Chapter 3- A Scheme
1298 Words
Zarah’s POV
The chandelier sparkled like diamonds overhead as I dipped my spoon into a bowl of golden pear compote.
The velvet curtains swayed lightly with the breeze, the scent of fresh orchids wafting from every corner of the grand estate.
I was draped in a silk robe worth more than my old apartment. My feet rested on a chaise imported from Italy. And the maid brushing my hair behind me did so with the quiet, shaky hands of someone terrified to mess up a single strand.
This was the life I was meant to live. This is a life that should belong to me and me alone.
I picked up my phone, already glowing with notifications. I opened my status to admire my latest upload—me by the pool in a red designer bikini, sipping white wine. #SoftLife. #LuxuryOnly. #NoMediocrity.
As I scrolled, a breaking news headline flashed on screen.
“Woman in City A gives birth to eight children—no father listed.”
I blinked. Paused. My thumb hovered over the screen.
Eight?
A dry laugh escaped my lips. “Well,” I muttered, “she actually pulled it off.”
But the pride that crept into my chest soured almost instantly.
Because I remembered the real story.
I wasn’t supposed to be here.
I wasn’t supposed to be her.
Five years ago, it had all been an accident.
Or maybe fate.
I had followed Mannie to her part-time job at the hotel—just to tease her. She was so boring, so predictable. Always putting her head down, working hard, acting like life owed her nothing. It annoyed me. Everything annoyed me back then.
When she came home that morning looking like death, I was curious. And when she tried to throw away that expensive, sleek black wristwatch? I knew something had happened.
So I took it.
Slipped it on.
It fit me better anyway.
I went downstairs with it on my wrist and just as I pulled out my phone, I saw the black Rolls-Royce parked near the curb. I didn’t think twice. I smirked, struck a pose in front of it, and snapped a quick photo.
“Another suitor rejected.” I typed, with a wink emoji.
It was a joke.
A flex.
That’s when the butler stepped out of the car.
He was older, silver-haired, dressed in a crisp black suit and white gloves. He looked at my wrist, his eyes narrowing immediately.
He didn’t ask for ID.
He didn’t ask questions.
He only asked, “Are you Miss Twain?”
I hesitated.
My last name.
“Yes,” I said without thinking. “I’m Zarah Twain.”
He nodded once, his expression grave. “We’ve been looking for you, Miss Twain. Please, come with me.”
I should’ve said no.
But instead, I climbed into the backseat.
The ride was quiet, smooth, eerie.
I kept expecting someone to throw me out or call me out or ask any real question.
But no one did.
Not until we reached the villa—no, the palace. Hidden away in the countryside, surrounded by tall hedges and gates thicker than anything I’d seen outside of a movie.
The butler showed me in, guided me to a suite big enough to house five families, and poured me a drink before speaking.
“My master apologizes,” he said, bowing. “He regrets not meeting you personally. Circumstances that night were... unpredictable.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, heart thudding.
The butler folded his hands. “That night, someone drugged his wine with a powerful aphrodisiac. He lost control. We only learned of the incident after reviewing hotel security footage. My master did not mean to use you in such a crude way.”
My mouth went dry.
“What?”
“We deeply regret the conditions under which he... engaged with you,” he said, his eyes flicking briefly to the watch still on my wrist. “He left that watch behind for the lady who... assisted him. That’s how we identified you.”
My breath caught.
So it had been her.
Mannie.
My stepsister.
My perfect, hardworking, pathetic stepsister.
She had been the one dragged into that room.
She had been the one used.
But now I was here.
Not her.
I had the luxury, the butlers, the silk robes, the mansion.
All because I wore the watch.
At first, I panicked. Any day they’d discover the mistake. Throw me out. Ask questions.
But he never came.
Weeks turned into months.
Months turned into years.
And no one questioned anything.
They treated me like I belonged. So I played the part.
Until I heard from my mother that Mannie was pregnant.
I panicked.
If that one night stand got Mannie pregnant and the man was actually looking for an heir, wouldn't that mean that if after a while and I couldn't produce a child, I would be thrown out.
After having tasted the life, I didn't want to leave, so I schemed to have a child.
I knew I was joking with fire, but this man—this mysterious, absent master—wouldn't know.
When I thought about my step sister being pregnant, I knew that my position was in danger.
If he ever saw them… if he ever saw her again…
I had to do something.
I visited the hospital under an alias and arranged for her to be sent to a facility I controlled.
Money talks.
Especially when paired with sob stories and a fake tear.
“She's young and reckless,” I told them. “No family support. She's prone to instability. Please help her.”
They didn’t ask questions.
I paid them well.
And I made sure her labor would be long. Complicated. Painful. The more miserable the experience, the less likely she’d bounce back.
I even encouraged them to suggest adoption.
Spread rumors that no man would want a single mother with eight kids.
I wanted her exhausted.
Alone.
Broken.
If possible, I wanted her and the children dead in the operating room, but I knew that despite the amount of money I had, I couldn't go too far as I would definitely be out on watch.
And then I waited for the headline: Woman Loses Custody of Octuplets or Mother Abandons Children at Birth Or Mother Dies on the Operating Table.
But it never came.
Instead, the news this morning.
She made it.
She gave birth.
She raised them.
And she survived.
I gripped the stem of my wine glass so hard it cracked.
Why hadn’t the hospital told me?
Why hadn’t they stopped her?
My perfect life felt suddenly hollow. Like one gust of wind would blow it all apart.
I rose from my chair and walked barefoot across the marble tiles, rage curling through my chest like smoke.
I kicked open the parlor door, startling the maid dusting the gold-framed painting.
“i***t,” I spat. “You missed a spot. Useless girl.”
“I-I’m sorry, Madam,” she stammered, trembling.
I crossed the room in three sharp steps and slapped the feather duster from her hand. “Get out of my sight.”
She ran, nearly tripping over the rug.
I stood there, breathing heavily, the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.
This was my life.
This was supposed to be my fate.
But it wasn’t secure.
Not with her still breathing.
Not with eight living reminders of the truth.
If he came back…
If he ever learned what really happened…
I didn’t know what he was.
But I knew one thing.
If I don't do anything to protect my position, I may go back to the slums, a place I hate with so much passion.
- Writer
