Chapter 1: Beneath the Perfect Smile
I’ve always questioned the meaning of life.
Why do we call it precious when all we do is endure its cruelty? What’s so sacred about breathing when every breath feels like a silent scream?
From the outside, my life glitters—born into a high-class family where perfection is stitched into every smile, every gesture. We are the kind of family others envy. The kind that hosts grand parties in marble halls under golden chandeliers, where laughter floats in the air like a perfume, masking the truth. A perfect illusion.
My name is Irina Valemont, the youngest daughter of Victor Valemont.
My stepmother, Celeste Valemont, is a woman of rare beauty and sharp intellect—worshipped by society, envied by women, and adored by men. A portrait of elegance and power. My father, a well-respected businessman, is both calculating and generous—known for his clever deals and his gentle heart. Together, they are the perfect couple.
And they have one dream for me: to marry Wanston Hale—the heir to the Hale empire, the wealthiest family in town.
On paper, it’s a perfect match.
I can still remember the boy with storm-gray eyes and quiet smiles. Wanston and I used to play in the sun-drenched gardens of the estate, his hand always ready to catch mine when I fell. There was a time I believed I loved him, the kind of soft love you feel when you don’t yet know what love is. He was gentle.
So why does the thought of marrying him now feel strange? Perhaps it's because the boy I once knew exists only in fading memories. It's been years since I last saw Wanston—so many years that I can no longer recall the sharpness of his features or the sound of his voice.
But tomorrow, that changes.31Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlLWqAPf8bZ
Tomorrow, I will see him again.31Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGeMYKcCxCY
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"Madam Irina, it’s getting late. Your parents are waiting for you at the breakfast table," Mara said softly, her hands folded in front of her, eyes cast down in practiced humility.
"Thank you, Mara," I replied, my voice quiet, still thick with the remnants of uneasy sleep.
I walked into the dining room, the air already thick with silent expectations. My heels echoed lightly against the marble as I approached the long table where my father and stepmother sat—poised, perfect, and distant.
I took my seat, folding my hands in my lap.
"Good morning, Father. mother."
My stepmother gave me a slow once-over, her lips painted in a shade too perfect for this early hour. My father looked up from the paper and nodded once.
As I reached for my glass, my stepmother’s voice cut through the quiet like the edge of a blade.
"Irina, did you finish your work?" she asked, not even glancing up from her plate.
"Yes, mother," I replied, keeping my tone even.
She nodded once, delicate and precise. "Good. I’ll review it after breakfast."
The tension in my shoulders grew heavier. I wasn’t hungry, not really, but I forced myself to eat, knowing her eyes followed my every move. Still, I found myself picking up the pace, wanting to be done with it all.
She noticed.
"Irina," she said sharply, her fork pausing mid-air. "How many times must I remind you—a lady eats with grace, not haste. And your posture—dear God, sit up straight."
I straightened immediately, flushing with quiet shame. "Sorry, Mother."
Her gaze lingered on me for a moment longer, cool and assessing, then drifted away.
"Where is that boy?" My father’s voice was rough, barely rising above the hum of the room.
I rolled my eyes inwardly, thinking of my brother—a true troublemaker. He was the kind of brat who did whatever he pleased, a constant reminder of how different our lives were.
"My dear, he's going horse riding," my stepmother answered, her voice smooth and unconcerned, as if my brother’s antics were just another part of daily life.
I huffed, the frustration welling up within me, but I kept it in check. I knew better than to show any outward sign of discontent.
My stepmother’s gaze shifted to me, the weight of it heavy. "Irina, what’s on your mind?"
I met her gaze, then sighed. "Mother, I’m going to my room."
She gave a simple nod. "You can go."
There was only one place in this entire mansion where I could escape the prying eyes and expectations of my family—my room. The only place where I could breathe without feeling like I was suffocating under the weight of their ambitions for me.
"Okay, mother," I murmured, barely loud enough for her to hear before turning away.
"Oh, Mara, I have to finish the work Mother gave me," I said, my voice dull with exhaustion.
"I’m already tired from all this."
Mara nodded, her expression softening as she noticed my weariness. "Madam, should I set your things in the garden today?"
"That’s a good idea, but before that, I have to finish this," I replied, gathering my materials for embroidery.
The rhythmic motion of the needle and thread calmed my mind, even if only for a moment. It was a small reprieve from the weight of everything else.
I worked through the tedious stitching, the designs taking form slowly, carefully. Finally, after hours of work, I exhaled in relief.
"I’ve finished," I murmured, brushing the thread from my fingers.
I was just about to rise when I heard a voice behind me.
"Let me see what you’ve made."
It was my stepmother, Celeste. She looked down at the embroidery with a derisive sneer, her eyes cold. "What is this? You call this embroidery? It’s pathetic. Just like you. Useless."
Her words hit harder than they should.
"You are just like your mother, Irina," she continued, her gaze sharp and condescending. "Always pretending to be something you’re not. Pathetic."
I bit my tongue, swallowing back the anger that threatened to spill. There was nothing I could say. Not to her.
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