The Delacroix Estate was always in bloom.
White roses wrapped the wrought-iron gates like lace, and the marble pillars gleamed as if kissed daily by sunlight. It was a place that smelled of old wealth, secrets, and lavender-scented pride.
But beneath the polished surface, in the servants' wing tucked far from the chandeliered halls, lived a girl who didn't quite belong.
Her name was Seraphine Elira Delacroix.
Though the Delacroix crest had been embroidered into her linens and etched into her locket, everyone in the estate knew the truth.
She wasn't a true daughter.
She was the shadow.
The playmate.
The possession.
Lady Jane had adopted her not out of kindness, but convenience—so her precious Celestine would have a living doll to giggle with, practice noble speech with, and dominate without consequence.
At first, Seraphine didn't understand.
As a toddler, she followed Celestine everywhere, smiling with unshakable warmth. She fetched her ribbons, shared her sweets, even offered her blanket during storms.
But by the time she turned six, she had already learned to walk with eyes lowered and hands folded.
By seven, she had learned to take blame for broken china and spilled ink.
By eight, she had learned not to cry when the cooks "forgot" her dinner as punishment for clumsiness.
Because crying only made it worse.
---
Lady Jane Delacroix never raised her voice.
She didn't need to.
A tilt of her chin was enough to send shivers down spines.
"Why must you always trail mud on my carpets, Seraphine?" she would sigh, her voice honey-laced venom. "Even rats know their place."
Seraphine never answered.
She only curtsied and bowed her head lower.
It was safer that way.
"Remember," the head maid once whispered harshly, shoving a rag into her hands, "you're lucky to even sleep under this roof. Ungrateful little thing."
So Seraphine worked.
Polishing floors.
Dusting portraits.
Buttoning Celestine's gowns.
Always quiet.
Always careful.
Never equal.
---
But even in that cold, gilded prison, she had one ember of warmth.
Carlos Mendez.
He was the son of Nana Espelth—the gentle, silver-haired woman who had raised Seraphine during her infancy, back when she was still allowed soft lullabies and warm milk.
Carlos was her age, wiry and sharp-eyed, with wild dark curls and a grin that could melt stone.
Unlike the other children in the estate, Carlos never mocked her. Never looked down on her. Never treated her like she was something stained.
He was mischief wrapped in kindness.
And he was always there.
One winter night, Seraphine was made to scrub the hallway stairs because Celestine had claimed she "stole her hair ribbon."
Her hands were raw.
Her belly rumbled with hunger.
Snow pressed against the windows like white silence, mocking the warmth inside.
She didn't complain.
She never did.
But when she bent to wring out the frozen rag, a hand brushed hers.
She flinched, startled.
Then gasped softly.
A warm bread roll had been slipped into her hand.
She turned, heart pounding, only to find Carlos crouched behind the pillar, grinning.
"Eat it," he whispered. "Before old Wicks catches you."
Her throat tightened. "I'll get punished."
"Then let them punish me too."
He winked. "I've had worse."
Seraphine looked down at the roll—still warm, smelling faintly of cinnamon.
And for the first time that week, her lips curled into a smile.
Just a flicker.
But it was real.
---
Carlos became her silent shield.
Whenever she was locked in the pantry, he'd slip notes under the door.
When she was made to sleep without blankets, he'd sneak one down from the laundry line.
When she was blamed for Celestine's tantrums, he'd take extra chores to ease her burden.
"Why do you always help me?" she asked once, when they were nine and crouched beneath the staircase during a thunderstorm.
Carlos looked at her like it was the dumbest question in the world.
"Because you're not a toy," he said. "You're Seraphine."
She blinked. "But Lady Jane—"
"Lady Jane can stuff it."
Seraphine giggled.
It was soft.
Barely a breath.
But it echoed like a song.
Carlos looked at her, spellbound. "You should laugh more."
"Why?"
"Because when you do… it feels like the world hasn't ended yet."
The older she grew, the more Seraphine realized she was never meant to shine.
She had Celestine's old gowns, always refitted and fraying.
She was taught to bow, not to dance.
To clean, not to attend.
To listen, not to speak.
But Carlos never let her forget.
"You were born for more than this," he whispered once, after she had been slapped for stepping into the music room uninvited.
"I don't feel like I was born for anything."
"Then I'll remind you every day until you believe it."
---
By the time she turned twelve, Seraphine had grown into quiet beauty.
Her silver-blonde hair fell in waves, her features delicate and noble. Her poise rivaled any true lady, though she had no formal training.
And that only made things worse.
Celestine had noticed.
Lady Jane had noticed.
The jealous glances turned sharper.
The punishments more subtle—but more cruel.
At one banquet, Seraphine was ordered to serve instead of join, despite being introduced earlier as Celestine's "adopted sister."
A nobleman raised an eyebrow. "She looks more like nobility than the rest of them."
Lady Jane smiled coolly. "Appearances deceive. That one is merely… a fortunate charity."
Seraphine's cheeks burned.
But she kept serving.
Eyes lowered.
Heart closed.