The brush slid through the final strand of hair—smooth as silk gliding over still water. Each stroke whispered through the quiet, soft and deliberate. Liv's fingers moved with practiced grace, her touch gentle, almost reverent.
Calm. Steady.
But beneath the surface, her body trembled. Two days without sleep. Her feet throbbed with a dull ache, each pulse a reminder of exhaustion. Her back burned—a low, constant fire that curled along her spine. Still, she kept brushing.
Her posture was elegant, almost statuesque. Slim. Blonde. Breathtaking. But her beauty felt like a mask—painted on, not worn with pride. A disguise for someone who wasn't meant to be seen.
Before her, Lady Nova stood tall, regal, her reflection glowing in the mirror. She was the image of aristocracy—refined, poised, and impossibly perfect. Her gown shimmered like moonlight woven into silk, silver-gold threads catching the candlelight in soft bursts. She didn't move. She didn't blink. She stood like a sculpture carved from ambition.
Then—sharp as shattered glass—
"Hurry up, you useless freak," Nova snapped.
Her voice sliced through the hush, brittle and cruel. Liv flinched, her breath catching in her throat. Dry. Shallow. Her lips parted, but no sound came.
Why did my parents have to die?
The thought came soft and cold, curling inside her like smoke slipping beneath a locked door.
"I'm almost done," she whispered.
Nova spun. Her skirts flared like a storm, the fabric hissing against the polished floor. Her pale golden eyes narrowed, burning with contempt.
"Don't speak unless spoken to. You filthy thing. You have no beginning… and no future."
Behind her, the cousins giggled. Their laughter was light and cruel—like wind passing through crystal. Dresses rustled. Perfume bloomed—jasmine, rose, amber—sweet scents that hung heavy in the air, mocking in their elegance.
"Hurry and finish," Nova snapped again.
Liv's cheeks flushed with heat. Her fingers trembled. But she didn't stop. She breathed in slowly, pressing the anger down—deep, where it wouldn't explode.
When will I get out of here? Where could I even go?
A wish. That's all. Just a wish.
She curled one last lock.
Near the door, two young servants whispered, eyes wide.
"She's glittering," one murmured.
"Yes. I wish I'd been born in Duke Oscar's house," the other sighed. "Once Nova marries the prince, she'll be unstoppable."
Then—the door opened.
A breeze of roses. A whisper of silk.
The Duchess of Northmead entered like sunlight through a garden. Short, fair-skinned, impeccably dressed—luxury was her armor. The room seemed to bend around her presence.
Her gaze settled on Nova.
"Oh, my beautiful daughter…" she said, voice golden, soft as honey. "You look heavenly. When the prince sees you, he will fall to his knees."
Nova smiled—thinly, tightly. But inside, she trembled. Her fingers twisted at her waist. Liv saw it—the fear behind the glamour. The doubt beneath the silk.
Nova's thumb crept toward her mouth.
"Stop that," the duchess snapped.
Her eyes darkened. Nova dropped her hand, but now her fingers dug into her skin.
Liv watched in the mirror. Her own reflection looked hollow. Apron dusty. Cheeks smudged. A faded dress the color of dried roses. Just a shadow standing behind the light.
The duchess turned. Her gaze landed on Liv—sharp, cutting.
"This beauty," she said, lifting a gloved hand, "this magical creation—all of it—is thanks to this miserable, thankless girl."
Her lips curled.
"At least she's not entirely useless."
Liv flinched. The comb clinked softly in her grip. Her left hand tapped her thigh without thought.
That's not awful, she thought. Could've been worse.
But then, the duchess added, voice turning to ice:
"Once you're done, crawl back to your quarters. I won't have nobles stained by your stench… or your low blood."
Liv bowed her head. Eyes dropped.
If only they could act like humans. Just for today. Just once. It's my birthday too.
She didn't look up.
"Yes… mum," she whispered.
"I am not your mother," the duchess hissed.
Liv nodded. Her voice barely there.
"Yes… Your Grace."
The door creaked again.
This time, the Duke himself stepped in—tall, commanding, like thunder rolling through a summer sky. His boots struck the marble with quiet authority. His coat carried the scent of aged wine and expensive cologne, a blend of power and indulgence.
"Olivia," he began, voice deep, deliberate.
But then—he saw Nova.
His words faltered. His gaze softened. Awe bloomed in his chest like a sudden spring.
"My goodness," he whispered, stepping forward. "You're the brightest star in the sky. A lily among thorns."
He held Nova's shoulders gently, kissed her forehead. Firelight pride shimmered in his eyes.
"This is your night."
The Duchess cleared her throat—sharp, pointed.
"Darling, we need to go," she said, reaching for his hand.
They turned toward the door, but she paused—just for a breath. Her eyes found the guard without needing to gesture.
"Make sure that rat is locked in her quarters," she said.
Her meaning was clear. No one needed her to name Liv.
"Don't let her out."
Liv didn't flinch.
The comb sat in her hand like an extension of her quiet defiance. Her heart was still. Not shattered. Not yet.
I wish I could attend the banquet…
But orphans aren't made for that kind of grace.
She stared at Nova. Every curl, every shimmer, every breath of brilliance. She had crafted this perfection with her own hands.
If I can do this… what else am I capable of?
Nova turned sharply.
"Why did you stop?"
Their eyes met.
Liv saw it—the hesitation, the fire trying to rise inside her. Even the trace of tears.
"Are you jealous?" Nova asked.
Liv looked away.
"No, Lady Nova. You're ready."
Nova paused. Her irritation flickered, then softened into something unsure.
Forget about her. It's my night. I have to impress the prince. I should go through my speech with him.
She faked a smile.
"Why didn't you say so?" she muttered, more to herself.
Then, louder:
"Guard!"
He arrived quickly, as if summoned by ritual.
"Take this… thing… to her quarters. Don't let her come out."
Liv didn't wait to be dragged.
She walked on her own—steps slow, deliberate, each one grounding her. Her fingers curled tightly around the comb, like it held a secret only she knew.
She didn't look back.
But something had sparked inside her.
Not anger. Not sorrow.
A quiet flame.
The kind that burns deep and long. Like a candle in a forgotten room. Like a star rising behind a cloud.
And though the door shut behind her, though the lock clicked, though the world kept spinning without her—she longed to see that world. The one denied to her.
She moved quietly, comb still in hand. Past laughter spilling from the ballroom. Past chandeliers casting golden light on polished marble.
Her shadow drifted across the floor—soft, silent, nearly vanished.
The guard followed behind, silent but alert.
At her door, Liv paused. Just for a moment.
Inside the banquet hall, golden candlelight shimmered across crystal goblets and polished silver platters, casting a warm, honeyed glow over veined marble floors. The scent of roasted venison, spiced wine, and almond pastries hung thick in the air, mingling with lilies and powdered nobles.
Laughter rippled through the room like silk, punctuated by the gentle strains of the quartet tucked beneath the grand staircase.
Velvet gowns rustled. Jewels winked beneath chandeliers. Nobles reclined in high-backed chairs, their voices low and conspiratorial, fingers adorned with rings that caught the light like tiny stars.
Nova stood near the center.
Her posture was poised, but her heart fluttered like a trapped bird. She reached for her goblet, fingers trembling slightly.
"Hello, Nova."
The voice came from behind—soft, familiar, unmistakable.
She turned, breath catching.
"Your Grace…"
Duchess Silvia of Longsmead stood before her—overdressed, adorned in pastel silks and glittering jewels. Her style screamed "please like me."
Nova's eyes widened. Without thinking, she stepped forward and embraced her.
"It's been ages," Nova whispered, voice cracking. "I didn't know you'd come."
Silvia smiled, arms warm and firm around her.
"Happy birthday, darling. You've grown into a noblewoman. You look absolutely stunning tonight."
Nova blinked rapidly, willing the tears not to fall. Her fingernails dug into her palms—a quiet act of control.
"Thank you, Aunt Silvia," she managed, voice thin.
Silvia pulled back, brushing a strand of hair from Nova's cheek.
"Oh, don't ruin your makeup. Tonight is yours."
She handed Nova a small box wrapped in blue velvet, tied with a crimson ribbon.
Nova stared at it, throat tight.
Near the arched entrance, two women stood with glasses of wine in hand.
Their eyes flicked toward Silvia and Nova.
"I suppose Silvia's already making herself known," Grace murmured, tone sharp. Flamboyant, overdressed, always with a drink—her style screamed "notice me."
"She thinks Olivia will remember her when she ascends the throne. Foolish woman."
Rachel sipped her wine, lips pursed. Slightly weathered, dignified, with expressive eyes—she wore her age and convictions with pride.
"She's always been naive. I don't understand why she can't see Olivia for what she is."
Their laughter was quiet, but it carried weight.
Then—the doors to the grand ballroom creaked open.
Heads turned. Forks paused mid-air. Even the quartet seemed to retreat, notes fading into a distant hum.
A hush fell like a velvet curtain.
Gasps. Murmurs.
"Look."
"The prince…"
Nova's spine stiffened.
Her smile faltered.
She didn't turn. Not yet.
But she felt it—every gaze, every whisper tightening around her like a net.