𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 [18+]

- 45 -

The day of the ball.

The mansion has never been louder.

It's as if the walls themselves are pulsing, trying to contain the noise, the footsteps, the orders being barked down corridors. Staff scurries from wing to wing, heads bent, radios crackling, the marble floors echoing with the click of polished shoes and the drag of garment bags.

I swear I've never seen this many people in the estate at once—florists, photographers, caterers, men in tailored black suits with earpieces and serious expressions.

A storm dressed up as a celebration.

The ballroom is a cathedral of light by now. I only caught a glimpse when they led me past it earlier—a blur of golds, ivories, crystal chandeliers and flickering candles. Enough to make the world outside feel like fiction. It smells like roses and danger.

They started on me before dawn.

Hair, skin, nails, body—every inch of me scrubbed, buffed, painted, perfected. Stylists flit around like hummingbirds, adjusting things that don't need adjusting, murmuring things I don't listen to. My limbs feel detached from me like someone else is occupying my body while I float somewhere above it, watching.

Finally, in the evening the room is silent except for the soft rustle of tulle and the low murmur of the stylist as she fluffs out the last layer of the dress.

I stand in front of the mirror.

The reflection staring back at me doesn't feel like mine.

Soft layers of blush-pink tulle spill over the edge of the rack, cascading like smoke trapped in silk. The fabric is featherlight, but as they fasten it onto me—pulling it tight at the waist, arranging each tier so it falls just right.

The strapless neckline exposes my collarbones, shoulders bare like offerings. The dress fans out behind me in endless layers, each ripples more dramatically than the last. I look ethereal. Perfect. Designed.

Like a doll.

A very expensive, very well-dressed doll.

My hair has been washed, glossed, curled, and set until it falls down my back like a slow-moving waterfall—soft waves brushing my waist, glossy and styled to perfection. I watch a strand slip from my shoulder and curl at my chest.

I miss my last ball - where I had that fire inside me, but this time - I've never felt emptier.

Something is pressing into my chest, sharp and bitter. Like I might burst open from the inside. I want to scream. I want to sob into my hands and ruin everything they've painted onto me.

But I don't.

I just breathe.

I wonder if he'd recognise me like this. I wonder if he'd hate it. Or worse—if he'd see right through it.