The brush slid through the last strand of hair, smooth as silk gliding over water. Liv's fingers moved with quiet precision. Calm. Steady. But her body trembled.
Two days without sleep. Her feet pulsed with pain. Her back burned with a low, constant fire. Still, she kept brushing.
Before her, Lady Nova stood like a statue in the mirror. Quite tall like her father, glowing, her silver-gold gown shimmering like moonlight woven into fabric. She was flawless. A flame cloaked in silk, ready to be offered to the ballroom, where chandeliers were sparkling like trapped stars.
"Hurry up, you useless freak," Nova snapped. Her voice sliced the quiet like shattered glass.
"The banquet starts in minutes." Liv swallowed hard. Her breath was shallow, her throat dry. Why did my parents have to die? The thought came soft and cold, curling inside her like smoke slipping beneath a door.
"I'm almost done," she whispered. Nova spun, her skirts flaring like a storm. Her pale golden eyes burned with contempt. "Don't speak unless spoken to. You filthy. You have no beginning… and no future."
Behind her, the cousins giggled, their laughter light and cruel, like wind passing through crystal. Dresses rustled. Perfume bloomed—jasmine, rose, and amber—sweet scents that hung heavy in the air, almost mocking.
"Hurry and finish," Nova snapped again. Liv's cheeks flushed with heat. Her fingers trembled. But she didn't stop. She breathed in slowly, pressing the anger back down where it wouldn't explode.
When will I get out of here? Where could I even go? A wish, that's all. Just a wish. She curled one last lock. Near the door, two young servants whispered, eyes wide.
"She's glittering," one murmured. "Yes. I wish I'd been born in Duke Oscar's house," the other sighed.
"Once Nova marries the prince, she'll be unstoppable."
Then, the door opened. A breeze of roses. A whisper of silk. The Duchess of Northmead entered like sunlight through a garden, she looked elegant, graceful.
The room seemed to bend around her. Her gaze settled on Nova. "Oh, my beautiful daughter…" she said, voice golden, soft as honey.
"You look heavenly. When the prince sees you and he will definitely fall to his knees."
Nova smiled, thinly, tight. Inside she trembled. Her fingers twisted at her waist. Liv saw the fear behind the glamour. What if she failed to win him over? Nova's thumb crept toward her mouth.
"No... Stop that," the duchess snapped. Her eyes darkened. Nova dropped her hand, but now her fingers dug into her skin.
Liv watched in the mirror. Her own reflection looked hollow, her apron dusty, her cheeks smudged, a faded dress the color of dried roses. Just a shadow standing behind the light.
The duchess turned. Her gaze landed on Liv, sharp and cutting. "This beauty," she said, lifting a gloved hand, "this magical creation—all of it—is thanks to this miserable, thankless girl."
Her lips curled. "At least she's not entirely useless."
Liv flinched. The comb clinked softly in her grip. Her left hand tapped her thigh without thought. That's not awful, she thought. Could've been worse.
But then, the duchess added, her voice turning to ice, "Once you're done, crawl back to your quarters. I won't have nobles stained by your stench… or your low blood."
Liv bowed her head. Her eyes dropped. If only they could act like humans. Just for today. Just once. It's my birthday too.
She didn't look up. "Yes… mum," she whispered.
"I am not your mother," the duchess hissed. Liv nodded. Her voice barely there.
"Yes… Your Grace."
The door creaked again. This time, the Duke himself stepped in, tall and commanding, like thunder rolling through a summer sky. His coat carried the scent of expensive cologne and aged wine.
"Olivia," he began, "the guests have begun arriving…" His voice drifted as his eyes landed on Nova. He froze. His gaze softened.
Awe bloomed in his chest like sudden spring.
"My goodness," he whispered, stepping forward.
"You're the brightest star in the sky. A lily among thorns."
He held Nova's shoulders gently and kissed her forehead. Firelight pride shimmered in his eyes.
"This is your night."
The Duchess cleared her throat.
"Darling, we need to go," she said, reaching for his hand.
They had barely left the suite when she stopped at the door. Her eyes found the guard without needing to gesture.
"Make sure that rat is locked in her quarters," she said. Her meaning was clear. No one needed her to name Liv.
"Don't let her out."
Liv didn't flinch. The comb sat in her hand like an extension of her quiet defiance. Her heart was still. Not shattered. Not yet. I wish I could attend the banquet… But orphans aren't made for that kind of grace.
She stared at Nova. How lucky you are miss. She thought enviously.
Every curl, every shimmer, every breath of brilliance. She had crafted this perfection with her own hands.
If I can do this… What else am I capable of? Nova turned sharply.
"Why did you stop?"
Their eyes met. She saw it—the hesitation, the fire trying to rise inside Liv. Even the trace of tears.
"Are you jealous?"
Nova asked. Liv looked away.
A thrill run in Nova.
"No. You're ready."
Nova flashed a cold glare at Liv.
"You surely are."
She paused. Her irritation flickered, then softened into something unsure.
"You should have said sooner?"
She muttered, more to herself. She raised her voice.
"Guard!"
He arrived quickly, as if summoned by ritual.
"Take this… thing… to her quarters. Don't let her come out."
Liv didn't wait to be dragged. She walked on her own—steps slow, deliberate, each one grounding her.
Her fingers curled tightly around the comb, like it held a secret only she knew. She didn't look back.
But something had sparked inside her. Not anger. Not sorrow. A quiet flame. The kind that burns deep and long. Like a candle in a forgotten room. Like a star rising behind a cloud. And though the door shut behind her, though the lock clicked, though the world kept spinning without her—she longed to see that world. The one denied to her.
She moved quietly, comb still in hand. Past laughter spilling from the ballroom. Past chandeliers casting golden light on polished marble. Her shadow drifted across the floor—soft, silent, nearly vanished.
The guard followed behind, silent but alert. At her door, Liv paused. Just for a moment.
Inside the banquet hall, golden candlelight shimmered across crystal goblets and polished silver platters, casting a warm, honeyed glow over the veined marble floors.
The scent of roasted venison, spiced wine, and almond pastries hung thick in the air, mingling with the perfume of lilies and powdered nobles.
Laughter rippled through the room like silk, punctuated by the soft strains of a string quartet tucked beneath the grand staircase. Velvet gowns rustled. Jewels winked beneath chandeliers.
Nobles reclined in high-backed chairs, their voices low and conspiratorial, their fingers adorned with rings that caught the light like tiny stars.
Nova stood near the center, her posture poised but her heart fluttering like a trapped bird. She reached for her goblet, fingers trembling slightly.
"Hello, Nova."
The voice came from behind—soft, familiar, unmistakable. She turned, her breath catching.
"Your Grace…"
Duchess Silvia of Longsmead stood before her, radiant in a gown of emerald silk, her silver hair swept into an elegant twist.
Nova's eyes widened, and without thinking, she stepped forward and embraced her.
"It's been ages," Nova whispered, her voice cracking.
"I didn't know you'd come."
Silvia smiled, her arms warm and firm around her.
"Happy birthday, darling. You've grown into a noblewoman. You look absolutely stunning tonight."
Nova blinked rapidly, willing the tears not to fall. Her fingernails dug into her palms, a quiet act of control.
"Thank you, Aunt Silvia," she managed, voice thin. Silvia pulled back, brushing a strand of hair from Nova's cheek.
"Oh, don't ruin your makeup. Tonight is yours." She handed Nova a small box wrapped in blue velvet, tied with a crimson ribbon. Nova stared at it, throat tight.
Across the hall, near the arched entrance, two women stood with glasses of wine in hand. Their eyes flicked toward Silvia and Nova.
"I suppose Silvia's already making herself known," Grace murmured, her tone sharp.
"She thinks Olivia will remember her when she ascends the throne. Foolish woman."
Mildred sipped her wine, lips pursed.
"She's always been naive. I don't understand why she can't see Olivia for what she is."
Their laughter was quiet, but it carried weight.
Then—the doors to the grand ballroom creaked open. Conversation thinned. Heads turned. Forks paused mid-air. Even the music seemed to retreat, softening into a distant hum. A hush fell like a velvet curtain. Gasps. Murmurs.
"Look." "The prince…"
Nova's spine stiffened. Her smile faltered. She didn't turn. Not yet. But she felt it—every gaze, every whisper tightening around her like a net.