The Unchosen One

On the day of my difficult labor, my sister threw herself against a wall to induce a miscarriage—just to lure our mother, a renowned physician, away from my side.
I begged my mother to stay, pleading that my child was the Duke’s heir. But my sister, bleeding and petulant, refused any other doctor and died crying for our mother.
After her death, my family acted as if nothing happened. No blame, no resentment.
Until the Duke became King. His first act was declaring my sister his ‘First Queen’—his one true love.
I was cast aside, my marriage annulled, banished in disgrace.
At my family’s estate, my mother forced poison down my throat. I writhed for seven days before dying.
My father drowned my infant son in the fountain, snarling, "The spawn of Isadora’s killer doesn’t deserve to live."
They scattered my ashes over her grave, whispering, "We’ve avenged you."
Then—I woke back in the birthing bed.
My mother stood over me, hands bloody. "Isadora is hemorrhaging. Your labor can wait."

1
A sharp, violent pain tore through my abdomen. I instinctively grabbed my mother's sleeve, the old, familiar plea rising in my throat.
She shook me off, her face a mask of fury. "Isadora's life is in danger! If you have a shred of decency, you will let me go right now."
Hearing those words, I knew. I had been reborn. I was back on the day my world had ended.
In my last life, my baby was in a breech position, a dangerous and difficult birth. I had summoned my mother, the most celebrated physician in the capital, to ensure my safety. But my sister, Isadora, hearing of this, took her five-month pregnancy and hurled it against a stone wall, all to pull our mother away from me.
I had begged my mother to stay, reminding her that my child was the Duke's heir, whose birth would secure our family's future. After a moment of hesitation, she had agreed. I delivered my son safely, but moments later, word came that Isadora, in a fit of pique, had refused all other medical aid and bled to death.
My parents had collapsed from grief. But when they awoke, they never spoke of Isadora's death again, treating me with the same cool affection as always. It was a lie, a long and patient performance of forgiveness.
Until Duke Alistair became King. He named my dead sister his 'First Queen,' while I, the mother of his heir, received no title. I was nothing.
Alistair himself had the royal guard hold me down while he personally severed the tendons in my wrists. "If it weren't for you," he'd spat, his voice thick with hatred, "Isadora and I would have been together forever."
He cast me out, sending me back to my parents for the final judgment.
My mother brewed the poison herself, a special concoction designed not for a quick death, but for maximum suffering. As I lay convulsing on the stone floor, I watched my father drown my son, my beautiful boy. He threw the small, lifeless body at my feet. "This monster who killed my Isadora should never have been born! We let him live in luxury for years. That was mercy enough."
Trapped in a prison of agony and boundless hatred, I suffered for seven days and seven nights before I finally died.
My last memory was of them at her grave, their voices mingling in a triumphant whisper. "She and the monster are dead, Isadora. You can rest now."
Remembering it all, this time, I let go of my mother's sleeve. I let her go.
As she rushed from the room, I forced my mind to focus, recalling the techniques my mother had used in my previous life to turn the baby. I called for the midwives. "Help me," I gasped. "We have to turn him. Now."
Hours of excruciating effort followed. Finally, through a haze of pain, I gave birth to a son. The sound of his first cry was the sweetest I had ever heard. The breath I had been holding for two lifetimes finally escaped my lips.
But my relief was short-lived. My father burst into the room, his face contorted with rage. He grabbed my arm, his grip bruising. "This is all your fault! If you hadn't insisted your mother attend you, Isadora would never have hurt herself!"
He started pulling me from the bed. "Her child is gone, and she won't stop crying! You're coming with me to her house. You will let her vent her anger on you until she is calm."

2
Five months prior, Isadora had been married off to a minor court official and moved into a lavish new villa our mother had prepared for her. It was a half-hour's ride from the ducal palace.
It was early winter now. I had just given birth. To be dragged out into the cold would be a death sentence.
The royal physician stepped forward. "My Lord, you mustn't! Her Grace just endured a perilous birth. This could kill her!" he pleaded. "If she catches a chill now, she may never recover."
My father hesitated, but the thought of Isadora's tears hardened his heart. "She has always been strong. A little cold won't kill her. She can recover later. But Isadora is fragile. If she keeps crying, she'll do herself a permanent injury."

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