"I can become whoever I wish, whenever I want," she sighed, her voice barely above a whisper, the sound dissipating into the golden silence of the room.
She stood in front of the tall, antique mirror, framed in chipped gold leaf, its glass a little warped by age—just enough to make her wonder if it ever truly reflected her, or merely a version of herself that never quite existed.
And yet, I chose this, she reminded herself.This face. This body. This life.
Her eyes traced the delicate curve of her collarbone, where the thin strap of an expensive midnight-blue evening gown rested. The fabric clung to her pale skin like it belonged there—like it knew it was made to drape her just so. Her silky brunette hair was gathered in a tight, elegant bun, not a strand out of place. Around her neck, a silver chain shimmered under the soft, amber glow of the chandelier overhead. It looked like a gift—but she knew better.
She tilted her head slightly, studying herself. Her eyes, a deep navy with flecks of gray, held too many secrets for someone so young. They were the kind of eyes that had seen too much, too quickly, and learned to stay silent.
She looked beautiful.She felt... unrecognizable.
A quiet ache pulsed behind her ribs—a feeling that beauty could not numb. No amount of elegance could drown out the growing, gnawing sense of disconnection from the woman in the mirror.
Just as her thoughts began to spiral, a soft knock at the door cut through the silence.
She blinked. Her spine straightened instinctively, like a puppet remembering its strings.
"Yes?" she called out, her voice smooth as silk—refined, measured, gentle.
But even silk can't conceal a scar.
Even silk can't quiet the pain that clung to every breath she took.
"Madam, the esteemed guests have arrived," came the voice from behind the door—polite, warm, but distant.
"I'll be there in a minute," she replied.
She turned from the mirror, her heels clicking softly on the marble floor. Her reflection no longer looked back. She didn't need it to.
Because tonight, she would be whoever they needed her to be.
She sighed, a soft exhale that seemed to echo through the stillness of the chamber, brushing against the silk curtains and polished marble like a ghost passing through.
Her hand reached for the silver crown that rested on the vanity—an heirloom passed down, heavy with expectation. The cool metal brushed her fingers as she lifted it, her reflection flickering in the mirror like a candle in wind. She placed it atop her head with mechanical grace, the motion so practiced it felt like muscle memory rather than choice.
She stood still for a moment, eyes lingering on her reflection. The woman in the glass wore the crown like she was born with it—yet Elvira felt like an imposter in her own skin. One final breath. A quiet moment of rebellion tucked into silence. Then she turned, her hand wrapping around the ornate brass doorknob. It was cold—almost too cold—and it made her shiver.
She stepped into the corridor.
The sound of her heels echoed as she descended the grand staircase, each step drawing her deeper into the theatre of her father's world.
Below, waiting at the foot of the stairs, stood her father—stiff-backed, dignified, and smiling the way only men who had already decided your future did. He extended his hand toward her like she was something to be presented, a precious object polished for display.
Elvira placed her hand in his, her grip firmer than expected. Their eyes met for the briefest second. His held pride—hers, resignation.
The Master of Ceremony's voice boomed from the far side of the hall.
"Miss Elvira Pierce!"
Applause erupted, polite and predictable. The sound bounced off the chandeliers, glassware, and gold-trimmed walls, but it barely touched her.
Before she could even absorb the moment, her father was already steering her across the ballroom, weaving through a blur of familiar and unfamiliar faces, murmured greetings, champagne flutes, and artificial laughter.
He stopped in front of a tall, pale man standing alone, swirling a glass of red wine that matched the color of his eyes. His gaze lifted the moment she arrived.
"Elvira," her father said, his voice layered with performative charm, "I want you to meet Lord Ronin Bloodstone. He is my late cousin's son."
A pause. The name lingered in the air like the final note of a funeral hymn.
"Pleasure to meet you, Miss Elvira," Ronin said smoothly, offering a slight bow of the head.
He had unruly black curls that framed a face too refined to be called boyish, yet not hardened enough to be called a man's. His wine-colored eyes studied her—not hungrily, not politely. Just... intently.
Elvira gave a slight nod in return, her mind racing behind a carefully schooled expression.
Another stranger. Another introduction. Another role to play.