Chapter 38 – The Weight of Her Reflection

Anastasia had never known what it meant to be wanted.

Not truly.

Not in a way that meant she belonged.

From the moment she had been born, she had been a disappointment.

A second daughter. Unnecessary, unremarkable.

She had never been like Isabella.

Never bold, never charming, never a shining presence in the room.

She had been too quiet, too small, too awkward.

While Isabella had thrived under the weight of their father's expectations, Anastasia had faltered.

She had never been good enough.

Never strong enough, never outspoken enough, never useful.

And her father had made sure she knew it.

---

Her earliest memories were of silence.

Sitting at the dinner table, listening to her father speak of things beyond her comprehension, while Isabella sat beside him, poised and confident, answering with a grace Anastasia could never mimic.

"Why can't you be more like your sister?"

"You are not stupid, Anastasia, but you are useless."

"At the very least, do not embarrass this family."

"Speak properly. Walk properly. If you must exist, at least do it quietly."

So she had learned.

She had taught herself to shrink.

To take up as little space as possible.

To speak only when necessary.

To not burden anyone with her presence.

She had found solace in books, in the stories of faraway places, of heroines who were loved, wanted, chosen.

It had been the only escape she had ever known.

Because in reality—there was no escape.

---

She had never been told she was beautiful.

Not by her family.

Not by anyone.

She had never looked in the mirror and seen anything worth admiring.

Her father had never cared for such things.

"Beauty is a tool," he had once said.

"And a tool is only useful in the right hands."

That was why Isabella had always mattered more.

Because she knew how to wield that beauty.

She knew how to make people listen, how to demand attention, how to bend the world to her will.

Anastasia had not.

She had only ever wanted to be left alone.

She had never seen the way men's eyes lingered on her, the way they whispered about her behind closed doors.

She had never understood that her beauty was different from Isabella's—quieter, but no less devastating.

Because no one had ever told her.

And she had never thought to see it for herself.

She had never seen the way her skin, pale and soft, glowed in the candlelight.

Never noticed how her eyes, a shade too rich and deep to be ordinary, always caught the light just right.

Never realized how her features, delicate and untouched by arrogance, made her more alluring than the boldest of women.

Men had looked.

They had whispered.

They had wanted.

But they had never spoken it aloud.

And so, she had never known.

---

Then, one day, Isabella left.

And suddenly, Anastasia was the only option.

The forgotten daughter, the quiet, useless one—

She was the one they gave away.

Without hesitation.

Without thought.

As if it did not matter who she was, only that she was available.

As if her life had never been hers to decide.

So she had obeyed.

Because what else was there?

She had walked down the aisle, silent and trembling, knowing nothing of the man who would take her.

Nothing of his world, his cruelty, his hunger.

Nothing of what it would mean to be owned by someone like him.

But she had hoped—**foolishly, desperately—**that it would mean something.

That finally, after years of being invisible, she would have a place.

That perhaps, if she did as she was told, she could belong.

---

But Leonidas was not the kind of man who made things simple.

He was too powerful, too intense, too much.

He was the kind of man who dominated rooms with nothing but his presence.

The kind of man who never had to ask for anything—because everything was given to him.

And Anastasia—she had been thrown into his world with no preparation.

How was she supposed to keep up with him?

How was she supposed to stand beside someone like him and not feel small?

She had never belonged anywhere.

And standing next to Leonidas, she had never felt it more painfully than now.

Because this world—**his world—**was not meant for girls like her.

She had never been trained to be a wife.

She had never been taught to navigate power, manipulation, politics.

She had never been raised to be important.

So what if—what if she wasn't enough?

What if he was already regretting it?

What if he was already looking at her and wondering if he had made a mistake?

She could not bear the thought.

She could not survive it.

So she would do what she had always done.

She would try.

She would try to be what he wanted.

Even if she did not know how.

Even if it never worked.

Even if, in the end, she lost everything.

At least, then, she could say—

She had tried.

---

She had begun watching him more closely.

Studying the women he surrounded himself with at social gatherings.

Not the ones who flirted with him—those, he ignored.

But the ones he respected.

The ones he listened to.

They were elegant, poised, effortless in their presence.

They spoke with certainty.

They never hesitated, never fumbled over their words.

They were not like her.

Anastasia tried to copy them.

She practiced speaking more carefully, more deliberately.

She forced herself to walk with confidence, to wear the dresses he gave her without feeling like she was playing pretend.

She watched his reactions.

But he did not seem to notice.

Or perhaps, he did not care.

That thought kept her awake at night.

Maybe it was already too late.

Maybe she was fighting for something that was never hers to begin with.

But she had nothing else.

No home.

No family that wanted her.

No place of her own.

So she would try.

She would become what he needed.

Because if she failed—if he stopped wanting her—

She would have nothing left.

And that was a fate far worse than any cruelty Leonidas could ever show her.