Rika and Dyanne huddled near the kitchen hearth, their voices low as they gossiped about the latest novel. A few other maids soon gathered, eager to share their theories and favorite scenes, laughter bubbling softly between them.
Upstairs in the study, Serena stretched her arms toward the ceiling, her fingers splayed wide. A long sigh escaped her lips—she had finished writing some pages of her new novel. Even yesterday, she couldn't think of anything to write. With a quiet sense of satisfaction, she stood and wandered toward the window.
Below, the gardener was stapling vines to the trellis and trimming the hedges into neat, rounded shapes. The spring sunlight dappled the garden paths, but Serena's gaze drifted past them, distant.
Serena Selwyn—Duchess of Selwyn—had not always belonged to noble circles. In truth, she had belonged to no one.
An orphan with no family, no inheritance, and no name worth remembering, Serena had grown up surviving on wit and determination. Even among the geniuses, she stood out. Numbers came to her as easily as breathing—complex calculations danced in her mind with effortless precision. Mathematics, History, finance, geography, literature—she devoured them all. Her intelligence was rare, sharp as glass and twice as clear.
Despite her brilliance, life was unkind. After finishing her studies at a humble institute, she secured a modest position at a local bank. The salary was meager, but it was enough. Enough to keep the cold away, to keep her stomach full, to survive.
And then—everything changed.
One afternoon, she was called into the manager's office. Laid off without warning. No apology. No severance. Just a tight-lipped dismissal that left her out in the street with no direction.
That very week, Duke Benjamin Selwyn appeared. A man of power, silver-haired and aging, his voice slow and eyes clouded. He claimed he wanted companionship—not love, not passion, just someone who could sit across the table and remind him he wasn't alone.
The late duke had only seen her once—at the bank. Serena remembered the moment clearly: how he looked at her, not with admiration or desire, but with something quieter. Pity, perhaps.
He was generous enough to propose to her. But why her? To this day, Serena didn't understand. She had nothing to offer. No title, no wealth. The question haunted her even now, lingering like a thread left loose in her mind.
Serena had no illusions. She didn't love him. How could she? He was old enough to be her father. She accepted the proposal not out of hope, but necessity. It was a lifeline—one she couldn't afford to ignore.
They were married in a private ceremony. She saw him once. Only once.
Then after a week, he died suddenly.
She was his second wife. The first had passed years ago, leaving behind a son and a daughter. After the duke's death, his son returned from overseas, now the new head of the family. With surprising decorum, he brought Serena to the annex—a separate wing of the estate. Neither banished nor welcomed, she lived in quiet limbo, tucked away.
With a soft sigh, she left her study and headed downstairs. She needed something sweet—perhaps a tart or a few honeyed biscuits. As she passed the hallway, she caught the voices of the maids filtering in from the kitchen.
"…and the twist in The Prophetess? I still can't believe she predicted her own fate," Dyanne whispered, eyes wide.
"I know!" Rika replied, nearly bouncing on her heels. "Author Rena always does this—just when I think I've figured it out…"
Serena paused, her hands running on the door handle. The Prophetess was her novel. And they were talking about it with such awe, yet not a single one of them knew the author was standing just around the corner.
She slipped into the room, and the chattering ceased. The maids scattered like startled birds, suddenly busy wiping counters and rearranging trays.
"Rika," Serena said gently, "would you bring some snacks to my room?"
Rika gave a quick curtsy. "Right away, Your Grace."
Serena turned and headed back up to her room, her expression unreadable. Once inside, she closed the door softly behind her, took off her slippers, and flopped onto the beautiful velvet sofa. The late afternoon sun painted golden lines across the floor, warming her face.
Books had always been her comfort—shelter from a world that often seemed too cruel. She had dreamt of being an author when she was a girl huddled under blankets in the orphanage. She would read the books given to her by one of the caretakers of the orphanage. But life hadn't been kind, and dreams had to be folded away, hidden like precious letters no one else would ever read.
Now, finally, her dream had come true. Her books were bestsellers. Her words reached the hearts of strangers.
And yet, no one knew the truth.
No one suspected that the famous author "Rena" was Serena Selwyn—the quiet, reclusive duchess tucked away in the annex.
Perhaps they couldn't imagine a duchess writing stories... or maybe it was worse—they couldn't imagine that someone with a background like her could have anything worth saying.