The bucket of soapy water sloshed against my legs as I dragged it down the long, gleaming corridor, my arms already sore from scrubbing the marble floors. The palace stretched endlessly around me, grand and gilded, each wall adorned with golden trims and tapestries that spoke of wealth and power. And yet, here I was, reduced to this—cleaning floors like a common servant.
A princess scrubbing the ground.
It was almost laughable. If it weren't for the fact that the bucket weighed as much as a small boulder, I might've laughed bitterly at the irony. Even if Ophelia had been the illegitimate daughter of a mistress, she still had royal blood. That had to count for something. Right? Apparently not in this twisted kingdom.
The corridor seemed endless, the polished floors reflecting the ornate chandeliers hanging above. Each scrub of the brush felt like an insult, a reminder of how far I had fallen—or rather, how far Ophelia had always been.
"Missed a spot," a voice sneered.
I glanced up, my eyes meeting those of a young maid standing a few feet away. Her arms were crossed, her expression a mixture of disdain and amusement. She wasn't even older than me—or rather, Ophelia—but the way she looked down at me made it clear she thought herself superior.
I didn't respond. Instead, I dipped the brush back into the bucket and resumed scrubbing, letting the bristles scrape against the marble with a satisfying rhythm.
The maid snorted. "Pathetic." She walked off, her shoes clicking loudly against the floor, and I heard her muttering to the other servants. "Can you believe her? A princess cleaning the floors. Serves her right, though, doesn't it?"
Serves her right? For what? For being born?
I bit back the retort bubbling in my throat. They weren't worth it.
The palace servants didn't outright attack me like Anastasia and Beatrix did, but their disdain was palpable. Every glance, every whispered comment, every little snub was a reminder that I didn't belong. They didn't need to hit me—they were content with letting me drown in humiliation.
"Move," another servant barked, brushing past me with a stack of linens. She didn't even bother to look at me as she shoved me aside, the edge of the linens smacking against my shoulder. I staggered slightly but kept my balance, gripping the bucket tightly.
A footman walked by, carrying a tray of wine goblets. He glanced at me, his lips curling into a smirk. "Careful, Princess," he said mockingly. "Wouldn't want you to get too comfortable down there."
The heat rose to my cheeks, but I forced myself to stay silent. Elena De Luca wouldn't have let them get away with this. But right now, I wasn't Elena. I was Ophelia, and Ophelia had no power.
This is just absolutely fucked up!
I heaved a sigh. "Self control, Elena. Self control."
By the time I finished scrubbing the corridor, my arms felt like jelly, and my knees ached from the hard marble floor. I dumped the dirty water into the nearest drain and carried the bucket back to what I now remembered as Ophelia's room.
The room—or more accurately, the glorified broom closet—was tucked away in a forgotten corner of the palace. I pushed the creaky wooden door open and stepped inside, immediately overwhelmed by the musty smell of damp wood and mildew.
This... this was where they kept her?
I almost laughed, the sound dry and humorless. It wasn't a bedroom. It wasn't even a servant's quarters. It was a storage room with a cot shoved into the corner and a single, cracked window that let in just enough light to highlight the peeling wallpaper.
The bed—or what passed for one—was little more than a wooden frame with a thin, lumpy mattress that sagged in the middle. A tattered blanket lay crumpled at the foot, its edges fraying. The only other piece of furniture was a rickety stool with one leg shorter than the others, making it wobble precariously.
I set the bucket down and sank onto the cot, the mattress groaning under my weight. The springs dug into my back as I leaned against the wall, staring at the ceiling.
If this was a princess's room, what did the servants' quarters look like?
If I had to guess, I would say the servants' quarters would be way better than this.
Ahh! Absolutely ridiculous.
The old Ophelia must have cried herself to sleep here, night after night, clutching that threadbare blanket and praying for kindness that never came. The thought made my chest tighten, though not with pity. It was anger—hot, searing anger that burned through me like wildfire.
She hadn't deserved this.
No one did.
I ran a hand through my hair, the damp strands tangling around my fingers. The water Anastasia had dumped on me earlier had dried in patches, leaving my scalp itchy and my clothes stiff.
I had lived in a mansion in my past life, surrounded by luxury and servants who bowed their heads in respect.
This?
This was a new kind of hell.
The sound of laughter echoed down the hallway, pulling me from my thoughts. I stood and walked to the window, peering out at the palace gardens below. The view was deceptively beautiful—vibrant flowers in full bloom, neatly trimmed hedges, and fountains that sparkled in the sunlight. It was hard to believe that behind all this beauty lurked cruelty and corruption.
A group of noblewomen strolled through the gardens, their laughter carrying up to my window. They were dressed in silks and jewels, their parasols shielding them from the sun. Among them was Anastasia, her golden hair catching the light as she threw her head back in laughter.
I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms.
For now, I had to play along. I had to keep up the act of being Ophelia, the pitiful, broken girl they thought they could control.
I turned away from the window and sat back on the cot, the springs creaking under me. Tomorrow would be another day of scrubbing floors and enduring their taunts.
But it wouldn't last forever.
I had plans.
I just have to wait until the main plot start to unravel.
Patience, Elena.
Patience.