Sold As A Slave, Returned To Be Queen - Chapter 18: Chapter 18

So, according to Valeria, Charlotte was supposed to accept this late-arriving medicine with tears of gratitude? The wounds had already healed, and now they came bearing ointments—like trying to feed milk to a child long dead. What was the point?
In this household, the servants always took their cues from above. Unless given permission, who would've dared lay such a heavy hand on her?
Charlotte was no longer surprised by Valeria's tactics. They didn't hurt her anymore—they only made her want to laugh.
"So, tell me," she said with cool composure, "what do you expect me to do now?
"Am I supposed to accept this medicine and fall at your feet, thanking you and General Hastings for your generosity?"
"Charlotte, how can you think that of us?"
Charlotte had grown used to Valeria's way of speaking—but Valeria hadn't adjusted to this new Charlotte.
In her mind, Charlotte was still the soft little girl who used to run to her, sniffling, over a scraped knee. This change in demeanor could only mean one thing: Charlotte was still angry, still holding a grudge, still making trouble on purpose.
"You're still upset about what happened three years ago, aren't you?" Valeria pressed a hand to her chest, her tone full of weary helplessness. "But what choice did I have? Brielle had already suffered for more than ten years, and she'd only just come home. How could I bear to send her to a place like that?"
A place like that…
Charlotte's breath caught for a second.
She thought, 'How could she say something so cruel—so casually? Like it means nothing at all?
'How could she keep stabbing me in the heart and expect me to stay silent?'
"I used to believe," Charlotte said quietly, her voice as flat as still water, "that you didn't truly understand what kind of place that was."
There was no tremor in her voice, no emotion.
Not even hatred.
That unsettled Valeria more than anything else. She would've preferred shouting or tears—anything to show that Charlotte still cared. But this cold indifference was worse.
It meant the girl she once considered a daughter had completely cut ties.
Valeria's hands began to tremble. The bottle slipped from her grip and shattered on the floor. The thick, medicinal scent filled the room.
In a sudden panic, she reached out and grabbed Charlotte's arm—desperate, as if clinging to some version of the past, trying to hold on to the daughter she no longer recognized.
"I had no choice… I really had no choice…"
Her voice shook along with her hands, and her grip tightened unconsciously. But Charlotte didn't resist. She just stood there, expressionless and still.
"Charlotte…"
"Lady Valeria," Charlotte interrupted softly, "I'm not your Charlotte. I'm just another servant in the Hastings family now. You shouldn't lower herself by staying here too long."
And with that, she showed her the door. No hesitation. No sentiment.
Valeria walked out as if in a trance, feeling like something essential had slipped through her fingers forever. The servants helped her back to her courtyard, pale and silent. That very night, she fell ill. The household was thrown into brief chaos. Though the illness wasn't serious, it lingered for days.
And the cause? Clear as day.
Everyone could see—Valeria fell ill after leaving Rainmere Hall. It didn't take much to connect the dots. It had to be Charlotte.
Oliver was furious. He had felt guilty for hurting her, and though he hadn't gone to see her, the discomfort had been gnawing at him. But now, seeing her use that injury to sulk, to make a scene, and even to push Valeria into falling ill? Whatever sympathy he had instantly turned to anger.
"She's still as willful and defiant as ever," he snapped. "Even three years in the Red Pavilion didn't teach her a damn thing!"
At the mention of the Red Pavilion, Valeria—still lying weakly in bed—looked visibly uncomfortable. She cleared her throat to mask the awkwardness.
"It was my fault," she said gently. "I said something that upset Charlotte. Don't blame her."
"Yes, Oliver," Brielle added softly, frowning as she spoke. "I'm sure Charlotte didn't mean any harm. After all the hardship she's endured over the years, it's only natural she harbors some resentment toward me and Mother. I'll treat her even better from now on."
"You're too kind," Oliver said with a sigh. "I heard you're even planning to take her to the party? Even if it's to—"
Before he could finish, Valeria quickly cut him off with a sharp glance. Then, in a gentle tone, she urged Brielle to step outside and check if the servants had finished preparing the medicine.
Once the confused but obedient Brielle left the room, Valeria turned to Oliver with a look of mild exasperation.
"You really are too careless," she scolded. "How could you bring that up in front of Brielle? She's softhearted—if she knew the truth, she'd never go along with it. I had no choice but to be the one to make the hard decision. I know it's unfair to Charlotte, but there was no other way…"
She let out a weary sigh, thumping her chest in frustration as tears welled up again, her face a perfect portrait of guilt and helplessness.
"Mother, you're overthinking it," Oliver said, frowning. "She owes us that much. The engagement with the Marquis' household was always meant for the Hastings family's daughter. Now that Brielle's back, it's only right for Charlotte to step aside. If she behaves herself, we'll make sure she marries well. With our family's name behind her, she won't lack for options. There's no need for her to stir up trouble or compete with Brielle for the Marquis' estate's heir."
His words seemed to hit the mark. Valeria's tears stopped abruptly, her expression clearing as if a burden had suddenly been lifted. It was as though his reasoning had given her permission to stop feeling guilty.
Yes—Charlotte was still Edward's daughter in name. With that status, finding her a good husband wouldn't be hard. Once Brielle's engagement was secure, they could arrange a decent match for Charlotte as a form of compensation. That way, she could walk away from all of this with dignity—and they would have fulfilled their duty to her as a daughter of the household.
The more Valeria thought about it, the more convinced she became. Her illness improved soon after, and her mind became wholly occupied with finding Charlotte a suitable match. Partly out of guilt—but more so for appearances. After all, Charlotte had once been engaged to Michael. If she remained unmarried for too long, it would only give people something to talk about—and gossip could affect Brielle's relationship with Michael, or worse, damage the reputation of both families.
That second reason? Valeria never spoke of it. She simply pretended it had never occurred to her.
Unaware of the plans being made behind her back—or that her future was being decided without her knowledge—Charlotte enjoyed a few rare days of peace. During that time, she finally met the person Maisie had arranged to send.
A girl of about thirteen or fourteen arrived, her hair choppily cropped like it had been chewed off. Her frame was thin and wiry, more boyish than feminine. But her eyes were strikingly clear and steady, lacking the shifty, sly look so common among servants.
"You're Lena Clark? What happened to your hair?" Charlotte asked gently.
"Someone tried to burn it," Lena replied flatly. "So it got cut."
"Someone tried to burn it," Lena replied flatly. "So it got cut." She was quiet, saying little more as she handed over a food container. "This is today's meal. The maid who usually delivers it was busy, so they sent me instead."
Charlotte's fingers ran discreetly over the hidden compartment at the bottom of the box. She immediately understood and accepted the delivery without changing expression.
"Wait here a moment."
She returned to her room and dug through the few belongings she still had, eventually pulling out a faded headscarf—one she used to wear to tie her hair back when working at the Red Pavilion.
Since Lena was Maisie's person, Charlotte trusted that she had been carefully chosen. Maisie wouldn't send just anyone for a task like this. Knowing that, she felt a rare flicker of warmth toward her.
"I don't have much," Charlotte said as she came back and handed over the scarf, "but if you don't mind, take this. It might come in handy."