Everyone has a role in life—at least, that's what I like to believe. Mine? Mine is to look pretty. It's the one thing I've always been told. Your family is so lucky to have such a beautiful daughter. According to them, yes, my parents are lucky, and they waste no opportunity to bask in the benefits of my appearance. Their pride in me is never subtle, never hidden. It's always there, like a beacon to others, telling them exactly who they are and who I am supposed to be.
But am I lucky? To me, this feels more like a curse.
I was never asked if I wanted to be beautiful. I never got the option of a life outside this polished, sparkling world where my looks were everything. I was molded, curated, shaped into the perfect image of what they wanted me to be. My beauty—my curse—is their gift, not mine.
"I heard news of your engagement." The nasally voice snapped me out of my thoughts, and I turned to face a woman shorter than me, perfectly put together as though she had just stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine. The sleek hair, the high heels, the perfectly applied makeup. "Lord Niel, I believe? That's quite the catch." She paused, letting her eyes sweep over me, an edge of judgment hidden behind her practiced smile.
Francine would make the perfect daughter for my parents. She knew how to carry herself, how to make every movement seem effortless and flawless. She was the epitome of grace and sophistication, raised to know her place in society, and the role she was meant to play as the daughter of a wealthy household. I could almost see my mother beaming with pride as Francine praised my engagement.
Me? Marriage? The gossip mill had already spun its usual web, distorting the truth, fueling the fire with half-truths and assumptions. A lot of people were talking, but no one had the real story.
Rebellious—that's how my parents liked to describe me. As though my every move was a challenge to their image, as if my mere existence was a thorn in their carefully cultivated lives.
And speaking of the devil, there she was. My mother, in all her radiant glory, gliding toward us with the same controlled elegance that defined her. Each step she took was calculated, a movement of someone who had mastered the art of control. It was as if every action she made was a page out of a meticulously planned script—one that I was meant to follow, one that was already written for me. She held a glass of champagne in one hand, barely touched, the liquid inside shimmering in the light. There was only a faint tint of red on the rim where she had sipped, maybe a hint of lipstick left behind, but nothing more.
"Well, that's my cue," Francine chuckled, her voice light, but she was already backing away, slipping out of my mother's sight like a mouse running from a cat.
I could feel my muscles tense as my mother drew closer. There was no warmth in her presence, no trace of affection. Just cold precision. "Adele," she began, her voice as sharp as the icy blue of her eyes. "I assume you've heard the talk about your engagement?"
Her words froze me in place. Engagement? The question slipped out before I could stop it. I studied her carefully, trying to read her face, or what little of it I could. She flicked her heavily jeweled wrist, and a waiter appeared by her side, carrying a tray with nothing but an empty glass. My mother placed her own glass on it with deliberate care, her gaze never once leaving me. The waiter disappeared almost as quickly as he arrived, eager to escape the tension in the air.
"Adele," she repeated, her voice now sharper, her tone laced with warning. "We've discussed this before."
We hadn't discussed it, not really. The tightness of her smile, the way her lips barely moved, the lack of any true emotion in her eyes—it was all a sign. She wasn't really addressing me as a daughter. She was addressing a tool. A possession. Something to be managed, not loved.
Her eyes scanned the room, her gaze flicking over the people who stood watching us, always careful not to make a scene. The look in her eyes was clear. This isn't the place for this.
"Where's your father?" she asked, her tone now changing, almost like a calm before the storm. "I have important business to discuss with him."
In other words, let's move somewhere more private. Somewhere she could drop the pretenses, the mask of the perfect mother, and unleash the fury she had been holding in. Somewhere she could shout at me, demean me, and remind me of my role in this family.
I was a tool. A pawn created for the sole purpose of joining our family with another wealthy one. Just another product of my parents' greed. And now, I was to be a wife, an accessory to whatever business venture they could capitalize on. My existence wasn't mine; it was their commodity.
"I think I saw him go out back earlier," I replied, my voice flat, mechanical—like a robot going through the motions.
Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel, heading straight for the back. She didn't glance back to see if I was following. She didn't need to. She assumed I would, and she was right. I did. I was trained for this. Raised to follow orders, to fall in line, to never ask questions.
"Demetri."
My father turned at his name, though his attention was clearly elsewhere. His eyes were distant, unfocused. I could almost see the wheels turning in his mind, calculating his gains for the week, wondering how he could profit from some new scheme he was planning. He had always been like that—his thoughts consumed by business, by profit, by numbers. Emotions, family, love—they never seemed to fit into his plans.
"What is it, wife?" His voice was devoid of warmth, yet he managed to add a touch of forced affection when he spoke to her. Wife. The word felt hollow, like everything in their marriage. Cold, transactional.
His words sent chills down my spine, and I could see my mother shiver just slightly beside me. It wasn't the cold of the room; it was the cold of his indifference.
"Adele seems unaware of her marriage arrangements," my mother stated flatly, her gaze now hardening as she turned to me.
I couldn't hide my surprise. I was sure she was as much in the dark about this as I was. But the look in her eyes told me she was prepared to throw me under the bus, if that was what it took to get her way.
Father didn't offer much in response. His tired eyes remained fixed on something far beyond us. "What's the issue? Her knowing would have changed nothing."
I felt his gaze shift to me then. His eyes—cold, emotionless—held no love, no care. In that moment, it became painfully clear: I didn't exist to him. I was a mere inconvenience, a burden. The only people who mattered to him were himself and my older brother, the heir to his fortune.
And that was it. That was my fate. A daughter born to a man who saw her as a shadow, someone to be managed, not loved. Someone to be married off to another wealthy family. Just another arrangement. Just another deal.
And that was something I was expected to accept.