Sold As A Slave, Returned To Be Queen - Chapter 1: Chapter 1

The Red Pavilion.
Charlotte Gibbs was scrubbing the toilet with a blank stare when the stewardess barked from outside, "Charlotte, clean yourself up and get out here. Hurry up."
Tomorrow was her coming-of-age party. And that meant one thing—her first night with a client.
Her fingers tightened around the small vial hidden inside her pouch. She'd prepared it days ago.
Colorless. Tasteless. Instant death.
The stewardess, irritated by her silence, kicked over the bucket, sending dirty water splashing across the floor. "Count yourself lucky," she sneered. "You're just about old enough to start servicing men—and now the General's estate wants you back!"
Charlotte froze.
She had once been the most beloved daughter of the Hastings family—granted the noble title Lady of Rennhall by the King himself.
But everything changed on her twelfth birthday. That day, Brielle Hastings arrived at their gates dressed in mourning white, bowed, and held out a jewel pendant. She claimed she was the real daughter of the Hastings family, and that years ago, the midwife had been bribed—Charlotte was just a pawn in a cruel switch.
The midwife confessed and died shortly after. Brielle had nowhere else to go, so she sought refuge with the Hastings family.
No further proof was needed. Brielle's face looked nearly identical to Valeria Hastings's—close enough to settle the matter on sight.
Out of old loyalty, the family let Charlotte stay in the house. But she was no longer respected now.
People praised the Hastings family for their grace. "They treat both girls equally," they said. "Such kindness. Such generosity."
Until the Queen Mother Daphne Harcourt's birthday celebration. The Queen had offered a Holy Grail painting as a gift.
During the event, the noble ladies crowded around to admire it. In the midst of it all, Brielle's golden hairpin slipped—damaging the art.
The King was furious. Valeria turned around and, without hesitation, slapped Charlotte to the ground.
"The General's estate took you in out of mercy, forgave your deceit—and this is how you repay us? You'd bring disgrace upon our entire house?"
Charlotte could only stare in shock at the woman who had once called her daughter. But in Valeria's eyes, there was no sorrow. Only loathing.
Everyone who once loved her now treated her like a curse.
She tried to defend herself, to say it was Brielle who tore the painting.
But they told her, "Charlotte, this is the debt you owe the Hastings family. This is the sin you must atone for."
And so, she was sent to the Red Pavilion.
It wasn't like other institutions. There were no rules here—only filth, cruelty, and chaos. Those forced to serve here were treated worse than animals.
At first, she fought. She cried. She refused to accept it.
Until the day she saw another girl—one who had arrived with her—beaten to death just for scratching a courtesan's skin.
After that, Charlotte learned to obey. She lived on edge, surviving one day at a time.
Every day, she told herself—maybe someone from the Hastings family would remember the twelve years they raised her. Maybe someone would come.
But no one ever did. Not even once.
Whatever affection she had left for the Hastings family had long since withered away under the daily torment of life in the Red Pavilion.
She no longer wanted to go back. She would rather die.
But her fate was never hers to decide.
The stewardess scrubbed her down in ice-cold well water, her skin turning pale and wrinkled from the chill.
"Once you're back at the General's estate, mind your tongue," the woman warned. "Don't think for a second they brought you back to be a young lady again. You came from the Red Pavilion, and that's all you'll ever be. Even if you're in their house, you're nothing but a servant now."
After those words, she was dragged outside.
Sunlight—warm, golden, and long-missed—bathed her skin. But Charlotte kept her head lowered. She was a slave. She had no right to look up. From beneath her lashes, she caught a glimpse of white silk—elegant, expensive, and unmistakably fine.
She didn't need to raise her head to know who it was.
Oliver Hastings. Her brother. The one who once adored her more than anything. He had loved the color blue. But ever since Brielle arrived at the Hastings family wearing white, he switched to white too—and never wore blue again.
Now, only a step separated them. But she could never call him brother again.
Charlotte's vision blurred. A dull ache tightened in her chest as she followed the stewardess in bowing deeply. "Lord Oliver."
Oliver looked past the stewardess—and paused when his eyes landed on her.
The Charlotte he remembered had always been full of smiles, cheeks round and soft. Everyone had loved to pinch them. She had been the little darling of the house.
But now... she looked like a lifeless puppet. Gaunt, pale, shrinking in on herself—there wasn't a trace of the bright girl she used to be.
A pang hit him square in the chest.
She was the girl he'd carried in his arms as she grew up.
When she was little, she used to ride on his shoulders.
As she got older, she followed him everywhere.
She'd been raised bold, full of spirit—so confident, she practically ruled Aurenshire with her swagger.
He was just about to take a step toward her when a sweet, playful voice called from behind.
"Oliver!"
Oliver halted immediately. "Brielle, be careful," he said quickly.
A lighthearted laugh followed. "Oliver, I don't need help. I'm not a child anymore!"
He smiled gently. "You'll always be a child to me."
Charlotte's chest tightened. She hadn't thought she could feel hurt anymore—but hearing those words, the same ones he used to say to her, made her nose sting with the effort to hold back tears.
Brielle took his hand and led him toward Charlotte. She reached out and gently grabbed Charlotte's hand, her voice soft with guilt and concern. "Charlotte, you've gotten so thin… Did they treat you badly at the Red Pavilion? We're the ones at fault for not coming sooner. I was sick for a while and the whole family was caught up in it. Otherwise, we would've brought you back long ago."
Charlotte yanked her hand away and lowered her head even further, cutting her off politely. "My hands are rough, Miss Hastings. I wouldn't want to dirty your clothes."
Brielle's expression fell, sorrow deepening. "Are you angry at me? If I hadn't come back, you'd still be the King's titled princess. His Majesty only punished you because he still cares about our family. If I hadn't returned, none of this would've happened to you."
Oliver, who had been about to speak, fell silent. Her words had taken the wind out of him. He straightened, tone cooling. "That title was never hers to begin with. You can't keep what was stolen. The only reason she got away with it for so long was because we spoiled her. No wonder she ended up so reckless."
"Do you have any idea what you've caused? Grandfather's fallen ill over this. Brielle's been so consumed by guilt, she can barely sleep. Whatever suffering you think you've endured doesn't even come close to what we've been through."
Charlotte found it all painfully absurd.
She had been a newborn when she was switched—what say did she ever have in any of this?
It was Brielle who ruined the painting, yet it was Charlotte who paid the price.
Three years. Over a thousand days and nights of scraping by, surviving without hope.
And now, she wasn't even allowed to feel wronged.
Not that it mattered anymore.
Titles. Blame. Justice. None of it held weight now.
Just like they said: she had lived the good life in someone else's place for over a decade. These years of suffering—this was just the price she owed.
Oliver misunderstood her silence, thinking she was throwing another childish tantrum. He felt a flicker of frustration. "Tomorrow is Brielle's coming-of-age party. She wanted the whole family together. She even had Father petition the King to get you released. Don't act like a spoiled child—come home with me."
As he spoke, he reached out to grab her arm. Charlotte instinctively stepped back.
He froze. Then watched, stunned, as Charlotte bowed. "This isn't proper, Lord Oliver," she said, voice calm and even.
His hand hovered in the air, then slowly curled into a fist.
He just wanted her to remember Brielle's kindness—not stand there, cold and distant, as if she'd already made peace with dying.
Even Brielle was taken aback. She blinked, stunned for a moment, then tugged at his sleeve. "Oliver, help her up…"
Oliver frowned. He wanted to say something—anything—but swallowed it down for the sake of peace.
Instead, he reached out, grabbed Charlotte's arm, and hauled her up without a word—then shoved her roughly into the waiting carriage.