Crown Prince Reynold Leonardo de Maximilian — heir to the throne, and future sovereign of the Matilda Empire.
His relationship with Elysia was barely touched upon in the original novel. All I knew was that he neither despised her nor favored her. Naturally, as the male lead, Reynold's heart belonged wholly — and dramatically — to the heroine, Aurora. That explained these unannounced, theatrical visits of his.
Reynold was the archetypal male lead from old-school romance dramas: domineering, possessive, and ruthless. If he wanted something, he would have it — no matter the method. There was even a scene in the novel where he razed an entire continent simply because he felt like it. Fitting, wasn't it? For a man known as The Tyrant's White Rose.
Thinking back, I couldn't understand how I ever devoured a story like that. I must have been deeply exhausted — tired of endlessly chasing the unattainable shadow of my perfect little sister.
I selected the most worn-out dress in Elysia's wardrobe — faded, frayed, and lifeless, just like its owner. No makeup. No jewelry. I wanted to appear as pitiful as possible.
In the mirror stared back a wisp of a girl — pale skin, a frail frame draped in crumpled fabric, more ghost than flesh. A breathing phantom. Perfect.
Satisfied with this image, I left the room and descended to the main floor, where laughter and cheer echoed from the dining hall. As if the girl rotting away in the farthest corner of this mansion — Elysia — had never existed.
The doors to the dining room opened. I stepped inside, and the laughter died instantly.
The once lively room turned still, suffocating. All eyes turned to me.
I let my gaze sweep across them. Let's see.
The middle-aged man stiffening in surprise — that had to be Osmund, Elysia's father.
Beside him sat Brayden, her biological brother, staring at me with a confused, conflicted look.
Across from them sat the young and strikingly beautiful stepmother, Catherine. Her sharp, sculpted features all but shouted calculating.
Aurora, the novel's beloved heroine, was seated beside her mother. Her violet amethyst eyes were identical to Elysia's, though her curls — silvery and bouncing like a fairy-tale princess's — were a stark contrast to Elysia's straight and solemn locks. Aurora radiated life, sunshine and springtime. Elysia? She looked like the spirit of famine clinging to the walls.
It was true what they said — the favored always remained lovely. Elysia once had been lovely too.
And at the head of the table, with golden hair gleaming like sunlight and sapphire eyes that seemed to house the entire ocean — sat Reynold. A man who wore admiration like a second skin. The prince. The protagonist.
Once I had sized up the scene, I bowed low, voice trembling with forced fragility.
"Your Highness — the Empire's morning star. Father. Stepmother. Brother."
Ah, these courtesies. I could barely breathe through them. Especially when I had to fake the quiver in my breath.
"You—" Osmund began, likely to ask why I had appeared in such disgraceful condition, but Reynold's presence seemed to still his tongue. He coughed awkwardly, then turned away.
"So, you've finally decided to leave your room," he muttered.
"I'm sorry to ruin everyone's lovely evening… it's just… when I heard His Highness was here… I was so happy…"
I trailed off, feigning shyness. Whether or not Elysia had any feelings for Reynold in the original plot, I needed an excuse to be here. And what better excuse than the blush of a girl hopelessly smitten?
"Elysia, mind your words," Catherine snapped. Her voice was sharp, as if I'd encroached upon prey she had long since marked for her daughter.
"I… I didn't mean it that way…" I lowered my head, meek and broken.
"I believe the lady misunderstood," Reynold's voice cut through, calm and unreadable. "Perhaps she's simply happy to see a childhood friend again. Isn't that right, Elysia?"
I blinked, caught off guard by the veiled intent in his words. Childhood friend? Was that how he chose to define it?
True, the novel did mention that Elysia had grown up alongside Reynold and Drake. But close enough to be called childhood sweethearts? I didn't remember that. Still, I had no intention of challenging a man like Reynold.
"Yes, Your Highness is right."
"Lady Elysia! Sit with me!"
The voice was soft as wind chimes — Aurora's. I turned toward her and for a moment, I thought I saw her — the golden sister from my past life, the one who stole everything.
I bit the inside of my cheek and reminded myself: Aurora is not her.
Aurora, who had taken everything that once belonged to Elysia, wasn't cruel. She truly thought of Elysia as her sister. She had tried, again and again, to reach out. But the old Elysia had always been too closed-off, too ashamed to accept that hand.
I didn't hate Aurora. I was just tired of that blinding "main character" glow she carried — the way people adored her for simply existing. It stung.
"What are you standing there for? Sit down already," Osmund barked. His voice came down like a hammer. I wondered… would he ever speak to Aurora like that?
I smirked. Of course not.
Aurora was still looking at me with those clear, hopeful eyes. She still believed we could be sisters. That we could laugh together at this table like a real family.
But we couldn't.
Even if she had done nothing wrong, even if she bore no cruelty in her heart, the truth remained: every bit of Elysia's suffering was a consequence of her existence. Because she was the heroine. And I — we — were just side characters.
Brayden seemed stunned when I took the seat beside him. Perhaps he hadn't anticipated that move.
Despite everything, he was still Elysia's brother. He hadn't openly defied the family, but I knew he had sent help in secret. Until he could secure his place in the family, he couldn't take sides openly. If he wanted to save his sister, he had to rise to the top. He, too, had suffered — his disabled body, his silence. Maybe we weren't so different.
He recovered quickly, though. A flicker of relief crossed his face, then vanished as if it had never been there.
I said nothing. I didn't need to. That look said it all.
A servant laid a plate before me. She looked surprised to see me, too — surprised, but not threatened. I was weak. Helpless. What could I possibly do?
So when she placed the silverware, she let the knife graze my hand — a shallow cut, but sharp enough to sting. A warning.
If it had been the real Elysia, she might have flinched, recoiled, or fled the room in tears.
But no one at the table noticed the girl bleeding at the side of the royal feast. Their eyes were all on the stars of the show.
"Milady, you'd be better off returning to your room. Bread crust suits you more," the maid hissed in my ear, her voice dripping with scorn.
I bowed my head silently. Mistaking it for fear, she grew bolder. She reached to retrieve my silverware with a sneer.
"You think you belong at this table? You don't. Your place is in the dirt, with moldy crumbs."
And that was when I'd had enough. I tilted my head, looked her straight in the eye, and gave her the faintest, coldest smile.
"You should've cut deeper."
"…What?"
* * *