Chapter 1
Rem POV
Name: Remixienne Delacroix
Slap!
“You stupid girl,” Emperor Delacroix spat, his voice cold enough to freeze the air.
My cheek burned where his palm had landed, the sting spreading like fire.
“How dare you embarrass me by showing your face at my daughter’s tea party?” His words were sharp, deliberate, meant to cut.
“I… I’m sorry, Father,” I stammered, tears blurring my vision.
KICK.
The breath was knocked out of me. My knees hit the marble floor.
“I told you to never call me that,” he hissed, his shadow stretching over me like a dark cloak.
“F… forgive me,” I whispered, pressing my forehead to the cold stone. The taste of iron filled my mouth.
This was nothing new.
It was the rhythm of my life—the sting, the blow, the shame.
I was the daughter of Rosalie, a beautiful palace maid who had caught the emperor’s eye too many times.
When she became with child, whispers spread through the corridors like wildfire, until the day I was born and the truth could no longer be denied.
The empress’s rage was legendary. The emperor’s indifference was worse.
My mother and I were exiled to a damp outhouse beyond the palace walls, far from the silks and gold.
She raised me there in quiet love until the day she was poisoned.
I was too young to remember her face clearly, but the older maids—those who had once called her friend—told me the truth and warned me to keep my distance from the empress.
But the empress liked games. And I, the bastard stain on her perfect lineage, was her favorite toy.
“Unless told to, do not show your face,” the emperor said, his tone sharp as a blade.
“Darling,” the empress purred, her smile never touching her eyes, “don’t worry. She’s of marriage age anyway. I will find her a suitor.”
“Get out of my sight,” the emperor snapped.
I rose quickly, bowing my head, and ran—my slippers barely whispering against the marble—until I reached the highest tower of the palace.
My bedroom.
My cage.
It was no accident I’d been placed here. Far from the courtyards, the banquet halls, the prying eyes of nobles who might dare to ask who I was.
To them, I was the ghost in the rafters. The frail, sickly daughter no one saw.
The lie they told to keep their secrets buried.
My family—if I can even call them that—was made up of six members.
The emperor. The empress. And their four perfect children.
All of them fair-skinned, green-eyed, with hair the color of polished gold.
A picture-perfect lineage for the great Delacroix name.
My half-brothers came first: Lucian Jr., named after Emperor Lucian Delacroix himself, though most just called him Junior.
Then Gerald—who made sport out of bullying me whenever the opportunity arose.
Last came the twin girls, Selene and Seraphine, identical in looks and identical in their hatred for me.
They adored reminding me that I was different, their taunts dripping with colorism.
Different.
Always different.
While they were porcelain and pale, I was caramel-skinned, my hazel eyes framed by thick lashes, my dark chestnut hair tumbling down to my lower back.
My figure, hidden beneath layers of fabric, was fuller than theirs—womanly where they were slight.
To them, their narrow frames were a badge of status. Not eating wasn’t an affliction—it was an aesthetic.
Me? I liked food. I liked the warmth and comfort of it. But most days, I was lucky to see more than scraps.
