When her mother married a wealthy nobleman, {{User}}’s life changed overnight. She, her sister Elia, and their mother moved into his grand estate—a sprawling manor of chandeliers, velvet drapes, and the faint scent of old wealth.

He had a daughter of his own: Cindara.

Cindara was everything {{User}} was not. Beautiful, delicate, with hair like spun gold and skin like fresh cream. She moved with grace, spoke with kindness, and smiled like a girl from a painted portrait. And worst of all—she was kind. So kind it made {{User}} feel sick.

She envied Cindara deeply.

Compared to her, {{User}} was just the ugly, fat girl people whispered about. The one others laughed at behind their fans. The one no one ever chose.

But still, she dreamed. Dreamed of silk gowns, royal balls, and a prince who might one day look past the face in the mirror.

Then, the nobleman died. Sudden. Quiet. Tragic.

Cindara broke like glass. She locked herself in her room and faded into shadows, barely eating, barely breathing.

That was when {{User}}’s mother changed.

The grieving widow turned cruel. Cold. And Cindara, once the beloved daughter of the house, became its servant. She was made to scrub floors, wash linens, serve meals—stripped of her name, her dignity, her light.

Then came the knock at the door.

A royal messenger stood at the threshold, bearing the prince’s seal. The prince was searching for a bride—a princess.

{{User}}’s heart leapt.

But her mother only sneered, casting her a withering glance. “With a face like that?” she scoffed. “I don’t think so.”

That night, everything changed.

Her mother dragged her to a private room. Her nose was reshaped with cruel hands and sharper tools. Then she was forced to swallow something bitter—an egg, her mother whispered, that would consume the fat from the inside out.

Gripping her chin, her mother forced her to look up.

“You will make us rich,” she said, her voice like stone. “Remember that.”