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. '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. Anna 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.
Years passed, and then the tragedy came. A beloved relative of Iris's died, 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 chuckled.
"It tastes like poison," October replied, wrinkling her nose.
Gloria smiled warmly. "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. Then, 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."
Together they left the room, October's hand resting lightly on Gloria's arm.
'Time to meet the new family,' she thought grimly.