Chapter 3

October sat perched in front of the vanity, admiring her reflection as if seeing herself for the first time. "Damn," she thought, smirking slightly. "This girl is so beautiful." There was no denying it—Lady October had a face that could haunt dreams or command kingdoms.

Her hair, a cascade of platinum waves with dark roots, reached all the way down to her lower back. Her eyes were shaped like those of a koi fish—large and haunting, a pale silver-gray that gave the impression of blindness at first glance. Long, inky lashes curled like the wings of a raven, effortlessly putting social media starlets to shame. Heart-shaped lips, freckles dusted like soft kisses from the sun, and three birthmarks on her face formed the mathematical symbol for “therefore”—one on her left cheek and two just under her right eye. She looked like something out of a painting, but sharper, more tragic. Almost too perfect.

She was the standard of beauty. Yet...

"How sad," she murmured softly to herself. "A chick this stunning has never known real happiness."

She leaned closer to the mirror, tilting her head. The morning light spilled across her skin like silk, softening the edges of her cheekbones, catching faint flecks of amber hidden in the pale gray of her irises. Her fingers grazed the curve of her cheek as if to test whether the reflection would ripple like a dream. In her past life, she had loathed mirrors—always searching for imperfections, her smile too wide, her teeth slightly crooked, one eye narrower than the other. But this face didn’t invite scrutiny. It demanded reverence.

It was cruel, in a way—how beauty like this could mask a history so painful.

'Let me get this girl’s story straight.'

October Catherine Windsor—fifth daughter and sixth child of Lord Theodore Windsor, the Grand Duke of the Windsor estate. She was born from his second marriage, not to some noble lady, but to Iris Graham, a piano player with more soul in her fingertips than any royal carried in their blood.

The Duke had fallen in love with Iris after the tragic death of his first wife, who had been chosen for him through an arranged marriage to preserve legacy and lineage. His love for Iris was scandalous, borderline illegal under the strict marriage laws of nobility. Royals marrying commoners was strictly prohibited—it threatened the sanctity of their purebred bloodlines. But Theodore, ever cunning and fueled by genuine emotion, leveraged his close blood relation to the king to obtain a rare exemption. The King granted him the right to marry Iris and legitimize any future children—so long as they claimed no rights to the dukedom.

He had done it for love. Or maybe to save his own pride. Either way, the fallout was catastrophic.

Noble society was ruthless. The Duke's own family, along with that of his late wife, saw Iris as a stain on their name. They whispered cruel things behind velvet fans—accusations of seduction, gold-digging, even adultery. Iris endured it with her chin held high—until she couldn't anymore. She fled the castle, heartbroken and humiliated, filing for divorce shortly after revealing she was pregnant.

The Duke had tried to make amends, visiting her occasionally, trying to persuade her to return for the sake of the child. But doubt had taken root. Whispers of paternity echoed so loudly that even Theodore began to question whether the child was truly his. He never said it out loud, but his silence was louder than any accusation.

Still, months later, Iris gave birth to twin daughters—October and May. When Theodore came to see them, his doubt shattered. October was the spitting image of him. May bore more of Iris’s features—softer, warmer—but even she had unmistakable Windsor traits.

Overwhelmed with guilt, he offered to take both girls into his care. He promised better living conditions, an easier life. Iris refused.

"I will not let my daughters grow up in a house that made me feel like nothing," she had told him. "Visit them if you must—but you will not take them."

And he did. He visited them. Brought them lavish gifts. Sometimes, he even tried to sway the girls with sweetened promises. May, tempted by luxury, begged their mother to let her live with their father. Eventually, she did.

October stayed.

Still, before all that, there were good days. Ones full of messy breakfasts, out-of-tune piano chords, and laughter that didn’t feel like it would disappear the moment you reached for it.

She remembered one summer afternoon when she and May were just eight. October had returned home with scraped knees and dirt on her cheeks from playing near the old fountain. A group of neighborhood boys had teased her freckles, saying they looked like “dirt splatters.” She’d blinked back tears, trying to be brave, until May came charging in like a wild thing.

“Only I get to call her names!” May had shouted, shoving one of the boys so hard he fell into the bushes.

Iris had laughed when she saw the chaos they brought home—muddy shoes, sunburnt cheeks, bits of twig in their hair. She kissed them both and set them at the piano bench, letting their small hands trip over the keys in clumsy joy.

They hadn’t always been broken. There had been warmth once. Brief, fragile, real.

But years passed, and then the tragedy came. Then Iris died when she was just so young, leaving her emotionally and financially shattered. With no options left, she reluctantly reached out to the Windsors. October, now sixteen, moved into the estate. It was supposed to be temporary.

But it quickly became hell.

She was bullied relentlessly. Labeled a "half-blood" by cousins and courtiers. Even May, her own twin, distanced herself—subtly, but painfully. October learned to smile with her mouth and not her eyes, learned silence was safer than honesty, and that solitude, however bitter, was better than constant rejection.

“Damn,” she muttered, dragging her fingers across her cheek. “This girl had it rough.”

She closed her eyes, letting herself breathe for a second. The pain, the isolation, the quiet strength. She recognized it. It lived in her too. Like a shadow with a heartbeat.

A soft knock at the door snapped her out of her thoughts.

Gloria, the housemaid, entered carrying a glass of water and a small white pill. "My lady, your medicine."

"Thank you, Gloria," October said with a polite smile. She took the pill, making a face at the bitter taste.

“You always act like it’s poison,” Gloria said.

“It tastes like poison,” October replied, wrinkling her nose.

Gloria bowed. “Breakfast will be served soon. You should leave now—you don’t want to be late.”

October sighed. “Of course. Almost slipped my mind.”

She stood, brushing imaginary dust from her dress. But she didn’t move to the door.

Instead, she hovered, her gaze flickering toward the hallway beyond. The thought of walking through the estate’s corridors—each lined with portraits of ancestors who’d scoff at her very existence—made her stomach twist. The dining hall would be worse. Eyes watching her like hawks, waiting for her to falter. Anna-Marie’s smug glances. May’s veiled pity. Conversations full of venom dipped in honey.

Her chest tightened. She wasn’t ready.

Almost shyly, she asked, “Gloria... would you mind escorting me down? I just... don’t feel like walking in there alone today.”

The maid nodded, no questions asked. “Of course, my lady.”

They stepped out together, October on a similar pace with Gloria.

She took a breath so deep it stung her lungs.

“Smile. Sit. Survive,” she whispered under her breath. The same chant she’d used in meetings back in her old life—before bosses who forgot her name and coworkers who talked over her. Funny, how some things never changed.

Time to meet the new family.