Seraphina's POV
The wine splashed across the Duke's coat like blood.
My hands froze, still holding the empty pitcher. Around me, the engagement party fell silent. Every noble in the grand hall turned to stare at me—the bastard daughter who'd just ruined a very important, very expensive coat.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean—"
"You never mean to," the Duke said coldly, brushing at the red stain spreading across his chest. "Yet disasters follow you like shadows."
My cheeks burned. He was right. I'd spent twenty-four years being a disaster. Too clumsy. Too plain. Too much of a reminder that Father once loved a servant woman more than his proper wife.
"Seraphina!" Lyria's voice cut through the whispers like a knife.
I turned to face my half-sister. She stood on the platform where she'd been showing off her engagement ring, her perfect face twisted with rage. Even angry, she was beautiful—golden hair piled high, skin like cream, everything I'd never be.
"How dare you embarrass me at my own party?" Lyria descended the steps, each footfall echoing in the silence. "Today of all days?"
"It was an accident." My voice came out small and broken. "The pitcher slipped—"
"Everything with you is an accident." Lyria's eyes glittered with something dark and satisfied. She'd been waiting for this. Hoping for it, maybe. "You're a walking disaster. A stain on this family."
The nobles murmured agreement. Some even laughed.
I wanted to disappear. To melt into the floor and never exist again.
"Please," I said quietly. "Let me clean it up. Let me fix—"
"You can't fix anything." Lyria smiled, cold and beautiful. "Guards!"
Two large men appeared at her side. I knew them—they'd worked at the manor for years. Sometimes they snuck me extra bread from the kitchens when the cook wasn't looking. But now their faces were blank. Distant.
They were following orders. They always followed orders.
"Take her outside," Lyria commanded. "Throw her in the mud where she belongs."
My stomach dropped. "No. Please, Lyria, don't—"
The guards grabbed my arms. Their fingers dug into my skin hard enough to bruise.
"Stop!" I tried to pull away, but they were too strong. "I'll clean it up! I'll work harder! Please!"
No one moved to help me. Not Father, who stood in the corner avoiding my eyes. Not the nobles who'd eaten food I'd prepared. Not the servants who whispered secrets with me in the kitchen.
I was alone.
The guards dragged me through the hall. My feet scraped against the polished floor. Nobles stepped back, making sure I didn't touch their expensive clothes.
"This is what happens," Lyria called after me, loud enough for everyone to hear, "when you forget your place."
The doors burst open. Night air hit my face, cool and sharp. Then I was flying—actually flying—thrown forward like a sack of grain.
I hit the ground hard.
Mud splashed up around me, cold and thick and smelling of rain and horse manure. It filled my mouth, my nose, soaked through my plain brown dress in seconds. Pain shot through my shoulder where I'd landed wrong.
Behind me, the party guests crowded in the doorway. Watching. Pointing. Laughing.
"Look at her!"
"Rolling in the mud like a pig!"
"Lord Ashencroft's mistake, on full display!"
I tried to push myself up, but my hands slipped in the muck. Mud covered my face, my hair, everything. I must have looked like a monster. A joke.
Tears mixed with the dirt on my cheeks. I couldn't even cry properly—just ugly, choking sobs that made the nobles laugh harder.
This was my life. This had always been my life.
Why had I ever thought it could be different? Why had I wasted years hoping that if I just worked hard enough, stayed quiet enough, smiled enough, they might finally accept me?
The laughter grew louder. Someone threw something—a piece of bread from the party. It hit my back and the nobles howled with delight.
"Even the dogs won't have her!"
"She's lower than a servant!"
"The Ashencroft shame!"
I curled into myself, making my body as small as possible. Maybe if I stayed very still, they'd get bored. Maybe they'd go back inside and forget about me.
Maybe I could just die right here in the mud and no one would even notice.
More laughter. More pointing. More proof that I would never, ever belong.
Finally—after what felt like hours but was probably only minutes—someone called from inside. The musicians had started playing again. There was cake to cut. Champagne to drink.
The nobles drifted back to the party, their entertainment over.
The doors closed with a heavy thud, cutting off the music and warmth. Cutting me off from everything.
I lay there in the darkness, covered in filth, completely and utterly alone.
The cold seeped into my bones. Mud dried on my face, pulling my skin tight. My shoulder throbbed where I'd landed. My throat hurt from crying.
Above me, stars appeared between the clouds. Distant and unreachable and beautiful. Just like everything else in my life.
"Why?" I whispered to the empty sky. "Why did you make me this way? Why can't I be good enough?"
The stars didn't answer. They never did.
I closed my eyes and let the tears come—hot and useless and filled with all the hope I'd been stupid enough to carry. Tomorrow was Lyria's wedding. Tomorrow, I'd planned to serve perfectly. To smile perfectly. To prove I wasn't the disaster they thought I was.
Tomorrow, I'd thought, might finally be different.
But nothing would ever be different. Nothing would ever change.
I was the bastard daughter. The mistake. The stain.
And I would die that way.
I didn't know how right I was.
I didn't know that in less than six hours, death would come for everyone in that house.
I didn't know that I would be the only one left alive.
And I didn't know that the worst part wouldn't be surviving.
It would be learning why.