Between the Lines

Chapter 1 (Fifth Part)

I sighed as I stood in the bathroom, staring at my reflection in the mirror. The warm water from the shower was a relief after a long day of battling designs and Marcello's relentless logic. I let the steam envelop me, hoping it would wash away the tension and frustration I'd built up over the past few hours.

I reached for the shampoo, letting it foam in my hands before massaging it into my scalp. The familiar routine of washing away the day's grime felt almost therapeutic, a small sanctuary of normalcy amid the chaos of my life. The hot water hit my skin, easing the knots in my muscles and letting me relax, even if just for a moment.

As I rinsed the suds from my hair, I glanced around the bathroom—a pristine white space with marble tiles and chrome fixtures, perfectly clean and orderly. It was a stark contrast to my room upstairs. It felt like an extension of the larger house—a space designed for show, rather than comfort. I turned off the water, grabbing a fluffy towel and wrapping it around myself.

I looked back at my reflection as I dried off. My vanilla skin had taken on a rosy hue from the heat, and my dark brown hair was already starting to frizz from the moisture. I ran a comb through it, attempting to tame the waves into something manageable. My light hazel eyes, usually so vibrant, looked tired and a bit distant.

After pulling on my robe, I made my way to my room. It was time to face the inevitable transition from my messy, creative self to the prim and proper daughter my family expected. I opened my closet, scanning the rows of clothes—designer dresses, tailored suits, and the occasional high-end casual wear. Everything was immaculate and perfectly pressed, a testament to my mother's relentless pursuit of perfection.

I reached for a classic black dress—simple, elegant, and understated. It was the kind of outfit that said, "I'm here to be seen, but I'm not trying too hard." My mother's idea of the perfect balance between casual and formal. I slipped it on, adjusting the fit and smoothing out the fabric. The dress clung to my curves in all the right places, highlighting the parts of me that were acceptable to them.

Standing in front of the full-length mirror, I inspected myself, trying to ignore the little voice in my head that was already critiquing every detail. The dress was fine. It was nice enough. But it wasn't me. Not really. It was just another layer of armor I wore to fit into their world.

I started on my makeup, keeping it simple—foundation to even out my skin tone, a touch of mascara, and a hint of lipstick to accentuate my heart-shaped lips. As I applied each product, I found myself slipping into a routine that was almost automatic. I knew exactly how much of each product to use, how to make it look just right. It was like I had perfected the art of looking composed, even if I felt anything but.

By the time I finished, the house was buzzing with activity. I could hear the clinking of silverware and the murmur of conversation from downstairs. I took one last look in the mirror, adjusting a strand of hair that had escaped the confines of my style. My reflection stared back at me—someone who looked polished and composed but felt like a stranger in her own skin.

I took a deep breath and headed downstairs. The scent of roast beef and fresh bread greeted me, mingling with the aroma of candles and polished wood. The dining room was set impeccably, as always. Crystal glasses, gleaming silver cutlery, and pristine white tablecloths created a picture of flawless elegance.

My father was already seated at the head of the table, engrossed in a newspaper. His presence was commanding, a silent reminder of the authority he wielded in this household. My mother was in the kitchen, directing the staff with her usual precision, her voice crisp and unwavering. My siblings—Sophia, the golden girl, and Antonio, the overachiever—were already seated, chatting amiably about their latest accomplishments.