice was steady, his gaze unwavering. "I don't see Priscilla when I look at you. I see Leah."
Her chest tightened. "You don't understand. Priscilla was loved—adored. She was everything I'm not."
"That's because you're comparing yourself to a memory," Rowan replied, his tone sharp but compassionate. "No one can replace her, but that doesn't mean you have to live in her shadow. You're not her, Leah. You're you. And that's enough."
The words lingered in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. Leah turned away, her thoughts a storm of emotions. Before she could respond, footsteps interrupted them. One of her attendants approached, holding a letter.
"Your Majesty, Miss Leah," the attendant said, bowing. "This just arrived for you."
Leah broke the seal, her eyes scanning the page. Her demeanor shifted, her shoulders stiffening. "It's a letter from my fiancé," she said, her voice tight. "He and three other nobles will be attending the grand opening of the bridge this weekend."
Rowan's expression remained neutral, though something flickered in his gaze. "I see. It seems you'll have quite the weekend ahead."
Leah nodded, folding the letter and slipping it into her pocket. "Yes. It's going to be busy."
She turned to leave, but Rowan's voice stopped her. "Leah, if you ever need someone to talk to… I'm here."
She paused, his words resonating in a way she couldn't ignore. Turning back, she met his gaze. There, in his eyes, she saw something deeper than kindness—something she wasn't ready to name.
"Thank you," she said softly, her voice trembling as she walked back into the palace, her mind awash with what had just transpired.
The grand opening of the bridge loomed closer, and Leah, still trapped in the role of Priscilla, stood before her mirror. Her delicate lavender gown shimmered with golden embroidery, hugging her figure gracefully, but it felt as though it belonged to someone else—someone far more perfect.
Her silver hair, meticulously pinned into an elegant updo, added to the illusion. She looked every bit the part of her late sister: Priscilla, the adored, the flawless. The very same sister whose face she had adopted, whose shadow she now lived in.
This is all for him, Leah thought bitterly, smoothing the lace at her wrist. For someone who doesn't care about me, only the person I'm pretending to be.
The weight of her reflection bore down on her, amplifying her insecurities. Priscilla would have been breathtaking in this dress. I'll never compare.
Unbeknownst to Leah, Mildred had paused outside her door, catching a glimpse through the crack. His breath hitched. She looked ethereal, a vision in lavender and gold, but there was something beyond her beauty—a fragility, a sadness that didn't belong to the confident Priscilla he remembered.
Clearing his throat, he stepped into the room. "You look... stunning, Priscilla," he said, his tone betraying a stiffness he hadn't intended.
Leah turned abruptly, startled. "Your Majesty," she greeted, forcing a smile. "Thank you. I— I try my best."
Mildred's eyes lingered, a pang of something unspoken twisting inside him. He quickly masked it with a polite smile. "Your fiancé will be pleased to see you looking so beautiful."
Her forced smile faltered, and she looked down. "I hope so," she murmured, her voice laced with uncertainty.
Before she could say more, her attendants entered, their chatter bright but laced with observations she couldn't ignore.
"His Majesty seems quite taken with you, Lady Priscilla," one said, an edge of teasing in her tone. "He watches you like no other."
Leah stiffened, turning her back to the mirror. "I doubt that," she replied flatly, her unease seeping through. "I'm not the one he wants."
The attendants exchanged knowing glances. "But my lady, it's plain to see. He's captivated by you."
Leah shook her head, her voice firm. "You're wrong." Her words hung in the air, heavier than she intended. I'm not Priscilla. I never will be.
Mildred, still lingering near the door, felt his chest tighten. He had overheard everything. His gaze softened as he watched her, seeing past the facade. Why can't she see how remarkable she is on her own?
But instead of speaking, he turned and left, his mind a storm of unanswered questions.
Downstairs, the envoy had arrived. Leah, perfectly composed, descended into the receiving hall, her every movement a testament to the act she had mastered. Her fiancé stood tall and regal, exuding charm and poise. His smile as he greeted her was warm but distant, his affection more for the idea of Priscilla than for Leah herself.
Mildred, standing on the sidelines, noted the flicker of pain in Leah's eyes. It was so fleeting, he wondered if anyone else had even noticed. She's pretending, he realized. Pretending to be someone she isn't. And no one sees it—no one but me.
As greetings and pleasantries filled the room, Mildred's thoughts returned to their earlier conversation, to the confession Leah had once whispered to him in private. "Impersonating Priscilla is my atonement for envying her," she had said, her voice trembling.
Her sacrifice was heartbreaking, and yet, there she stood, smiling through the weight of it all.
Why does she endure this? he wondered. And why can't anyone, not even her fiancé, see her for who she really is?
Leah's heart was heavy, but her mask didn't falter. She smiled, greeted, and played her role flawlessly, even as Mildred's gaze lingered. She felt his attention in a way that unsettled her, but she refused to acknowledge it.
I'm not Priscilla. I'll never be her. No one will ever see me for who I am.
The evening had been pleasant, yet something lingered in the air—an invisible thread of tension that seemed to grow tighter with each passing moment.
Leah, still trapped in the charade of pretending to be Priscilla, had spent the entirety of dinner with Mildred, engaged in lively conversation and laughter. To an outsider, their camaraderie seemed completely natural, yet Charles, Leah's fiancé, felt a flicker of unease. His gaze lingered on the ease with which Leah interacted with Mildred—an intimacy that seemed reserved for true acquaintances, not mere dinner guests. This was not the usual polite pleasantries, but something more—a comfort, a familiarity that unnerved him.
As soon as the meal had ended and the guests dispersed to their quarters, Charles could no longer suppress his growing frustration. He had waited for the right moment, and when he saw Leah alone in the corridor, he seized it.
"Priscilla," he began, his voice cutting through the silence, "we need to talk."
Leah froze at the sound of her name, her body stiffening as she turned to face him. The weight of his tone settled heavily on her, and she knew what was coming. These conversations always followed the same pattern, yet somehow, she could never find the right words to deflect him.
"What is it, Charles?" she replied, her voice weary, laced with a frustration born from having this same conversation time and again.
He stepped closer, his eyes sharp, filled with unspoken accusation. "I saw how you behaved with Mildred tonight," he said, his jaw clenched tight. "You were far too comfortable with him. As my fiancée, you shouldn't be so casual with another man—especially a king."
Leah blinked, her shock evident. Not appropriate? Casual? she thought. She had done nothing more than engage in polite conversation with Mildred, and yet here he was, imposing his rules upon her. The weight of his words was like a physical blow, and she clenched her fists in response.
"Who are you to restrict me?" she shot back, her voice trembling with the sting of his judgment. "You don't even know me, Charles. You're not interested in me. You're only interested in what I represent—Priscilla."
Charles's face reddened with indignation, his frustration bubbling to the surface. He closed the distance between them, his voice rising in volume. "You've never made it easy for me to get to know you, Leah!" he growled. "You've always been distant. I've tried to reach you, but you've never made the effort either. I'm your fiancé, not some stranger!"
Leah took a step back, the words cutting deep. She had spent her life trying to fit into a role that wasn't hers—trying to be someone she wasn't, all for the sake of an identity she never chose. And now, here was Charles, blaming her for something she had never asked for.
"I have tried, Charles," she said quietly, her voice breaking. "I've tried so hard, but you've never listened. You've never really heard me. I've spent years pretending to be someone else so you would love me, but it's never enough! You want me to be Priscilla, but I'm not her. I've never been her."
For a moment, Charles stood there, his frustration momentarily replaced by a flicker of confusion. "What do you want me to do, Leah?" he asked, his voice quiet, though still tinged with tension. "I've always done what I thought was best for you. What do you want from me?"
Leah inhaled deeply, her hands shaking at her sides. "I want to be seen," she said, her voice growing steadier, though the tears threatening to spill were a testament to the emotion swirling within her. "I want to be seen for who I am, not as someone I'm pretending to be. I want you to look at me and know me—really know me. I want to be Leah. Not Priscilla."
Charles's face twisted with confusion, his expression softening only slightly. "But... I've always known you as Priscilla's sister—"
"No!" Leah interrupted, her voice a sharp whisper. "No one sees me! You don't see me! All you care about is the image of Priscilla. You never cared about me."
Her breath quickened, and she felt the walls she had spent years constructing crumble around her. She had spent so long hiding behind a mask—Priscilla's mask—that she had lost herself in the process. Standing before Charles, the man who was supposed to love her, she felt like she was disappearing.
Charles's face went pale, and he took a step back, his mind racing. "What are you saying, Leah? That I don't care about you? That I never have?"
Leah shook her head, the weight of the years pressing down on her. "I don't know what you care about anymore," she whispered, the tremor in her voice betraying the depth of her hurt. "But it's not me. It's never been me."
Charles opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught in his throat. He blinked, frustration and confusion warring on his face. "You don't want to be Priscilla, then? You don't want to make people like you?"
"No," Leah replied firmly, the strength in her voice surprising even herself. "I don't want to be her. I never wanted to be her. I wanted to be me—but that's not good enough, is it?"
Charles looked at her, speechless, as though the very ground beneath him had shifted. His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, it seemed as if he might say something—anything—but then he closed his eyes, defeated. "You're right. No one wants you to be Leah. No one. You need to stop this nonsense and start acting like Priscilla, like you're supposed to."
Leah's heart shattered at his words, but she refused to show him her pain. With a shaky breath, she turned and fled, her feet carrying her down the dimly lit corridors of the palace. She needed to escape—to breathe—to escape the suffocating grip of her own despair.
Mildred, who had been standing just outside the corridor, overheard the entire exchange. His hand tightened around the glass he held, his knuckles blanching white as anger surged through him. How dare he say such things to her? he thought, his chest tightening with fury. How dare he treat her this way?
His eyes burned with an intensity he had never known, and in that moment, something inside him snapped. She deserves so much more than this, Mildred thought, his fist tightening around the glass until it cracked in his grip. He didn't care.