The Lord Is a Girl: Share All Pain With the Heir

Christal slipped back into her room like a ghost.

She bolted the door and slid to the floor, her back pressed against the wood. Her body trembled with cold and the aftershocks of fear.

"Master Christian, are you alright?" Her maid, Rose, called softly from the other side of the door. "You looked so pale when you left."

The title, Master Christian, was a harsh reminder of her charade. It belonged to her brother, a name she wore like a borrowed suit of armor. Rose was a loyal maid who had served her family for years, yet even she was deceived.

"I'm fine, Rose," Christal forced out, her voice a raw whisper. "Just too much wine. Let me be for a while."

She pushed herself to her feet and staggered to the dressing table. The reflection in the mirror was a stranger: a pale face, swollen lips, and the faint, star-like bruises blooming on her neck. A wave of nausea churned in her stomach.

She lurched to the washbasin, scrubbing at her skin as if she could erase the humiliating marks. But the more she rubbed, the redder her skin became, making the bruises stand out even more.

Rose's worried voice came through the door again. "Master, your mother, Lady Brenda, has asked to see you. She says it's important."

Christal's stomach clenched. Her mother was the last person she wanted to see right now.

"I know," she called back, her voice louder, steadier. "I'll be there after I change."

She rummaged through her wardrobe and pulled out a shirt with the highest collar she owned, carefully fastening every button to hide the evidence on her neck.

Rose entered with a basin of hot water to help her wash, her gaze falling on Christal's bare arm. A patch of purplish bruises marred the skin.

"Master, your arm! What happened?" Rose exclaimed, rushing forward to inspect it.

Christal snatched her arm back, pulling the sleeve down. "I fell last night," she said, her tone cold. "Don't make a fuss."

Rose looked doubtful but knew better than to press the issue, her eyes filled with concern for the young master she served.

Christal found her mother, Lady Brenda, sitting by the window in her private drawing room. The older woman was twisting a lace handkerchief in her hands, her expression anxious. As a distant relative of the powerful Montgomerys, their position in this grand estate was precarious, dependent on the family's goodwill.

"Christian, you're here." Lady Brenda managed a weak smile. "Did you find the banquet agreeable?"

Christal kept her head down, unable to meet her mother's eyes. "It was fine, Mother. You wanted to see me?"

Lady Brenda sighed. "I heard that Lord Auguste has returned from his military post. He is a man of great learning and has experience with the Royal Trials. I want you to ask for his guidance. It would be a great help to you."

The request was a physical blow. Christal's body went rigid. Go to Auguste? It was a death sentence.

"No, Mother. I don't need it. I can manage on my own."

Her mother was taken aback by her sharp refusal. "Christian, this is not a request," she said, her brow furrowed. "The Montgomery family has been gracious enough to take us in. You must seize every opportunity to pass the trials. I have already sent a note requesting a meeting."

Despair washed over Christal. She knew her mother meant well, but that kindness felt like a hangman's noose.

"I... I don't feel well today, Mother," Christal said, pressing a hand to her stomach. It was true. The night's ordeal had left her feeling like she'd been torn apart.

Seeing her genuinely poor state, Lady Brenda's expression softened with worry. She moved to touch Christal's forehead.

Christal flinched back instinctively, avoiding her mother's touch.

Her mother's hand froze in mid-air, a flicker of hurt in her eyes. "Very well," she said, withdrawing her hand. "Then tomorrow. It has been arranged. You cannot refuse."

Christal returned to her room in a daze, the world spinning around her. She collapsed onto her bed, the memories of the grotto flooding back.

Meanwhile, in the main keep of the estate, Auguste de Montgomery listened to his aide, Silas.

"My lord," Silas reported, holding out a parchment scroll. "Here is the list of all female guests at the banquet last night. None were reported missing or acted unusually."

Silas was a sharp, capable man, the perfect instrument for a master like Auguste.

Auguste took the list, his face a mask of indifference. His eyes were cold. "Who put something in my wine?"

"It was Miss Juliet of House Sterling who handed you the glass, my lord. It's possible she..."

Auguste let out a cold laugh, tossing the list onto the table. "The Sterlings are desperate for a marriage alliance. As for the woman... keep looking. Find her, even if you have to tear this estate apart."

He rubbed the space between his brows. The woman's terrified eyes and the feel of her skin haunted him, filling him with a strange, unsettling irritation.