Fourteen days passed.
For the first time in her life, Evelyn didn't count them with dread.
She woke that morning lighter than she had ever felt — not because she wasn't afraid, but because the fear finally had a direction. The suitcase stood upright by her door, zipped, complete. Nothing left behind by accident. Nothing packed in haste.
She carried it down the stairs herself.
The sound of the wheels against polished wood was soft, almost polite, but it cut through the house anyway. The Hart mansion had always been sensitive to disruption. It noticed when things changed.
At the bottom of the staircase, the dining room came into view.
Her parents sat at the table. Miranda beside them. Breakfast laid out neatly — toast untouched, porcelain cups steaming gently. A normal morning preserved out of habit.
No one spoke.
Evelyn didn't slow down.
She walked past the dining room entrance without greeting them, her gaze fixed on the front door. The handle was only a few steps away. The air near it felt different — less heavy. Like possibility.
She lifted her foot to step forward.
"Evelyn."
Her mother's voice echoed through the space, sharp enough to halt her mid-motion.
Evelyn stopped.
"If you walk out that door now," her mother said, rising slowly from her chair, "you will not come back into this house."
The words were calm. Final. Delivered the way rules always were.
Silence followed.
Evelyn didn't turn around immediately. Her fingers tightened around the suitcase handle, knuckles whitening. Her chest rose and fell once — controlled, deliberate.
When she finally faced them, her expression wasn't angry.
It was resolved.
"I know," she said quietly.
Her father didn't speak. Miranda watched her as if witnessing a performance she hadn't rehearsed for.
Evelyn swallowed, emotion pressing briefly against her throat — not enough to stop her. Never enough.
Then she turned back to the door.
She didn't run.
She didn't hesitate.
She stepped forward, pulled the door open, and walked out.
The door closed behind her with a soft, definitive click.
And just like that—
Evelyn Hart chose herself.
The wind met her the moment she stepped outside.
It brushed across Evelyn's face gently, almost tender, lifting strands of her hair. The air felt cleaner beyond the Hart gates — freer. No marble walls. No watchful silence.
A black car waited at the foot of the driveway.
It wasn't ostentatious. No family crest. No excessive shine. Just sleek, understated, purposeful. The back door opened before Evelyn reached it.
A woman stood beside the car, one hand resting casually on the door frame.
She wore a white top tucked into black trousers, sleeves rolled neatly to her elbows. Practical. Confident. Alive. There was something energetic about her posture — like she was always mid-motion, mid-thought.
"You must be Evelyn Hart," she said brightly, offering a hand. "I'm Liora."
Evelyn paused, then shook it.
"Liora Vance," the woman continued with a grin. "Your assigned assistant. Logistics, schedules, damage control, crisis prevention, emotional support when necessary, and professional overthinking on your behalf."
Evelyn blinked once.
Liora laughed. "I'm kidding. Mostly."
Evelyn didn't respond. She stepped into the car without a word.
Liora didn't seem offended. She closed the door gently and slid into the front passenger seat, glancing back with interest.
"Quiet type," she murmured to herself. "I like you already."
The car pulled away.
Evelyn didn't look back at the mansion.
Not once.
The city unfolded quickly beyond the tinted windows — streets she knew, corners she didn't. Familiar landmarks passed… then disappeared.
She frowned slightly.
"This isn't the audition building," she said at last.
Liora turned around in her seat, eyebrows lifting. "Good eye."
"Why aren't we going there?"
"That?" Liora waved a hand dismissively. "That's just one of Milan's talent branches. Walk-ins. Screenings. Entry-level operations."
Evelyn's brow furrowed.
Liora smiled, clearly enjoying the moment. "You didn't think that was headquarters, did you?"
"Then where are we going?" Evelyn asked.
Liora leaned back, satisfied. "Home."
The car turned onto a wider road.
Then Evelyn saw it.
The building rose ahead of them — glass and steel, layered with architectural confidence. Clean lines. Sharp angles. Floors stacked high into the skyline like deliberate ambition. The Milan emblem gleamed subtly on the upper façade.
Her breath caught.
It wasn't flashy.
It was powerful.
"That's… Milan?" she asked quietly.
Liora nodded. "Main entertainment tower. Production, management, branding, legal, creative development, international liaisons. Everything that matters happens there."
Evelyn swallowed.
It was big.
Big enough to rival Cross Entertainment — the industry giant everyone whispered about with reverence and caution.
"So they really are competitors," Evelyn murmured.
Liora's smile thinned, just slightly. "On paper? Yes. In practice? That depends on who's standing where."
The car stopped.
The doors opened.
And Evelyn stepped into a world that did not know her as an afterthought.
Inside, the lobby hummed with motion.
People moved with purpose — assistants balancing tablets, executives mid-conversation, creatives pacing with ideas half-formed and urgent. No one whispered. No one paused to stare.
Until they did.
Heads turned subtly as Evelyn walked past.
Not with judgment.
With assessment.
With curiosity.
She felt it — the weight of being seen for the first time not as Miranda's sister or the overlooked Hart, but as something undefined. Something undecided.
Potential.
The elevator ride was silent.
Liora pressed the button for the upper floors, the numbers climbing quickly.
"Boards don't meet for just anyone," she said lightly. "Try not to faint."
Evelyn almost smiled.
The doors opened onto a quiet, polished floor. Frosted glass walls. Soft lighting. A sense of finality.
Liora gestured toward a large set of doors. "Go on."
Evelyn hesitated for exactly one second.
Then she stepped inside.
The room stilled.
Men and women sat around a long table, expressions unreadable. Eyes sharp. Evaluating. Measuring.
She felt small.
Then she straightened.
"Miss Hart," one of them said. "Please, take a seat."
She did.
A folder slid across the table toward her.
The contract.
Thick. Official. Real.
"Everything has been reviewed," another voice added. "Your terms, your independence, your obligations. You are not signing potential. You are signing partnership."
Evelyn opened the folder.
Her hands didn't shake.
She read every word.
Then she signed.
The pen lifted.
The moment sealed itself quietly — no applause, no ceremony.
Just certainty.
"You're officially with Milan," the chairwoman said. "Welcome."
Evelyn exhaled slowly.
She had done it.
She was no longer waiting to be chosen.
She had chosen herself.