Chapter 4

Walking through the long-winded halls of Windsor Castle, October couldn’t help but be awestruck by its sheer grandeur. The sunlight filtered through arched stained-glass windows, casting a kaleidoscope of colors onto the ancient marble floor beneath her feet. Each step echoed, swallowed and then returned by the cavernous silence of a castle too old to care who walked its halls now.

“Wow… it’s like stepping into Kensington Palace,” she thought, trying to hide her awe behind a calm, composed façade.

The ceiling arched high above, decorated with gilded frescoes and sprawling murals depicting the legacy of the Windsor lineage. Battles won, crowns passed, and gods themselves bowed to noble figures carved into the stone. October almost scoffed. It was all so grandiose… and so deeply hollow.

Gloria walked beside her in silence, ever the loyal shadow. The older woman sensed her lady's nervous energy but didn’t press. She knew better than to disrupt the fragile calm October wrapped around herself like a second skin.

They eventually reached a pair of grand dark mahogany doors, their frames carved with intricate, eccentric designs—dragons, roses, twisted vines. The wood shimmered faintly under the light, as if it had been bathed in oil and polished by the hands of generations. Just the door alone radiated power, wealth, and something else... something older, colder.

I guess this is it, October thought.

She exhaled softly, squared her shoulders, and pushed the doors open with both hands, her fingers trembling just slightly against the chill of the handle.

What awaited her stole her breath.

The dining hall looked like a scene pulled from a mythic ballad. A long polished oak table stretched the entire length of the room like a highway of gleaming gold. Chandeliers made from enchanted crystal hung from the ceiling, refracting dawn light into shimmering halos that danced along the white marble walls. Beyond the crystal-paned windows, a garden bloomed so vividly it bordered on surrealism. It could’ve shamed the Hanging Gardens of Babylon—flowers in full, rebellious bloom, vines that weaved through lattices like calligraphy, and fountains singing lullabies with each trickle.

It was Eden... until her eyes landed on the snake.

Anna-Marie Windsor.

October’s third eldest half-sister.

Twenty-four years old. The castle’s unchallenged queen bee. Beautiful, ruthless, and venomous in silk. Anna-Marie had led the bullying against October with the skill of a seasoned commander. Every insult had been calculated, every rumor carefully placed. Her favorite weapons were whispered lies and poisoned laughter, and her battlefield was high society.

Jealousy was her armor, and October—October with her effortless beauty and foreign elegance—had been enemy number one.

“Why does this feel like déjà vu?” October muttered under her breath.

“Sorry for keeping you waiting,” she said aloud, curtsying with grace so polished it glinted. “I hope I haven’t delayed breakfast.”

Anna-Marie scoffed, sipping her tea with exaggerated disdain. “Can’t believe we had to wait for you of all people.”

October smiled like it didn’t matter. “Forgive me, sister. I overslept.”

“You do—”

“Enough, Anna-Marie,” came a sharp voice.

It was Lady Scheuer Windsor—“Sissy,” the eldest daughter. She sat tall, her composure unshakable, her voice firm but never loud. Regal and poised in a muted green gown, she radiated an elegance that didn’t require attention to command it.

Scheuer gave October a brief nod. “You're forgiven, October. Just don’t let it happen again. A lady shouldn’t keep others waiting.”

“Thank you, sister,” October said with sweet obedience, inclining her head.

Scheuer’s version of kindness wasn’t warm, but it was just. That alone set her apart.

The conversation dulled, and breakfast continued in awkward silence—save for the clinking of utensils and idle commentary on weather and estate affairs.

October said nothing, her hands folded neatly on her lap, eyes fixed on the silver rim of her porcelain teacup. Her thoughts, however, were loud. Each breath she took felt like a balancing act—composure and rage locked in a fragile dance.

She kept thinking, This place... this family... they don’t see me. They never have.

After the meal, she rose gracefully and excused herself. The moment she was out of sight, she exhaled the breath she’d been holding since she stepped into the room.

The hallways greeted her like cold old friends. Portraits of ancestors lined the walls—men and women who’d gone to war, brokered peace, shaped nations. None of them would have made room for someone like her. She didn’t belong in these frames. She didn’t belong here at all.

By the time she reached her chambers, she felt as though her skin didn’t fit quite right. She slipped inside, shut the door, and twisted the lock with shaking fingers.

“Take the rest of the morning for yourself,” she told Gloria, who had quietly followed.

“Yes, my lady,” the maid said with a bow, retreating.

Silence.

At last, she let herself breathe.

October kicked off her shoes and collapsed backward onto her bed, the canopy above her woven with silks in shades of ivory and silver. She stared up at it blankly, hands resting on her stomach, her mind spinning with memories—some from her own past, and some that now belonged to October Windsor.

This family… this twisted tapestry of gold and rot.

There were six of them.

Scheuer Windsor—the eldest. Sharp-minded, well-respected, engaged to a marquis’son from the Northern Empire. In their mother’s absence, she had assumed the role of lady of the house. She commanded attention in every room she entered. She wasn’t cruel to October, but she kept her at arm’s length. Peace over passion.

Langris Windsor—the only son and heir. A ghost in a gilded shell. Reclusive, bookish, and brilliant, but emotionally distant to a fault. He never lifted a finger against October, but never defended her either. His indifference was its own kind of wound.

Anna-Marie—the golden girl. A socialite, a manipulator, a master of backhanded compliments and sweetly delivered venom. She wore her jealousy like perfume. Every time October existed in the same room as her, she felt it—burning like ice.

Elina—the fourth child. A soldier. A rebel. The only one who dared laugh with October in public. She wore scars like medals and honor like armor. She saw through the charades, but her voice was too soft to reach the ears that needed to hear it.

And May.

Her twin. Her other half. Her blood.

May, who had once held her hand in the dark. May, who had now turned her back entirely.

The cruelest betrayal didn’t come from strangers. It came from the voice that once matched your own. May had followed Anna-Marie like a moth to flame. She soaked in the luxury, the status, the recognition. And in doing so, she let October fall.

“You chose to be a pauper,” she’d said once, spitting the words like ash. “Don’t expect me to pretend you’re worth more than dirt.”

That had been the day October stopped asking for kindness.

Now, alone in the quiet of her chambers, her chest ached with a grief she couldn’t name.

Not for the family she never had.

But for the one she almost did.

“I want to go home,” she whispered.

But the truth coiled quietly behind her ribs like a second heartbeat.

She didn’t know where home was anymore.