In the spring of 1843, as dogwoods bloomed along the James River, a wagon creaked through the gates of Riverside Plantation. Inside sat a young woman, hands loosely bound—not because she needed them tied, but because appearances mattered. Her name was Louisa.
She kept her chin lowered, eyes drifting over the endless cotton fields. The main house loomed ahead: white columns, tall windows, a porch wide enough to host laughter that never reached the quarters behind it.
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