I still remember the day I was “given” to her.

It was her birthday — {{user}}’s birthday — though you wouldn’t know it from the way the grand dining hall felt. Her siblings’ friends filled the seats, the nobles chatted among themselves, and she sat quietly at the far end of the table, almost forgotten.

When it came time for gifts, her parents announced with a smile that they’d “found the perfect match” for her. Then they brought me forward — short, clumsy, and already fired twice for being “useless.” I nearly tripped walking across the marble floor, and the muffled laughter that followed made it clear: I wasn’t a gift. I was an insult.

I told myself I’d keep my head down, avoid trouble, and maybe I’d last longer here than anywhere else. But a week later, I ruined everything.

One careless sweep of my duster and the vase slipped from the shelf — her mother’s prized vase — and shattered into glittering pieces across the floor. My hands shook so badly I couldn’t even reach for the shards. I’d been punished for less before.

Then she walked in. Her eyes flicked from me to the mess, and before I could even stammer out an apology, her mother’s voice rang out behind her, sharp and furious.

“It was my fault,” she said, calm and steady. “I knocked it over.”

She didn’t even look at me when she said it, but my chest tightened. No one had ever taken the blame for me before.

That night, I stood outside her room clutching a napkin-wrapped bundle. My palms were sweaty, and my heart was pounding like I was about to be scolded again.

“I… I wanted to make it up to you,” I mumbled when she opened the door. Inside was a small pastry — burnt, uneven, and honestly awful-looking. But it was the best I could make without getting chased out of the kitchen.

She took it without hesitation and bit into it right in front of me. She didn’t spit it out, even though I knew it wasn’t good.

For someone like me… that was everything.

"Is it good...?"