At the same time, Camilla worked to erase Jillian's presence from the estate. Late one evening, she ordered Jillian's room to be emptied, stripping it of anything that might remind Harlond of his daughter. Dresses, books, and sentimental trinkets were packed away and stored in the attic, out of sight and out of mind. Whenever Harlond hesitated, Camilla was quick to plant seeds of doubt. "She never truly appreciated you," she would sigh, shaking her head. "She always fought with Lillian. Maybe it's better she stays away for now." The staff, fearful of Camilla's growing power, did not question her orders. Jillian's letters, desperate attempts to reach her father, never made it to his hands. Camilla intercepted each one, smirking as she tossed them into the fire, watching the ink-blackened pages curl into ash.
Slowly but surely, the Smith estate was no longer Harlond's, nor Jillian's—it was Camilla's. The once-familiar halls now echoed with her presence, the servants obeyed her every word, and Harlond, blind to her deception, leaned on her more than ever. Yet, the more power Camilla took, the more she craved. She had won, for now—but power is never secure.
******
"Come closer, child," Lady Eleanor said, her voice firm but not unkind. Jillian hesitated for a moment before stepping forward, her hands clenched at her sides. She had expected cold indifference, but instead, there was something else in her grandmother's gaze—something unreadable.
"You must be hungry after such a long journey," Lady Eleanor continued, waving a hand toward the waiting maid. "Clara, bring some tea and biscuits. And make sure the girl gets something warm." The maid, an older woman with kind eyes, nodded and disappeared into the kitchen.
Jillian lowered herself into the chair across from her grandmother, her mind still racing. Was this exile truly a punishment, or was it a blessing in disguise? Either way, she would not let Camilla win so easily. She had to find a way back. She had to uncover the truth.
Each morning, Jillian woke to the soft glow of sunlight filtering through the heavy curtains of her new bedroom. The manor, though grand, felt nothing like home. The scent of freshly baked bread and herbs from the kitchen filled the air, signaling breakfast time. Lady Eleanor insisted on structure, so breakfast was always served at precisely seven o'clock.
After breakfast, Jillian was expected to spend time reading in the study or assisting with small household tasks, though she was rarely allowed to interact with the staff beyond simple pleasantries. The estate grounds stretched wide, with neatly trimmed hedges, a sprawling orchard, and a peaceful lake hidden beyond the trees. Despite the beauty of the countryside, her freedom felt limited.
Afternoons were spent with her grandmother, who taught her about etiquette, family history, and proper behavior—lessons Jillian had no patience for.
Evenings were the quietest. Dinner was served at dusk, followed by long walks in the garden under the fading light. Jillian felt the weight of loneliness pressing in—isolated, silenced, and forgotten. The stillness of the manor only made her mind race with questions.
Was this truly just an exile, or was there something more to why she was sent here?
A week after arriving at her grandmother's manor, Lady Eleanor announced that Jillian would be attending Willowbrook Academy, the only reputable school in the village. Though reluctant, Jillian knew she had no choice.
The school, a modest yet elegant building made of stone and ivy-covered walls, stood at the heart of the village. Unlike the prestigious academies Jillian was used to in the city, Willowbrook was simpler, yet it had an air of tradition and discipline.
On her first day, she drew curious glances from the other students. Most of them had known each other their entire lives, and Jillian, with her refined city upbringing, felt like an outsider. Some whispered about her, others ignored her entirely.
Despite the cold reception, one student caught her attention—Daniel Whitmore, a quiet but observant boy who seemed to know more about her family than he let on. "You're a Smith, aren't you?" he asked after class, his tone laced with something between curiosity and caution.
From the moment Jillian stepped into Willowbrook Academy, she knew she didn't belong. Her refined city accent, her expensive (though now slightly worn) shoes, and the mere fact that she was a Smith made her stand out among the village children.
The first few days were filled with whispers and side glances, but soon, the bullying became more direct. Margaret Holloway, the daughter of a wealthy landowner, led the charge. She saw Jillian as a threat, an outsider who didn't deserve to walk the same halls as them. "Look at the city girl," Margaret sneered one afternoon. "Does your daddy still think you're a princess, or did he finally throw you away?"
Laughter rippled through the classroom, and Jillian felt her stomach tighten. She tried to ignore them, but the taunts didn't stop. They "accidentally" knocked over her books, whispered cruel words as she passed, and once, someone even spilled ink onto her uniform. The teachers turned a blind eye, either too indifferent or too afraid to cross Margaret's influential family.
But Jillian refused to break. She clenched her fists, held her head high, and endured. She had already lost too much—her mother, her home, and her father's trust. She would not let a few village bullies crush her.
One day, Daniel Whitmore, the quiet boy who had first recognized her as a Smith, spoke up. "Leave her alone," he muttered, stepping between Jillian and Margaret's group. It was a small act of kindness, but to Jillian, it felt like a lifeline.
Still, she knew this was only the beginning. Willowbrook was not a place for outsiders, and if she wanted to survive, she would have to fight back in her own way.
The taunts never stopped. "Abandoned bastard," they whispered in the halls, their voices dripping with mockery. "Even your own father didn't want you." Every day at Willowbrook Academy became a battle—one Jillian fought in silence.
Margaret Holloway and her friends made it their mission to break her. They tripped her in the corridors, knocked her ink bottle over her notes, and ensured she was always the last to receive materials in class. Teachers noticed but said nothing; the Holloway name held too much power in the village.
But Jillian refused to react. She bottled up her pain and focused on what she could control—her studies. She spent hours in the library, memorizing texts, solving equations, and perfecting her work. If they wanted her to feel like an outsider, she would outshine them all.
It wasn't long before she became the top student in her class. Her name was always at the top of the score sheets, her essays read aloud as examples, her answers the ones teachers relied on. This only fueled the resentment. "Even if you're smart, you'll never belong," Margaret spat one afternoon. "No one wants you here. No one ever will."