Sold As A Slave, Returned To Be Queen - Chapter 20: Chapter 20

"How long are you planning to keep this tantrum going?
"You think you're the only one who's suffered? You think what you went through at the Red Pavilion was so unbearable? Mother cried herself to sleep over you every night. And Brielle—she worried so much she triggered her heart condition and nearly collapsed multiple times. Don't act like you're the only one who's had it hard."
In Oliver's eyes, Charlotte was still Edward's daughter. No matter what had happened, she carried the Hastings name. 'How bad could life at the Red Pavilion be? No one would've dared mistreat someone from the General's household,' he thought.
"At worst, you probably just did some rough chores! Mother and Brielle have been more than patient with you—letting you sulk and act out like this for days!"
'Just rough chores?'
Charlotte let out a soft, mirthless laugh. The sound caught Oliver off guard, making his heart tighten—but almost immediately, his face turned red with anger.
"What's so funny? What are you laughing at?"
"Lord Oliver, I suppose you don't know how ridiculous your own words sound," Charlotte said, her voice quiet but cutting. Her gaze, calm and sharp, met his without flinching. "Tell me, do you think standing in freezing water for seven or eight hours in the dead of winter is just 'rough chores'? Or chopping firewood beneath the blazing midday sun in summer?"
"Lies! You're making this up!"
Oliver refused to believe her. To him, this was nothing more than a pity act—a desperate attempt to win sympathy and stir trouble. 'How could the Red Pavilion dare treat her that way? She is still the daughter of the Hastings family. A young lady of the General's household!' he thought.
But then, Charlotte slowly raised the sleeves she always wore long and loose. And in that moment, when her hands were exposed, the room fell into stunned silence. Even the nearby maids and older servants drew sharp breaths.
Because those hands didn't belong to a girl in her teens.
Though winter had passed, the wounds from frostbite hadn't fully healed. Angry red welts, raw scabs, and layers of scar tissue crisscrossed her fingers and palms. Some wounds looked recent, others old and deep—wounds that had never been given the chance to heal properly.
"Charlotte… my Charlotte—how did you end up like this?"
Valeria burst into tears the moment she saw them.
Rosalie clutched Charlotte's hands with shaking fingers, her heart breaking at the sight. Oliver, face pale then flushed, clenched his jaw—but still stubbornly refused to back down. "You did this on purpose, didn't you? Just to make us feel guilty? Why didn't you ask for medicine?"
The Hastings family had never mistreated their servants. Even the lowest-ranked maids received ointment for frostbite in winter. There was no way a servant in their house would end up like this.
And yet, even now, faced with the truth before his eyes, Oliver refused to believe it. To him, Charlotte had hurt herself to gain pity—to manipulate them.
"Lord Oliver, if I may speak…" Lilith finally stepped forward, unable to stay silent any longer. She gave Charlotte a glance—now cradled gently in Rosalie's arms—and turned back to Oliver with quiet disapproval. "The Red Pavilion is nothing like the Hastings family. Most of the women there were sent as punishment. They're lucky just to get fed. Medicine? Ointment? That's wishful thinking."
Her tone wasn't angry, but it was firm.
Oliver had always been raised to take over as head of the family, trained to manage affairs and issue commands. He'd never bothered with the messy details. And in his mind, it had been simple: Charlotte was still of the Hastings bloodline. Of course someone in the household would have made arrangements for her. Of course they would've taken care of her, even behind the scenes.
But then he turned to look at Valeria—and saw her quickly avert her eyes. In that instant, it hit him. No one had intervened. No one had made any arrangements. Everything he had believed—everything he had assumed with such certainty—had been a lie.
The reason Charlotte had been thrown into the Red Pavilion over a single birthday painting came down to two things: the King's growing suspicion of the General's household—and the fact that the incident had ruined the Queen Mother's birthday party.
The Hastings family had pushed Charlotte forward as a scapegoat because, by then, everyone knew she was a fake—an imposter raised in the Hastings family under false pretenses, not even related to them by blood.
If they'd stepped in to protect her at that point, wouldn't that have only made things worse? Wouldn't it have drawn the King's ire even more?
So, in the end, her once-loving parents made a choice. They weighed the risks, and then let her go.
"No… that's not possible!" Oliver's voice trembled. "Mother, you told me I didn't have to worry—that the Hastings family would take care of everything. You said you'd handle it. So what happened? Why… why didn't you?"
The reason he'd believed Charlotte was just acting out—just being the pampered girl he remembered—was because he never thought she'd truly suffered.
But now, seeing Valeria's expression, how could he still not understand?
Emotion surged in his chest—regret, frustration, disbelief. Charlotte had been raised in luxury. If no one from the Hastings family had intervened, then just how cruel had those three years really been?
Seeing Oliver's accusing eyes, Valeria panicked. Desperate to defend herself, she rushed to explain. "You know how precarious things were back then. We could barely protect ourselves! Even if we'd tried to help… do you really think the Red Pavilion would've listened? Your grandmother—she used her noble title to petition the Queen Mother herself, and even she was turned away…"
Charlotte listened, her expression unreadable. The woman standing before her felt like a stranger.
'Is this really the same mother who once cradled me in her arms, who used to dote on me so tenderly?' she wondered.
"And we had to think of Brielle," Valeria added, her voice cracking. "Her heart condition nearly took her life—more than once. I could barely hold everything together…"
Of course. Brielle. The real daughter.
Charlotte had shared over a decade of her life with Oliver, but their so-called sibling bond was built on a lie. The truth was, she had stolen Brielle's identity. The life she had lived was never meant to be hers.
Oliver thought, 'Brielle has suffered for over ten years. So what if Charlotte has suffered three? Isn't it only fair?
'Besides, didn't she bring this all on herself? If she hadn't insisted on seeing that birthday painting, if she'd stayed in her place, none of this would have happened.'
The guilt that had just moments ago been eating at Oliver's heart began to fade. His expression hardened.
"So what if no one from the Hastings family helped you?" he said coldly. "After all these years—even a dog raised in this house would've shown more loyalty than you. But you? You're cold. Ungrateful. After everything we did for you."
"Ungrateful?" Charlotte arched a brow, her voice steady. "Didn't those three years in the Red Pavilion repay the debt in full? Lady Valeria, wasn't that what you said to me back then? Or has your memory already failed you?"
"Charlotte, must you speak like this?" Valeria's tone softened quickly, alarm flickering in her eyes. "If you want to stay here, when have we ever tried to drive you out…"
She stepped forward, subtly placing herself between Oliver and Charlotte—afraid that in his rage, Charlotte might blurt out the truth they had buried for years.
"You two—enough!" Rosalie's voice thundered through the room as she slammed her palm down on the table and rose to her feet, her face flushed with anger, her breathing labored. "You dare come in here and say these things in front of me? What do you want, to drive me to an early grave? You!"
She broke into a violent fit of coughing, her complexion darkening, until suddenly—her body went rigid. And then she collapsed, straight to the floor.