Sold As A Slave, Returned To Be Queen - Chapter 2: Chapter 2

"Don't be ungrateful," Oliver snapped. "If I hadn't come for you, who knows whose bed you'd be tossed into tomorrow—some noble's plaything. You may not be a real Hastings, but the family still has its pride. If we weren't worried you'd ruin Brielle's reputation before her marriage into the Marquis' estate, you wouldn't have taken a single step out of the Red Pavilion."
A dull ache throbbed in Charlotte's arm where he gripped her. She tried to pull away, but Oliver's hold was too tight—there was no escaping it.
She was practically thrown into the carriage, her head slamming against the wall with a sharp crack. Her vision swam.
Still dizzy, she bowed deeply. Instinct took over. "I'm sorry, it's my fault. I'll go back—I'll do whatever you say. Just… please, don't hit me."
Oliver's anger caught in his throat.
He looked at her—once proud and radiant—now bowing low, begging like a servant for mercy. The sight pierced him like a blade to the chest. It left him breathless.
"So… the Red Pavilion really does know how to train people."
He forced the words through clenched teeth, then turned away and helped Brielle into the carriage.
Inside, the main seat was only big enough for two.
The rest of the space was filled with Brielle's favorite treats and soups.
Charlotte remained bowing by the edge, head lowered, silent. Oliver's words echoed in her mind.
She knew exactly what he meant.
The Red Pavilion had taken what used to be a proud, highborn daughter of the General's estate and crushed her into a submissive slave. Quite the transformation.
The fire in her bones, the defiance she once had, had been worn down over endless nights of beatings and insults.
She'd thought she no longer cared about the Hastings family.
But as she heard that they brought her back only to protect their own image—her chest still tightened despite herself.
To them, this ruined body of hers had only one last use: ensuring Brielle married into the Marquis' estate without a blemish on her name.
Even without the Hastings family, she never would've let her purity be taken from her.
She'd been ready.
Charlotte reached into her sleeve and gently touched the vial hidden in her pouch.
But they didn't believe she'd defend her own dignity.
She thought, 'Fine. I can wait a little longer.'
"Why don't you sit next to Oliver?" Brielle said sweetly. "You two haven't seen each other in so long. I don't mind moving."
The carriage had already begun to roll. As Brielle stood to switch seats, she stumbled and knocked over a box. Hot soup spilled everywhere.
"Brielle!"
Oliver shot up and rushed to her side. Seeing that only the edge of her robe was damp, he finally breathed. "Sit properly. Why were you even moving? What were you thinking?"
"It's just a short ride. What difference does it make where she sits? If she likes bowing so much, let her stay there."
As he spoke, Oliver shot a glance at Charlotte.
Brielle tugged at his sleeve with a soft whine. "She just wanted to be closer to you. Don't be mad at her. Oh—and Charlotte, did the soup splash on you?"
Before Charlotte could answer, Oliver cut in coldly, "She's bowing halfway across the carriage. How could it have reached her?"
Charlotte quietly pulled her scalded hand into her sleeve.
"Thank you for your concern, Miss Hastings. I'm fine," she said softly.
Oliver's brow creased in irritation.
"Brielle's being kind. What's with that tone? Calling her Miss Hastings—do you want people thinking she's acting above you, putting on airs?"
Charlotte gave a faint smile, one that didn't reach her eyes. They'd said she lacked manners and sent her to the Red Pavilion to learn discipline. Now, they were upset she was too proper.
She thought, 'I am a servant now—what should I be calling Brielle?'
Her heart felt numb.
They weren't the same anymore. She should've remembered that.
The carriage arrived at the Hastings family before long.
Before it had even come to a full stop, Brielle fluttered out like a butterfly. Oliver, worried she might fall, jumped down right after her.
"Mother, I brought Charlotte back!" Brielle called brightly. "You don't have to cry in secret anymore."
"Oh my sweet girl, be careful now. That carriage is high—let your brother help you down," Valeria's voice called out warmly.
The moment Charlotte heard it, her heart twisted painfully.
That slap from three years ago still burned on her cheek, clear as day. Now, just one curtain separated her from the Hastings family—but for some reason, her feet refused to move.
"Where's Charlotte? Why isn't she coming down?" Valeria asked, her voice anxious.
Brielle quickly lowered her head, her tone soft with guilt. "It's my fault, Mother. I should've let Charlotte get out first."
As he saw her take the blame, Oliver's temper flared again. "What does it matter who steps down first? She's clearly doing it on purpose, throwing a tantrum in front of Mother. You didn't do anything wrong." He turned toward the carriage. "Charlotte, are you seriously waiting for me to come drag you out?"
Charlotte heard every word loud and clear and swallowed the sting rising in her throat.
She was a disgraced servant now. She wondered, 'How can I expect Lord Oliver to personally invite me down?'
She tried to stand, but her legs—numb from bowing too long—refused to move.
Oliver, unaware, pulled back the curtain and reached in to help her.
"No need, Lord Oliver, I—"
But before she could finish, he assumed she was trying to embarrass him. His expression hardened, and without hesitation, he yanked her out of the carriage.
Years of military training had made his grip unforgiving. Charlotte couldn't resist, and without the strength to stand, she fell hard to the ground.
A collective gasp rose from the onlookers.
Valeria rushed forward, worry etched across her face. "Charlotte—your legs…"
But when she got close enough, she stopped short. Charlotte's face was drawn and sallow, a far cry from the lively girl she used to know. After all, she'd raised her herself. And it was her fault Charlotte had ended up in the Red Pavilion in the first place. A wave of guilt washed over her, and tears welled in her eyes.
"My poor child… this is all my fault. I should've protected you. I should've never let them hurt you like this…"
Oliver stepped forward, ready to comfort her, when Brielle's quiet voice drifted over. "Didn't Charlotte seem perfectly fine just a moment ago? Why is she suddenly collapsing now that she sees Mother?"
Oliver froze mid-step. "Exactly," he said, coldly. "You were just fine earlier. Now you're putting on a show to win Mother's sympathy? What kind of game is this?"
Charlotte looked up sharply, her eyes cold and expressionless as she stared at him.
When she was younger, she'd believed Oliver was the best man in the world—noble, upright, and kind.
Even after Brielle came back and things turned against her, he had still seemed fair. He would sneak her little gifts in private, try to make her feel better.
She had never blamed him.
But now, after three years apart, he was blindly following Brielle's lead—unable to tell right from wrong.
"It's nothing," Charlotte said quietly. "My legs just went numb from bowing." She brushed the dust and slowly straightened up on her own.
Valeria's face darkened. "You had her bow the entire way home? Are you out of your mind?"
Oliver opened his mouth to defend himself. "It wasn't like that—she—"
Charlotte said nothing. After all, he had told her to bow the whole ride back.
"Enough!" Valeria snapped. "Apologize to Charlotte. She's been through hell, and this is how you treat her the moment she returns? Are you trying to break your mother's heart?"
Brielle's eyes filled with tears as she spoke softly, "Don't be angry, Mother. It's my fault. I should've switched seats with Charlotte…"
Oliver's brow furrowed deeper. Whatever flicker of guilt he had left vanished, replaced by irritation. Even resentment. "What are you blaming yourself for?" he snapped. "She knew she was uncomfortable. Why didn't she say anything? No—she wanted to make a scene, make Mother cry. After all these years, the only thing she's learned is how to play victim."