Valentina
They told me—no, warned me—never to step onto the land of the U.K.
More specifically, London.
They never allowed me to step outside my house.
They made sure I never crossed our boundary wall, let alone Berlin.
They hid me from the media as if I were a secret too dangerous to reveal.
I am their only daughter—the daughter of Berlin's powerful politicians.
Jennifer Quinn and Elaine Quinn.
My mother and father.
Every time I asked why London was forbidden, their faces would twist in horror, shadows flashing in their eyes. They never gave me an answer, only repeated the same words: London is not meant for us.
Weird, isn't it?
I was caged. Protected. Hidden.
But not anymore.
Now, as I stand here, I drink in the view of London—the river glinting under the light, the broad and towering buildings, the rich architecture that feels both old and eternal. It's expensive, it's grand… exactly my taste.
I've always loved royal architecture more than modern designs. The kind of beauty that carries history in its bones. My heart beats faster just looking at it.
A barely-there smile ghosts across my lips. I don't know why my father looked so broken the day I left, why his hands trembled as if I were slipping away forever. He was on the verge of losing his composure.
But how could I not come?
I begged him. I pleaded.
Because tomorrow… tomorrow is my first-ever fan meet.
I've been an author for five years now. I started writing when I was twenty, scribbling words into stories that became my world. Convincing my parents was never easy, but I kept fighting for it. I used to win small writing contests as a child, sending my entries to online platforms, my prizes arriving quietly at my aunt's house instead of ours.
Mother hated it.
She always looked at me with disappointment, as if every certificate was a reminder that I wasn't who she wanted me to be. Her scowls cut deeper than her words.
But Father… he was different. His pride never dimmed, no matter how small the win. He clapped the loudest for me, even in secret.
When I told him about my dream of becoming a full-time author, his face betrayed concern. Writing doesn't bring in money, he said. It doesn't secure a future. And maybe he was right. But for me, it was never about money—it was about giving life to words, about putting smiles on faces I've never met.
And now here I am.
I've stepped out of Berlin, out of my birthplace, into a country that has always been forbidden.
But I know my father.
He will not sit still.
He will send someone to keep eyes on me. I can feel it.
In the mirror of the washroom, I catch my reflection. I am not a copy of my mother, no matter how many times she tried to force me into her mold. She used to taunt me endlessly—why wasn't I like her, in beauty, in behavior, in ambition?
She had smooth tanned skin, sharp brown eyes, sleek blonde hair, and a face carved with precision. A woman who commanded attention.
Me? My skin is pale, with a faint natural blush along my cheekbones. My eyes are a soft ice-blue, wide and expressive—my father's eyes. My cheeks still carry the softness of youth, and my long, wavy hair refuses to be tamed.
Father once told me some of my features came from his late stepsister, my aunt—the aunt I never met. Mother never believed it. She would glare at him, fury simmering in her silence.
"Your behavior reminds me of someone," she used to hiss at me.
"Behave like me. I gave you birth."
"How can you not look like me?"
"You should join our field. Stop wasting time on that romantic nonsense."
She even went as far as to conduct a DNA test. It matched, of course, but the wound it left behind never really healed. How can a mother doubt her own child's blood?
She died two years ago, leaving behind a legacy of harshness… and one habit that I carry with me still.
To wear a smile so beautiful, no one can tell whether it's real or fake.
I take a deep breath and force that very smile onto my face.
Get your act together, Valentina.
Tomorrow is the most awaited day of your life.