The name given to the woman at birth was Isabella, but she was known only as Rachel. Rachel was not her middle name, or a nickname, or the name of a loved one; it was simply a pseudonym. Why she needed a pseudonym, however, was a secret.
To an outsider, she seemed normal. She had a husband, a house, and a car. She held a job as a secretary, was included in a group of friends, and a harbored a baby on the way. She seemed to be the most normal person on the block; of course, that was not the case, but again, it was a secret.
And besides, those events had happened over fifteen years ago.
The woman was lying on a hospital bed, clean white sheets molding over her bloated form. She was at the very end of her ninth-month pregnancy; the bump on her stomach had grown to full size, and, any moment now, she would have a new baby girl in her hands. She could already feel tiny feet kicking at her insides- it was only a matter of time.
Though Isabella was already thirty-four, this was her first child. She'd heard of girls ten years younger than her with toddlers; she'd also heard that the experience was agonizing, and couldn't figure out how such young women, barely out of their teenage years, could withstand anything more than a bit of discomfort. Just the thought of the pain brought sweat to the woman's forehead and palms; at least for her, her husband would be at her side.
The woman had dreamed of many things throughout her life, perfect scenarios that she wished would come true. As a child, she'd dreamed of being a fairy princess, though that was literally impossible to accomplish. As a teenager, she'd dreamed of running of with her soulmate to live in a movie-like happily ever after. As a young adult, she'd dreamed of just running. These dreams rarely came true, and even if they did, she had to have forced them too. She'd learned to deal with it over the years, and to stop wishing on stars.
The doctors had given the woman a sort of medicine to help with the pain of labor, and she could feel it starting to take effect within the hour. It wasn't the best feeling, but anything to help with later; the drug made her a little dizzy, and she could sense that her head wasn't working straight. She seemed to forget things; mostly it was small details, like where she'd put her bag or where she could call for a nurse. She'd forgotten important facts as well, like what her job was. Or to stop dreaming and believing her wishes would become truth.
Perhaps it was her last dream before she left the world. Isabella had thought of her husband coming to the hospital, bringing her flowers and chocolate to help with the birth. She'd imagined them bringing home their baby daughter, raising her to be the best girl she could be. She believed that they would be a happy, cheerful, and bubbly family; although this dream was the most realistic out of everything she'd thought up, it was also the farthest from what really happened.
Her husband never arrived at the hospital. He hadn't left so much as a phone call, either, before his wife started to give birth.
In the end, Isabella went into labor on her own. There was no one with her when doctors began to attach tubes to her arms, the stickiness of medical tape clinging to her skin. She was alone when the baby began to make its way out, her whole body battling agony with no one to reach for. She was the first, and only, one in her family to hold the child.
"Ma'am, this will not hurt," assured a nurse, taping a long, straw-like tube to the woman's inner elbow. "Just a little discomfort, that's all." Isabella forced a tiny smile, though beads of sweat came down her forehead. The nurse seemed to be about twenty, obviously straight out of university. She had likely not had a child before as well; either that, or she had been lying to help with the process.
Isabella was not experiencing discomfort. No, she was feeling pain, pain as intense and hot as a humid summer's day. Pain as if she were burning, as if she had fire inside of her. Within moments, her world had gone dark.
x
The woman woke up an hour later. A nurse was sitting by the side of her bed, holding an infant in her arms.
"Your daughter, ma'am," said the medic politely, in a soft voice. She handed the mother her baby, gently placing the child in the woman's arms. The infant was wrapped in a soft, peach-pink blanket, a crocheted hat of a matching color placed on her head. Her eyes were wide, her tiny mouth open in a grin; she had not yet grown in teeth, but the newborn's happy expression was still obvious. Isabella smiled at the sight of her daughter; she looked almost exactly like herself. Her eyes were the same hazel, and the thin, wispy hairs poking out from under her cap were an identical shade of honey-brown. She brought the bundle closer to her chest, stroking the newborn's back with her thumb.
"Do you have a name, miss?" asked the nurse.
"Yes," she replied with a smile. "Amelia, after the woman who help me and my husband leave behind our old life.
"That's a lovely name, and she sounds like a wonderful person," the caregiver commented. "Oh, and speaking of your husband, he sent in a letter right after the baby was born." She produced an off-white envelope from the front pocket of her mint-green shrubs and handed it to the mother.
"Thank you, Nurse...Collins," she replied politely, glancing at the shiny plastic name tag clipped to the woman's breast pocket.
"My pleasure. Another patient needs me now, but call me if you want anything."
Isabella watched her leave the room, the woman's sneakers shuffling on the hospital's tiled floors. Once the nurse had left, she gingerly opened the letter, careful not to damage the envelope. So her husband hadn't forgotten about her after all, she thought with delight.
As she opened the paper, some of the ink smeared onto her skin, leaving black, feathery marks on her hand. Dear Isabella, it read in her spouse, Ashton's, familiar handwriting.
I have addressed this to Rachel Arsace instead of Isabella Schreave in order to protect your true identity, because I unfortunately cannot protect anything else.
The words made her eyebrows furrow in confusion. What did he mean?
My absences over the past year are more than being on call for work. Instead, I have been involved in a romantic relationship with my co-worker, Mara Ryan. After our affair was discovered by our boss about seven months ago, we were both fired. Mara's husband, being a wealthy businessman, gave her money, which she then transferred to me. I passed this on as my salary so you wouldn't uncover my job loss.
I, obviously, have lied to you, and I am very sorry for doing so. As soon as you announced your pregnancy eight months ago, a wave of guilt soon came over me. I realized two things: I am not fit to be a father, and that I am much happier with Mara.
Thus, I was not able to show up to the birth of the child today. I hope my leaving does not affect you too much, and that my confession will clear up any grudges between us.
Best,
Ashton
The woman stared at the paper, tears beginning to fall drop by drop down her cheek. It only took her one more skim through the letter before she started to sob, her eyes turning into waterfalls.
She couldn't believe it.
She didn't want to, either.
After fifteen years together, he was leaving her. After they had practically started a war, he was leaving her. He was leaving her without so much as a warning beforehand.
She tore up the letter with anger, throwing it into the fireplace at the side of her bed. The paper curled and blackened, sparks sputtering where flames licked wet ink. It only took a few moments before the letter was completely gone.
It only took a few moments for Isabella to stop loving her child.
The girl that she had looked upon with pride and love a minute ago she now loathed, the girl's similarities to Ashton becoming clearer and clearer by the second. The shape of her face, the structure of her nose- it was all the same. She didn't want the baby anymore. In fact, at that moment, it was the thing she wanted very least.
Ripping a piece of paper from a pad on her bedside table and grabbing a pen from her purse, she scribbled a note. The writing was blotchy, smeared by the tears dripping on the paper from above. The woman had time only to write the her identity, story, and the baby's name before she heard footsteps coming down the hall towards her room; sloppily folding the letter in half, she tucked it into the baby's blanket and tore the tubes off of her body, leaving the building through her first-floor exit.
Her brother thought she was dead. But, as her head spun, trying to decipher what had just happened to her, the thought of sending Amelia to an orphanage did not cross her mind. This, it seemed, was the sole option.
There was a home store located near the hospital, from which she bought a wicker basket. The child was roughly put in, the hamper shaking violently as Isabella stormed into a nearby post office.
"Send this to the royal palace, please," she requested coldly, her eyes still puffy. She slammed the crate on the counter, along with a few bills, a sudden motion that startled the postal worker. "As soon as possible."
She left the building as abruptly as she had entered it. The mailman was the last person to ever see Isabella Schreave.
x
The baby was wailing and shrieking, but King Alexander did not call a maid. For the moment, only he and the woman who had brought her to his office, an old midwife by the name of Amelia, knew about this child.
With trembling fingers, ones that had never held a baby that was not his own, he picked up the girl in an effort to try and calm her. As he stroked the infant's blanket, he felt something crinkle between the layers of fleece; careful not to harm the child, he grasped a piece of paper tucked into the pink wrap.
It had been folded in half messily, and, as he opened the paper, he could see that it had been torn sloppily as well. "Dear Alexander," he mumbled under his breath, reading, his sharp hazel eyes analyzing the letter. Some spots of ink were smeared so heavily he could not make out what it said. The penmanship, however, was extremely neat and oddly familiar. So familiar, as if he'd seen it somewhere before; he just couldn't put a finger on it.
That was, of course, until he reached the end of the note.
Most things, it seemed, were so obvious when they were explained. This was no exception.
King Alexander had seen that handwriting often when he was younger; it belonged to his sister. From the moment she could hold a pencil, she'd written like that; neatly a reminiscent of a computer font. While he struggled to differentiate between his lowercase Ds and As, she could have been copying down books.
The last time he saw that handwriting was on the placecards at her wedding, the day of the infamous incident. His sister, due to marry the Prince of Swendway, had run off in tears before the two had said their vows, never seen by her family again; she had loved someone else, and couldn't marry the Prince. The Swendish, unfortunately, had seen it as an act of disrespect; they'd declared war on Illéa the day after, and, to fifteen years later, they were still fighting. By the third year of Isabella's absence, the country had accepted her as deceased. The royals had always speculated that she'd escaped with her secret boyfriend, but no one knew for sure- until now.
He read the letter one more time. All these years, his sister had been alive and well, well until she'd discovered that Ashton Whiteside, the son of a noble and the boy that she had disappeared with fifteen years ago, cheated on her. Folding up the letter once more, though neater this time, he tucked it back into the baby's basket. He then picked up the hamper, setting back into the palace's corridors to find his wife; if anyone asked what was inside the basket, it was warm bread and not a real, live, child.
Making sure no one was in the hospital wing, he opened the imfirmirary's large oak doors. He could spot his wife lying on a bed in the far corner, cupping the large bump on her stomach with her hands. Her pregnancy was coming to an end; the baby was due in a day or so, and the couple couldn't have been more excited for the one new member of their family they were expecting.
"Amara!" Alexander half-whispered as he made his way towards his wife. He spoke under his breath, careful not to let anyone who might've been lurking near.
"What?" replied his wife, beginning to straighten in her bed. Her bright blue eyes morphed into an expression of concern, her eyebrows furrowing; her spouse rarely called her by her real name, and, when he did, it was never for a good reason. "What's in that basket?"
"Not right now," he replied, his words beginning to slur from the rapidness of his words. He took the letter out from the basket and handed it to his wife. "Read this."
Queen Amara took the paper, flattening it with her fingers as she began to read. "Oh my," she squeaked after she'd finished. "Oh, gosh." She straightened herself more, placing the letter flat on the basket. "Where's the baby?"
"Here," replied Alexander, opening the hamper. The child was fast alseep now, sucking on her thumb peacefully; the Queen picked her up with motherly hands, careful not to wake the newborn.
"When was she born, yesterday?" asked Amara, cradling the infant in her arms. "She's so fragile."
"Just about twelve hours ago. They flew her in from Dominica. Her mother- my sister- sent her."
"Honey, what do we do?" replied the woman, holding the child close. "We can't just leave her out on the streets. How do we tell the people?" Her voice had a slight tremor in it, one that was only growing bigger and more obvious.
"We could say she's long lost, or an orphan."
"The citizens will riot. Everyone's going to claim that they're long lost or an orphan."
The king ran his palms down his face as he thought. "We could pass her off as a twin," he finally murmured. "Keep her around for a day until ours is born."
"That'll never work," replied his wife. "She probably already has a birth certificate somewhere."
"Then we'll change her name."
"Alright," nodded his wife after a moment, her tone solemn. "Take her to our room for now." She placed the child back in her place, patting the lid closed.
King Alexander left the hospital wing slowly. The man was still wrapping his head around the situation, the circumstances consuming his mind.; it was all very confusing, and so sudden. The man was distracted enough not to notice the staff member lurking behind the door.