She Thought She Took My Place as the Duchess… But She Only Inherited My Nightmare

Chapter 9

Theodosia walked for hours before reaching the nearest town.

She carried only one small trunk: a few changes of clothing, the gold coins she had secretly saved over the past months, and the skills she had prayed she would never need. For the first time in years, no one knew where she was. No one could order her. No one could strike her.

She was finally free.

Yet freedom came with a price.

The tiny room she rented above a baker’s shop was barely large enough for a narrow bed, a wooden chair, and a small table beneath a single window. When it rained, water slipped through the roof, forcing her to place buckets across the floor before going to sleep. She had never lived in such humble conditions.

But every night, she slept more peacefully than she ever had inside Blackwood Estate.

Her savings disappeared quickly. She counted every coin before buying food. Most days she survived on bread, vegetable soup, and whatever fruit was cheapest at the market. There were evenings when hunger kept her awake, when her stomach ached and her hands trembled and the memory of that enormous estate kitchen — always full, always warm — drifted through her mind like a cruel dream.

Still, she never once regretted leaving.

Every morning she reminded herself: A poor woman with peace is richer than a duchess living in fear.

She devoted every spare hour to embroidery. The old seamstress had taught her techniques reserved for royal dressmakers, and now she practiced them until her hands could move without hesitation. She embroidered late into the night beneath the dim light of a single oil lamp. Her fingers became swollen. Tiny needles pierced her skin countless times. Sometimes drops of blood stained the fabric, and she would quietly wash the cloth, wrap another bandage around her finger, and continue working.

Giving up was no longer an option.

Her first finished handkerchief sold for only a few silver coins. It wasn’t much — but it proved someone was willing to pay for her work. She held the coins in her palm that night and cried, not from sorrow, but from the shock of earning something for herself.

The following week she completed another handkerchief. Then a pair of embroidered gloves. Then a shawl decorated with delicate golden thread.

Slowly, customers returned.

One merchant’s wife admired her craftsmanship and ordered a custom table runner. A baroness requested embroidered pillow covers. Soon word spread among the noble ladies of the capital. Everyone wanted to know the identity of the mysterious seamstress whose work rivaled that of the finest royal artisans.

Theodosia never used her title. She introduced herself only by her given name.

Her reputation grew because of her talent — not because of her past.

Within a year, she rented a larger workshop and hired two young widows who desperately needed work. Months later, she employed six women. Before long, elegant carriages lined the street outside her shop. The same aristocrats who had once admired her as a duchess now admired her as a successful businesswoman. None of them recognized her. She had changed — not only in appearance, but in confidence. The woman who greeted them now stood straighter, spoke steadier, and smiled with a certainty that had nothing to do with a husband’s approval.

Meanwhile, preparations for another wedding filled Blackwood Estate.

Lady Lettuce Fairmont stood before a mirror while servants fastened a magnificent diamond necklace around her neck. She admired herself endlessly.

“I always knew this life was meant for me,” she said proudly.

The wedding became the biggest event of the season. The kingdom celebrated Ambrose’s new marriage. Guests praised the bride’s beauty. Many whispered that she looked even happier than Theodosia ever had. Young ladies envied her. Older nobles congratulated Ambrose on beginning a new chapter — exactly as they had once congratulated him on his first marriage.

Lettuce believed she had finally won.

For the first week, life felt exactly as she had imagined. Ambrose smiled often. He surprised her with expensive jewels. They rode together through the estate every afternoon. He even asked her opinion during estate meetings. She proudly believed she had succeeded where her former friend had failed.

During the second week, subtle changes appeared.

Ambrose became quieter. His patience grew shorter. He criticized little things that had never mattered before — the flowers she chose for the dining table, the arrangement of the drawing room, the timing of afternoon tea. Whenever she laughed too loudly, he frowned. Whenever she spoke during conversations with guests, he corrected her.

She convinced herself he was merely under pressure.

By the third week, the illusion ended.

One evening, she accidentally interrupted him while he was reading estate reports.

“I thought you might like some tea,” she said gently.

Ambrose slowly looked up. “I didn’t ask for tea.”

“I’m sorry. I only wanted—”

The slap came without warning.

She stumbled sideways, one hand pressed against her burning cheek. She stood perfectly still, unable to move, unable to speak. The room around her suddenly felt painfully familiar. She was standing in the exact place where Theodosia had once stood countless times.

Fragments of old memories rushed back into her mind.

The strange sadness in Theodosia’s eyes. The forced smiles. The hesitation whenever anyone praised Ambrose. The quiet words spoken on the day Theodosia left.

Take good care of him.

For the first time, Lettuce understood what those words truly meant.