“Lady Arwen, it’s time to wake up.”

Clatter.

The maid spoke sharply as she drew back the curtains.

The girl in the bed frowned and stirred uneasily as bright sunlight poured in through the large window.

When she showed no sign of getting up, another maid set a tray down on the bedside table with a loud thud—a basin of water, face wash, and towels rattling on top.

The water sloshed and splashed onto the bed sheets.

“Honestly, she never gets up in one go. I wonder who she takes after.”

“Her mother tried to catch a man to live easy, what do you expect from a daughter like that?”

The two maids exchanged mocking glances before shaking the girl roughly.

Only then did her heavy, reluctant eyelids flutter open.

It was unusual to see the servants of a noble household treating their young mistress so roughly and speaking to her so insolently.

This wasn’t just a scene between sleepy maids and a drowsy noble girl.

It was something else entirely: a complete inversion of rank.

In a world governed by social class, this kind of behaviour would have been unthinkable.

And yet it happened — because the girl was merely a fake marchioness’s daughter.

The real daughter, Arwen Amaranth, born to the legitimate wife, had died. To preserve the engagement with the Duke of Blair, the illegitimate daughter had been brought into the mansion as her replacement.

By misfortune — or perhaps by fortune — the two girls were the same age, with the same golden hair and emerald eyes.

This was because their father, the Marquis of Amaranth, slept with his new wife’s maid on his honeymoon. Both children had inherited their father’s hair and eye color.

“Come to your senses, Lydia! Do you know what time it is? You’ll never catch up to Lady Arwen at this rate!”

“If you want to at least pretend to be like her, you’d better put in some effort!”

The shrill voices of the maids rang through the young lady’s chamber.

‘Another miserable day begins. If only I could just never wake up again. I really don’t want to get up…’

Lydia sighed and reluctantly pushed herself up from the bed.

Everyone in the marquisate spoke of Arwen as if she were the very embodiment of perfection: beautiful, gentle, graceful and polite. Her posture and movements were elegant, and her embroidery, flower arranging, painting, music, dancing, writing and tea ceremony were beyond reproach.

According to them, she must have been a goddess of beauty, an angel of virtue, and a once-in-a-century genius.

Lydia had never believed it.

At the time of her death, the real Lady Arwen had only been twelve.

No matter how bright or clever a child was, twelve was still just twelve.

Above all, Lydia had never met Arwen.

In other words, all that praise was just gossip from the Marchioness of Amaranth and her servants. No one actually knew what kind of person Arwen had truly been.

Most likely, they resented Lydia for enjoying the privileges of a noblewoman despite her humble origins.

Of course, perhaps some of it also came from pity for the frail, sickly Arwen who died too soon.

Ultimately, there was no choice but to ignore their unfair discrimination and ridiculous accusations.

Logical arguments only gave them more ammunition, and retaliating in kind would likely result in punishment or a beating.

With the irritable assistance of the maids, Lydia finished her bath and got dressed.

As always, this was followed by a gruelling schedule.

Her daily routine consisted of two main activities: lessons in the basic accomplishments expected of a noble lady, and the memorisation and imitation of Arwen’s life and memories.

The former might one day prove useful, so she studied it diligently.

However, she loathed the latter, although she had no choice but to obey.

She had never wanted to impersonate someone.

The Marquis of Amaranth had dragged her there against her will and forced her to play a role she had never asked for.

If she failed to imitate Arwen perfectly and someone became suspicious, it would be the household’s problem, not hers.

Wasn’t it the Marquis’s own fault for staging a deception that was so easily exposed?

Of course, the Marquis and Marchioness would never see it that way.

Her father would denounce her as a fraud who had disgraced the family, and the Marchioness would be furious that Lydia had defiled her daughter’s name.

Unfortunately, Lydia had no power to resist their revenge.

All she could do was erase herself, bit by bit, and play along with their charade.

As ever, resigned to her fate, Lydia stepped out of her room and turned a corner towards the ‘Mirror Room’.

At that moment, a maid frowned and blocked her path.

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten what day it is?”

“It’s Wednesday. I’m supposed to be learning social dance now… oh. That day.”

Lydia’s puzzled expression stiffened as the realization hit her.

Today was the day she dreaded most, the day unwelcome guests arrived.

The guests were none other than the relatives of Marchioness Maeve Amaranth: members of the Kensington Count’s family.

The Kensingtons regularly visited the Marquisate, typically around a week before Lydia was scheduled to attend a social gathering.

Their purpose was simple: to evaluate whether Lydia could still pass as Arwen Amaranth.

If they were to meet her at an imperial ball or noble gathering and fail to recognize her, or worse, if she contradicted Arwen’s supposed past, it would be disastrous.

It was Marquis Kyle Amaranth’s idea.

At first, the Marchioness protested, asking, “Are you using my family now?”, but she soon began to support her husband’s plan without complaint.

Lydia knew exactly why.

Not once had anything good ever happened to her on days when the Marchioness’s nephews, the real Arwen’s cousins, visited the mansion.

The Marchioness’s eyes swept leisurely over Lydia’s pale face before she spoke in a sweet, mocking tone.

“Your relatives are visiting today, yet you look so unwell. People might get the wrong idea if they see you like this.”

✦❘༻༺❘✦❘༻༺❘✦❘༻༺❘✦❘༻༺❘✦❘༻༺❘✦❘༻༺❘✦ ✦❘༻༺❘✦❘༻༺❘✦❘༻༺❘✦❘༻༺❘✦❘༻༺❘✦❘༻༺❘✦ ✦❘

The Count and Countess of Kensington had three children:

Their eldest son, Theodore; their second son, Vincent; and their only daughter, Stella.

As they were all close in age to the real Lady Arwen Amaranth, they all knew her to some degree.

Stella had been especially close to Arwen and consequently despised Lydia the most.

While the two brothers regarded Lydia with cold disdain, Stella’s hatred stemmed from a different place.

She believed that Lydia had doomed Arwen to death and revelled shamelessly in her stolen noble title.

To Lydia, who had been forced into the role of a ‘fake’, this was a grave injustice, but Stella was not at all concerned by the resentment of someone so lowborn.

Lydia’s steps towards the reception room felt heavy, as if she were weighed down by soaked cotton.

The moment she opened the door and entered, she was met with sharp, unfriendly gazes.

Usually, guests would rise when their host arrived.

But these three didn’t even move.

Their rudeness was nothing new.

Without a word, Lydia sat down in an empty chair.

The first to speak was Theodore.

“It’s been a while, Arwen.”

“Ah, yes. About three months, I think. Have you been well?”

Lydia always avoided using titles or names with them.

If she addressed them by name, they called her insolent commoner; if she used proper noble forms of address like Sir or Lady, they accused her of trying to expose her own deceit.

Theodore gave a careless nod.

“Well enough. Lessons for succession, a few social gatherings, some horseback riding or cards during leisure. Nothing special. And you?”

“Just lessons at the marquisate, as usual…”

“I see.”

Before she could finish, Theodore cut her off and turned his gaze away, as though his duty to speak to her was done.

Avoiding conversation, avoiding eye contact, and pretending she didn’t exist, that was how Theodore treated Lydia.

It wasn’t pleasant, but among the three, it was still the kindest treatment she received.

“You still never start a conversation. That’s not like you, Arwen. You used to be so lively and sociable. You’ve changed so much, it’s almost as if you’re a different person.”

Vincent, who had been idly picking at an apple tart, spoke in a flat, indifferent tone.

The strange custom of the Amaranth family began around a year after Arwen’s death.

Since then, Vincent had addressed Lydia as ‘Arwen’ without hesitation, occasionally reminding her that she was a fake.

They questioned her endlessly about her identity, personality, likes and dislikes, and what had happened between her and the real Arwen.

Sometimes, Lydia got the answers right. Other times, she didn’t.

No matter how diligently she memorized the information provided by the Marchioness or the servants, it was impossible to remember every trivial detail.

Whenever she slipped up, Vincent would sneer at her, calling her stupid or accusing her of having a poor memory.

The truth was that Vincent enjoyed provoking her. He toyed with her like a cat playing with a trapped mouse.

To him, a fake marchioness’s daughter was a rare sort of plaything, and in the worst, most aristocratic sense of the word, he was a boy born for cruelty.

Lydia found him unbearably irritating, a “question-mark sadist,” as she called him in her mind, but she made every effort to stay civil.

Don’t provoke the madman. Don’t make it fun for him. That was her rule.

“Arwen, remember how the Kensington chef used to make those lemon tarts? We loved them so much, didn’t we?”

“Ah… right. We did.”

“Pfft! ‘We did,’ really? I’m allergic to lemons, you idiot! I got hives once just from a bit of lemon juice on grilled abalone. As if I’d ever eat lemon tarts! Unbelievable.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it could be dangerous. I won’t be hosting any more parties, but I’ll try not to forget.”

“Good. When you lack intelligence, you should at least make up for it with effort.”

Tap. Tap.

He prodded her forehead twice with his index finger, each push hard enough to sting.

‘Endure it,’ she repeated to herself inside. ‘Just endure it.’

Compared to last time, when he’d tapped her cheek with the back of a fork, this was nothing.

But then Stella spoke.

The calm, expressionless mask that Lydia had been holding together so carefully finally cracked.