Evelyn POV
I woke up to silence.
Not the heavy, watchful kind that pressed against my chest in the Hart mansion, waiting for me to misstep—but a softer one. A neutral one. The kind that didn't care whether I rose early or late, whether I succeeded or failed.
For a moment, disorientation set in. My eyes scanned unfamiliar walls, pale and undecorated, sunlight slipping through thin curtains I hadn't bothered to replace yet. The bed beneath me wasn't oversized or ornamental. It didn't feel like it belonged to generations before me.
It felt like mine.
I sat up slowly, the blanket pooling around my waist, and let the realization settle. No schedule pinned to my door. No breakfast call. No expectations humming in the air before my feet even touched the floor.
Just me.
The apartment smelled faintly of detergent and new paint, not perfume curated by someone else's taste. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood, half-expecting someone to knock, to ask where I was going or what I planned to do.
No one did.
In the bathroom mirror, I barely recognized the girl staring back. My hair was loose, unstyled. My face bare. There were faint shadows under my eyes from a restless night, but there was something else too—something steadier.
Ownership.
I showered without rushing, without counting minutes. I chose clothes because I liked how they felt, not because they aligned with an image. Jeans. A soft top. Comfortable shoes.
Freedom wasn't loud.It was quiet. Almost fragile.
The kettle clicked off in the small kitchen as I stared at my phone resting on the counter. I hadn't checked it since last night. A part of me hoped there would be nothing there.
There was one message.
From my mother.
No greeting. No questions. No concern.
Your decision has been noted.We expect discretion moving forward.Do not involve the family name unnecessarily.
I read it twice.
Not angry.Not pleading.
Cold.
My fingers tightened around the edge of the counter, a dull ache settling behind my ribs. This was worse than shouting. Worse than disapproval spoken aloud.
This was erasure made polite.
I set the phone down carefully, as if sudden movement might shatter something, and poured hot water over the tea bag. The steam curled upward, temporary and fleeting.
I took a sip.
It tasted like nothing.
A knock came at the door an hour later—light, rhythmic, unceremonious.
"Rise and shine, future icon," Liora called from the other side. "Or at least open the door so I know you're alive."
I opened it to find her leaning casually against the wall, dressed in a tailored jacket over a graphic tee, sunglasses perched on her head like punctuation. She took one look at my face and softened.
"First morning?" she asked gently.
I nodded.
"Yeah," she said. "That tracks. You did great, by the way. Didn't call the agency in a panic. Didn't vanish into the void. Already beating industry averages."
A smile tugged at my lips despite myself.
"Ready?" she asked, pushing off the wall. "Car's downstairs."
The ride to Milan felt different now that it wasn't hypothetical. Yesterday had been all shock and momentum. Today, reality settled in.
We entered through a different entrance than before—less ceremonial, more practical. Staff moved with purpose, not reverence. People nodded at me, curious but not fawning.
Introductions came quickly.
This was Sofia, head of training.That was Marcus, image development.Someone else handled contracts. Someone else handled scheduling.
No one asked about my family.
They spoke to me like I belonged here because I had earned it.
Training began immediately.
Posture. Movement. Presence.
Not runway yet—not glamour—but fundamentals. How to walk into a room and be seen without demanding attention. How to listen without shrinking.
By midday, my legs ached and my mind buzzed.
"This isn't punishment," Sofia said, circling me with sharp eyes. "It's preparation. The industry doesn't care about your story. Only how you carry it."
I nodded, absorbing every word.
During a short break, I checked my phone again.
Nothing new.
I shouldn't have felt relieved. I did anyway.
Later, as the sun began its descent, Liora reappeared, clipboard tucked under her arm.
"Survived day one," she said. "Impressive."
"I didn't realize freedom came with this much structure," I admitted.
She grinned. "Oh, freedom absolutely has a schedule. Which reminds me—" Her expression shifted, professional but not unkind. "Tomorrow, we start public-facing training."
My stomach tightened slightly. "Public-facing?"
"Media. Presence. Appearances." She tilted her head. "Visibility."
The word landed heavily.
"And before you ask," she added, lowering her voice, "yes—people will notice. That's the point."
I exhaled slowly. "Okay."
She studied me for a moment. "You're allowed to be nervous. Just don't let it decide for you."
As we headed back toward the exit, I glanced once more at my phone, at the message still sitting there—unchanged, untouched.
The family I left behind had already moved on.
And tomorrow, the world would begin paying attention.
I squared my shoulders as we stepped into the evening air.
Freedom had a schedule.
And I intended to keep it.