Helena Valecrest
(Past)
Helena learned early how to become invisible.
It was not taught outright. No one sat her down and explained it. There were no rules written, no warnings issued. She simply watched. Loud women were corrected. Emotional women were dismissed. Silent women were kept. The lesson was repeated often enough that it hardened into instinct.
So she became quiet.
Silence made her agreeable. Stillness made her safe. She learned how to listen without reacting, how to smile without revealing anything that could be used against her. Over time, she became skilled at taking up just enough space to be noticed—but never enough to be remembered.
When Magnus married her, the papers called it a love match. Helena read those headlines with careful amusement. Love had nothing to do with it. Love was inefficient. Love complicated things. She had been selected. Chosen because she fit neatly into the life Magnus had already built, because she required nothing he was unwilling to give.
The first wife's departure had been ugly.
Helena remembered the shouting, the way the walls seemed to vibrate with it. The tears that did nothing to soften Magnus's expression. The woman's hands, tight around her son, as if holding him harder could make injustice visible. Helena had watched from the doorway, still and unobtrusive, understanding even then that intervention was a luxury. Survival required neutrality.
Years later, she watched history repeat itself—only now the women were quieter, the arrangements more sophisticated, the stakes higher.
She knew what Adrian was doing long before Seraphina confronted anyone. She recognized the signs easily: the sudden schedule changes, the guarded phone, the faint contempt men developed when they believed consequences no longer applied to them. Helena had seen it too many times to mistake it.
She considered warning her daughter-in-law once.
She didn't.
Warnings changed nothing. Only power did.
----
Helena turned into the narrow corridor outside Adrian's office and collided softly with a girl clutching a thin work file.
The apology came instantly.
"I'm sorry, ma'am."
Too quick. Too careful.
Helena looked at her properly then. The lowered eyes. The restrained posture. The way the girl stood as if waiting to be told whether she was allowed to remain. She had already learned not to take up space.
For a moment, Helena forgot where she was.
The girl bowed slightly and moved past her, heels quiet against the marble, disappearing into the office beside the lifts.
Helena remained where she was.
She didn't need to ask who the girl was. The building had been whispering for weeks. A new secretary. Young. Efficient. Invisible.
Another woman learning how to survive by becoming smaller.
Something tightened in Helena's chest—not pity.
Recognition.