The training continued.
The next hours blurred into commands, corrections, and exhaustion. Raya was forced to walk up and down the room in the heels they'd given her, instructed to "glide, not stomp," and hold her chin high, as if she'd been born with a silver spoon lodged in her throat.
"Straighten your shoulders. Breathe from your diaphragm, not your throat. Again. You're slouching. Again."
But Raya slipped again, frustrating Elena.
"Seraphina doesn't slouch," she snapped. "Seraphina doesn't mumble. And Seraphina never walks with her toes turned inward like a child. Again!"
Again.
The mirrors didn't lie. No matter how hard she tried to mimic Seraphina's grace, she still looked like Raya—tired, tense, and terrified.
By the time Elena shoved a pen and notebook into her hands for handwriting drills, her arms felt like they might fall off.
Raya instinctively reached for the pen with her left hand.
"Stop," Elena snapped.
Raya's heart jumped, pen hovering midair. She kept forgetting about this right-hand/left-hand nonsense. She was ambidextrous, but she wasn't used to relying on her right hand, and nobody had ever complained before… until now.
"You are right-handed now," Elena said, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Always."
Raya hesitated before shifting the pen into her right hand. The grip was firm, familiar enough—but not natural.
Her handwriting came out neat but rigid. There was precision, but no grace.
Elena leaned over her shoulder. "Technically correct. But lifeless. Seraphina writes like a woman raised in finishing schools—not like someone filling out inventory sheets in a coffee shop."
Raya's jaw tightened. Her penmanship wasn't the real problem. The real problem was simple: she wasn't Seraphina. No matter how many letters she wrote, she would always just be herself.
"It's just writing, not some artwork. Why should I stress myself over it?" Raya muttered.
Comparison. That was one thing she hated most in life—yet today she had been compared again and again, to someone she could never be.
"Writing is an art to people like us. Maybe to someone like you it's just writing… so now, again," Elena said sharply. Raya glared at her, but Elena ignored it. "Continue."
Again.
Again.
Until even Raya's steady hand faltered under exhaustion.
By mid-morning, her calves burned from pacing back and forth in heels two sizes too small. Her throat was raw from repeating phrases in a refined accent that wasn't hers. Her head throbbed with the endless flood of information Elena drilled into her: Seraphina's favorite wines, friends' names, hobbies, even allergies.
"What's her preferred perfume?"
"Uh… La Vie Est Belle?"
"Wrong! It's Chanel No. 5. Again!"
By lunch, Raya wanted to scream.
She sat alone in the training room, clutching a bottle of water. Her hands trembled. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror—hair pinned back, lips freshly painted, back unnaturally rigid.
She looked like someone else.
Not entirely Seraphina.
But not quite Raya either. The Raya she knew wasn't like this.
When the session finally broke, she collapsed into a chair by the window. Her legs shook beneath her, her body screaming. She stared at the mirror again. Her back was straighter. Her shoulders squared. But her eyes…
Her eyes didn't belong to her anymore.
Elena stood in the corner, scribbling notes. "Voice and diction come next. We'll work on cadence. Seraphina never raises her voice. She does not plead. She commands, even when she whispers."
Raya nodded.
No argument.
No questions.
Even though inside, she was unraveling.
After lunch, the lessons shifted to table manners. How to hold utensils with precision. How to sit without slumping. How to dab the corners of her mouth as if it were second nature.
That afternoon brought more drills. She practiced writing with her right hand, forging Seraphina's signature, even lifting teacups with elegance.
Elena's voice cracked like a whip.
"No slurping. Chin up. Don't grip the cup like you're choking it. Good heavens, girl, were you raised in a barn?"
Raya wanted to throw the cup at the wall—no, at Elena—but she didn't want to be arrested for murder.
So she kept going.
Because failure meant pain.
And giving up meant her father would suffer more.
The day dragged like punishment carved into hours.
Every time Raya's fingers ached or her accent slipped, Elena's answer was the same: "Again."
And she obeyed. Again. And again.
By the time training ended, Elena closed her clipboard and gave her a look that was neither praise nor disappointment. "You have potential," she said. "But potential means nothing without discipline."
Raya didn't respond.
She couldn't.
She was too tired to waste words on this woman.
Grigor was waiting at the door.
Her heels clicked against the marble floor as she followed him. Her entire body ached, her feet blistered, her head pounding.
No words passed between them.
In her room, she closed the door with trembling hands. Her shoes hit the floor with a dull thud, toes red and swollen.
She slid down against the door until she sat on the cold floor, releasing a breath she'd held all day.
Her body screamed. Her mind? Worse.
She stared up at the ceiling, dry-eyed because she had no tears left.
For the first time, she wondered if she would survive this.
And if she did, would there be any part of Raya Calder left?
She closed her eyes and drew a shaky breath. She was already exhausted.
And this was only the first day.
—
The knock came just after sunrise.
Raya was already awake, sitting on the edge of the bed in the same faded clothes she had arrived in—now freshly washed, still damp in places. The room smelled faintly of soap where the fabric had hung to dry overnight.
The door creaked open. Grigor stepped in, his presence darkening the space.
"Breakfast," he said in his usual blunt tone.
Raya rose quietly, smoothing her wrinkled shirt. He didn't wait for her before turning to leave.
In the dining room, she hesitated at the doorway. The long table stretched like something out of a royal estate. Adrian wasn't there—only Grigor, seated at the far end, sipping from a black mug.
Her steps were tentative as she approached. The spread on the table was enough for three people: toast, eggs, fruit, spiced potatoes.
She reached for a plate, mumbling, "I'll just take this to my room."
Grigor's voice stopped her.
"Sit."
She froze. His tone wasn't harsh, but it wasn't friendly either. For a heartbeat, she considered refusing. But she thought better of it.
She didn't want to lose a finger like her father.
Raya sat two seats down from him and began eating in silence. The tension between them was thick, but not unbearable.
Halfway through her meal, Grigor grumbled.
"Why do you keep wearing that same damn outfit? It's annoying."
Raya blinked, startled. A complaint about her clothes was the last thing she expected.
"It's the only one I have here," she admitted softly. "I washed it last night."
Grigor's fork clinked against his plate. "Did you check the closet?"
She shook her head.
He stabbed a piece of sausage and muttered without looking up, "It's full. You're not a prisoner. Use what's there."
Raya lowered her gaze. "Okay."
The rest of the meal passed in silence.
Afterward, she glanced at him once more before standing. His shoulders seemed less tense than before.
Back in her room, she crossed to the tall wardrobe she had ignored the day before. Opening the doors felt like stepping into someone else's life.
Inside were rows of neatly arranged clothes. Elegant blouses. Tailored skirts. Designer jeans. Flowing dresses. Silks and satins, color-coordinated and ironed to perfection.
They weren't her style.
She reached out and brushed a dress with her fingertips.
These weren't just new clothes.
They were Seraphina's style.
She didn't need anyone to say it. She could feel it in the fabrics, the patterns, the deliberate femininity. These were clothes for galas and champagne brunches, not for her.
Still, Raya knew she couldn't keep showing up in thrifted jeans and faded tops. Not if she wanted to avoid more attention. Not if she wanted to survive.
She pulled out a short flare gown. Soft pink. Sleeveless. Something Seraphina might wear to a spring brunch.
She hesitated, then slipped it on. It fit, though loosely at the waist.
The fabric wasn't scratchy. It wasn't uncomfortable. But it felt wrong.
Like wearing someone else's skin.
Raya stared at her reflection.
The girl in the mirror wasn't her.
But she would have to pretend she was.