I once thought that luxury was the ultimate dream shimmering gowns, glittering diamonds, limousines waiting outside, and staff ready to serve your every whim. But now that I live in it, now that I breathe in this world every single day, I realize how wrong I was. Luxury has a price. And no one tells you about the weight of the crown before they place it on your head.
It had only been a few days since I woke up in the body of this woman Isabella Deveraux, the heiress of the Deveraux empire. In this life, I wasn't just a billionaire's bride-to-be. I was part of the elite, the untouchable, the envied. And yet, every single moment felt like I was playing a role in someone else's play.
Today was one of those extravagant days.
A photoshoot for a luxury fashion magazine. A chauffeured ride in a sleek black Rolls-Royce. A personal stylist, a makeup artist, and three assistants fluttering around me like anxious butterflies. They whispered compliments, adjusted my posture, powdered my face, glossed my lips. But none of them noticed the emptiness in my eyes.
"Ms. Deveraux, could you tilt your chin a little more? Yes, that's perfect. Hold that. Smile, but subtly… elegant, not playful. Gorgeous!" the photographer shouted.
I smiled. Or at least, I curved my lips into something that resembled a smile. Inside, I felt cold. Disconnected.
After two hours of flashing lights and overexposed glamour, I was finally allowed to retreat to the lounge. A golden tray held a glass of infused water cucumber, lemon, and mint. I barely sipped it. My throat felt dry not from thirst but from the words I never spoke.
What was I doing here?
How did a woman who used to live paycheck to paycheck now sit in a velvet chair, wearing a dress worth more than her old apartment?
I was surrounded by beauty, but it felt like a cage. A beautiful prison made of diamonds and expectations.
"Miss Isabella," a familiar voice broke through my thoughts.
I turned to see Julian, my personal assistant in this life. Polished, perfect, and always efficient. He handed me a schedule for the rest of the day lunch with the CEO of a luxury brand, a charity gala in the evening, and a fitting session for my engagement gown tomorrow.
Engagement gown.
Right. I was getting married. To Lucien Westwood the cold, intimidating billionaire who treated me like a business deal.
I sighed, the sound barely escaping my lips.
Julian noticed. "Is something wrong, Miss?"
I wanted to scream. To tear off this dress. To run barefoot into the street and feel something real.
But instead, I smiled. "I'm just tired."
"Tired is expected," he replied, misunderstanding completely. "You've been quite busy. Shall I cancel the lunch?"
"No. It's fine."
Because nothing is ever really mine to choose.
The restaurant was one of those places that didn't have a menu. The chef simply sent out "what's best." Each dish was a masterpiece, an artwork of flavors and presentation. But I barely tasted any of it.
Across from me sat Margot Van Cleef, a sharp-eyed woman with a hundred-thousand-dollar smile and an agenda behind every compliment.
"You're glowing, Isabella," she said. "Lucien is a lucky man."
I nodded, trained in politeness.
She leaned closer. "I heard you're going to wear the Delacroix diamonds at the gala. They're legendary."
I hadn't even known. My life was scheduled and styled by other people. My opinions were accessories.
I forced a smile. "I suppose I am."
As she rambled on about designer handbags and the latest yacht auctions, I felt a sudden wave of nausea. Not from the food. From the hollowness. From being surrounded by people who talked so much yet said nothing real.
I excused myself to the bathroom.
In the mirror, I saw a stranger. Flawless makeup. Perfect hair. Designer earrings. But her eyes… they were haunted.
I whispered, "Who are you?"
That evening, the gala was held at a marble palace turned event hall. Crystal chandeliers bathed everything in warm golden light. Guests dressed in couture clinked glasses of champagne and exchanged calculated smiles.
Lucien arrived shortly after I did. He looked devastatingly handsome in a black tuxedo, but his presence felt like an iceberg cold, immovable.
"Isabella," he greeted me with a polite nod. "You look… acceptable."
That was his idea of a compliment.
"Thank you," I replied flatly.
He offered his arm, and I took it. Because that was what was expected.
We walked through the crowd, smiling, waving, pretending.
But inside, I was screaming.
Later that night, after the gala, I stood alone on the balcony of Lucien's penthouse. The city lights sparkled below, like stars scattered across a canvas. But even that beauty couldn't touch the ache inside me.
Lucien joined me, standing a few feet away. He was silent for a long moment.
"This life suits you," he said finally.
I looked at him. "Does it? Or am I just a doll dressed for display?"
He turned slightly, surprised. "You're not usually so… dramatic."
"Maybe I'm tired of pretending," I whispered. "Of smiling when I want to scream."
He frowned. "You're overwhelmed. It's understandable."
"No, Lucien. I'm suffocating."
He said nothing.
I walked back inside. Away from the view, the lights, and him.
Back to the silence that followed me like a shadow.
And in that silence, I made a decision.
If I was going to survive in this world this world of glitter and thorns I needed to find myself again.
Not the
Isabella they wanted.
But the woman I used to be.
Before the diamonds.
Before the titles.
Before Lucien Westwood.