I woke before my alarm.
For a moment, I didn't move. I lay still beneath the sheets, staring at the pale ceiling as early morning light crept in through the tall windows. The house was quiet in that particular way it only ever was before it fully woke—no footsteps in the halls, no distant voices, no clink of cutlery from the kitchen below.
It took a few seconds for the date to settle in my mind.
Today.
I reached for my phone on the bedside table, my fingers brushing the cool screen before I even unlocked it. The notification was there, exactly where I'd left it the night before.
Milan AgencyPlease confirm availability within 72 hours.
My chest tightened, not with panic, but with something sharper—urgency edged with disbelief. The message wasn't new, yet seeing it again made it feel real all over.
I sat up slowly, the silk sheets pooling around my waist.
Eighteen.
No announcements echoed through the house. No knock on my door. No quiet acknowledgment from anyone downstairs. Just me, my room, and a decision that had nothing to do with the Hart family.
I typed my response carefully, rereading it twice before sending.
I confirm my availability. Thank you for the opportunity.
The message disappeared with a soft whoosh.
There was no dramatic surge of emotion after that. No rush. Just a steady awareness that something irreversible had shifted.
I got out of bed.
The house remained indifferent as I moved through my morning routine. I showered, dressed, tied my hair back neatly. When I passed the dining room on my way out, it was empty—chairs pushed in, table pristine. Miranda had already left. My parents were likely buried in meetings before the day had even officially begun.
I didn't leave a note.
Outside, the city was already alive. Traffic flowed steadily, pedestrians cutting through one another with practiced ease. I hailed a car and gave the address I'd memorized weeks ago, my voice steady despite the way my fingers twisted together in my lap.
The Milan agency occupied the second and third floors of a converted industrial building—brick exterior softened by tall windows and minimalist signage. Inside, the space felt open and creative without being chaotic. White walls lined with mood boards. Polished concrete floors. Long benches where girls sat waiting, some scrolling on their phones, others staring straight ahead like they were conserving energy.
A woman at the reception desk glanced up. "Name?"
"Evelyn Hart."
She checked her tablet and nodded. "You're expected. Have a seat."
I chose a spot near the wall, setting my bag at my feet. The girl beside me adjusted her posture the moment I sat, straightening instinctively. No one spoke. The air hummed with quiet competition and restraint.
When my name was called, my pulse jumped—but my body moved smoothly, as if it already knew what to do.
The interview room was smaller than I expected. Three people sat across from me: two women and a man, all sharply dressed, their expressions unreadable but attentive. Behind them, a large mirror reflected my posture back at me.
They asked about my experience. My availability. How I handled pressure. Whether I understood the realities of the industry beyond glamour.
I answered honestly. I didn't oversell myself. I didn't apologize for what I didn't know.
At one point, one of the women leaned back slightly and studied me. "You don't fidget," she observed.
"I've had practice being watched," I replied.
That earned the faintest smile.
When it was over, they exchanged brief glances—silent communication I couldn't read—before the man closed his folder.
"We'd like to move forward," he said. "Our coordinator will contact you later today."
Just like that.
No congratulations. No ceremony.
I thanked them, stood, and left the room on steady legs that only started trembling once I was back outside.
The café was exactly where I remembered it—small, warm, familiar. The barista smiled when she saw me.
"Rough day or good day?" she asked as she handed me my cup.
"Good," I said. And meant it.
I sat by the window, letting myself exist without expectation for once. The city passed by in fragments—faces, movement, life continuing regardless of whether anyone remembered my birthday.
My phone buzzed.
Mother:Come home quickly. The party has almost begun.
I stared at the screen for several seconds.
No happy birthday.No where are you.Just instruction.
I finished my drink, slower this time, then stood.
By the time I reached the estate, cars lined the driveway. Voices drifted through the open doors, laughter mingling with polished charm. Inside, the house had transformed—staff everywhere, trays of drinks, soft music filling the air.
Guests had already arrived.
My mother spotted me almost immediately. "You're late," she said, though there was no real anger in her voice. "Go upstairs and change. We're starting soon."
"Starting what?" I asked quietly.
She paused, then waved it off. "Just hurry."
Upstairs, a dress had been laid out for me—elegant, neutral, chosen without consultation. I changed quickly, smoothing the fabric over myself, staring at my reflection as if waiting for it to say something comforting.
It didn't.
When I returned downstairs, the room was full.
Business partners. Social elites. Family friends. Conversations overlapped—contracts, investments, upcoming announcements. Miranda stood at the center of it all, radiant, confident, effortlessly commanding attention.
No one acknowledged me.
A cake sat near the side of the room, undecorated beyond simple elegance. No candles. No announcement. Just presence without purpose.
I stood near the edge of the crowd, feeling strangely detached, like I was watching something unfold through glass.
"…this campaign represents the next phase," Miranda was saying, her voice carrying easily. "A clear statement of where we're headed."
Applause followed.
Then the doors opened.
The room went quiet in a way that wasn't deliberate—more instinctive than intentional.
Miranda turned first.
And then I saw him.
Adrian Cross had arrived.