I wasn't a forgotten princess.
Just a manufacturing error in a long line of designer bloodlines.
Like a chipped cup shoved behind the crystal—technically part of the set, but better left unseen.
My name was Alma de Villeneuve.
I was twenty years old, daughter of old money and older egos.
My father ran financial empires. My mother ran charity galas and emotional cold fronts.
I ran… nothing. I didn't even walk through the main hallway unless I had to.
My room was tucked away in the eastern wing—a forgotten annex of the mansion where even the dust had stopped trying.
Gold trimmings, high ceilings, a chandelier that creaked every time I breathed.
A bed too big for one person. A mirror that never lied. And a silence so thick it could choke you.
I ate breakfast in the kitchen. Not because I had to.
Because it was the only place I wasn't invisible.
— Skipped breakfast again, Alma?
Rosa slid a plate in front of me, eyes narrowed.
— You planning to die of anemia before you die of neglect?
— I dunno. Neglect feels more poetic, I said.
She snorted.
Lucie, the housekeeper, brought over coffee—black and too strong, just how I hated it.
— Don't encourage her, Lucie, Rosa said.
— Why not? Sarcastic's the only spice we get in this house.
These women were the closest thing I had to a family.
Not by blood, but by proximity and pity.
— So, Alma, got big plans today? Gonna leave the house?
— Is it raining?
— No.
— Then yes.
They sighed. In sync. Like a tragic Greek chorus in aprons.
The cab smelled like anxiety, ambition, and expired air freshener.
I sat in the backseat, hands clenched, wallet lighter than my soul.
This wasn't a makeover. This was war.
The building didn't even try to look fancy. Beige, windowless, silent.
No name. No charm. Just a door and a button that led to nowhere… unless you had the code.
I did.
Inside, the décor flipped: sleek floors, hidden lights, white-on-white chic.
It felt less like a clinic and more like the waiting room for people pretending to be better versions of themselves.
— Name? the receptionist asked without looking up.
— De Villeneuve. Alma.
— First time?
— Pretty sure if I'd done this before, you'd know by now.
She raised an eyebrow. Not impressed.
— Waiting Room B.
The room was empty.
Chairs lined the walls like they were ashamed to exist. No clocks. No phones. No distractions.
Just me, the buzzing air vent, and a mirror across the room.
I looked. Of course I looked.
I saw every flaw magnified by sterile lighting. The uneven skin, the tired eyes, the tension in my jaw.
I looked like a badly rendered NPC.
— Miss Alma?
A nurse in spotless white appeared like a ghost with a clipboard.
— The doctor will see you now.
The procedure room was colder than the reception.
Surgical steel. Bright lights. No soul.
The doctor had slicked-back hair and hands that looked like they'd never held anything heavier than a scalpel.
— So, Miss de Villeneuve, what are we fixing today?
— The nose. The teeth. The under-eyes. The trauma.
— Ambitious.
— Just efficient.
He smiled like a man who knew too much and cared too little.
— We'll start with full facial mapping. No pain. Slight chance of existential crisis.
A screen came to life. My face—unflattering in every way—began morphing.
Higher cheekbones. Fuller lips. Balanced symmetry.
A stranger took form.
I stared at her.
I wanted to be her.
Or maybe… I wanted to see her in the mirror just once before I died.
— You'll go under anesthesia. You've eaten today?
— Half a croissant. Cold.
— Romantic. You'll be fine.
They placed the mask.
The chemicals hit fast. The room blurred. My thoughts went soft.
I had just enough time to think:
If I wake up beautiful, I'm starting over.
If I don't... maybe that's fine too.
Then, darkness.
I had hoped the light would return gently.
With violins. A red curtain. A cinematic rebirth.
Instead, I got a flickering ceiling bulb and the stench of expired ramen.
My head throbbed. My limbs felt like they belonged to someone else. And the mattress under me? About one sneeze away from collapsing.
— Ow... ow ow ow...
My voice.
Wait.
My voice?!
It sounded... cheerful. Light. Almost flirty.
I sat up too fast and nearly rolled off the edge of the bed. The floor was dusty, the walls cracked, and somewhere above me, a fan clunked like it had PTSD.
Outside, someone screamed about rent. A car alarm coughed, then gave up.
— Where the hell am I?
My hands.
Slim. Soft. Golden.
I blinked. Looked again.
These weren't my hands. These weren't any version of me I'd ever known.
I stared down—arms, legs, curves that didn't used to exist.
And—oh.
I grabbed my chest with both hands.
— Jesus. Okay. Okay that's... new.
I staggered toward the wall, catching myself on a wobbly table. A dirty mirror leaned against the corner.
I stopped breathing.
Someone stood there.
She had flaming red hair, tangled but glorious. Green eyes, wide and clear like glass marbles. Full, perfect lips. Skin kissed by sunlight.
Even with the grime on the mirror, she looked like a poster girl for every fantasy I'd ever buried.
— That's not me.
I stepped closer.
— That can't be me.
But she mirrored every move. Every blink. Every breath.
I reached out, fingertips grazing the surface.
It was cold. Solid. Real.
My heart started racing.
I stood there, still, eyes wide, lungs frozen.
Then I laughed.
Not a chuckle—a burst of pure, ridiculous, high-pitched laughter.
It spilled out of me like soda shaken in a can, uncontrolled and fizzy and very much alive.
And just like that, I knew.
I was beautiful.
I was broke.
I was very much not in Kansas anymore.
I straightened up, pulled my tangled hair out of my face, put my hands on my hips and said, with the full confidence of a delusional queen:
— OK. I'm hot. I'm broke. I live in a rat hole.
...And I'm going to turn this new life into a runway.