"Haley, sweetheart, come downstairs!"
Haley hurried down the staircase, still tugging at the hem of her pink nightgown with her house shoes flapping lightly against each step. Her curls bounced as she stopped at the bottom, slightly breathless.
Her mother's eyes widened.
"Haley, dear… why are you still in your pajamas?" she sighed, pressing a manicured hand to her forehead. "We have a meeting with the CEO of Spacetime. And later, the Dicksons' special gathering. Mr. Dickson has very high expectations—especially since you'll be marrying his son."
Haley felt her stomach twist at the reminder.
"Now go get ready, darling."
"Understood, Mother," she murmured, though her expression dimmed.
Haley tiptoed back upstairs, her steps slow and reluctant. She closed the bedroom door quietly behind her—almost as if she were closing herself away from the expectations on the other side.
On her bed lay a dress box wrapped in soft tissue. Aurora, the ever-kind housekeeper, must have left it. Haley lifted the lid, revealing a gown in a rich, earthy shade of green—a color that warmed her heart instantly.
A small handwritten note rested on the bodice.
"I hope you like it, Haley. It was prepared specifically for you. I know your favorite color is green."
— Aurora
Haley smiled softly, whispering,
"I love it, Aurora… the best dress ever."
She slipped into the gown, the fabric hugging her gently. Aurora's thoughtful choice made her feel seen in a way her own family rarely did. Haley brushed her curls into place and was adjusting a stubborn strand when—
"Haley! Come on, sweetie, we're going to be late!"
"Coming, Mother!" she called, smoothing the curl one last time.
Downstairs, Mrs. Morgan gave an approving nod.
"There you are, sweetheart. The car is waiting out front."
Moments later, the two were settled inside the sleek Bentley, gliding through the quiet streets toward the Dicksons' estate.
---
The Arrival — Reimagined & Refined
The Bentley coasted to a stop before the sprawling Dickson mansion, its polished black exterior mirroring the towering marble pillars that framed the grand entrance. A valet opened Haley's door, and she stepped out with practiced elegance.
Her green gown fluttered softly with each movement, its tones echoing her warm skin and the natural sheen of her curls. She looked composed—perfect—exactly how her mother liked her to appear.
Mrs. Morgan followed, stepping out in her crimson blazer and sleek black skirt, commanding attention with every poised stride.
"Right this way, Ms. and Mrs. Morgan," greeted a tall blonde woman whose bright blue eyes glimmered with rehearsed politeness. She led them through the doors and into the heart of the Dickson home.
Inside, the scene was dazzling:
crystal chandeliers dripping light, an immaculate dining spread, polished silver, and guests shimmering in formal wear. It all looked like the set of an extravagant holiday film.
For Haley, though, it was simply another stage—one she'd been forced to perform on since childhood.
"Welcome! We've been waiting on you, Mrs. Morgan. This way, dear," Mr. Dickson boomed, waving them over.
At the table stood his son: Timothy, twenty-two, sandy-haired, hazel-eyed, looking every bit the clean-cut heir.
"This is my son, Timothy. I imagine he and your lovely Haley will become very good friends."
Haley offered a polite smile that didn't reach her eyes.
Her mother jumped in enthusiastically.
"Oh yes, I'm sure. Haley's been so busy with the family company—most people her age would still be in university, not managing parts of a multimillion-dollar business."
Timothy laughed—awkward, uncertain.
"Yeah… right."
As her mother and Mr. Dickson continued talking about how perfectly Haley and Timothy would suit each other, Haley folded her hands in her lap and let her gaze drift.
Their voices became muffled noise.
Her attention wandered to the tall window overlooking the street. That's when she saw her.
A girl darted past on a bicycle, her long, dark, windswept hair flowing behind her like a banner of freedom. A delivery bag bounced against the back wheel as she maneuvered effortlessly through the upscale neighborhood. Her simple outfit clashed beautifully with the glittering elegance inside.
But it wasn't her clothes that caught Haley's breath.
It was the fearless ease, the untamed movement, the sense of someone completely unbothered by the expectations of others.
Haley watched until the girl turned the corner and disappeared.
Haley's gaze lingered on the empty street long after the bicyclist had vanished. Her mind refused to snap back to the conversation happening around her.
"Haley, sweetheart… are you okay?"
Her mother's voice cut in, gentle but edged with suspicion.
Haley blinked, straightening in her chair.
"Yes, Mother," she replied quickly, offering a small, practiced smile—the kind she'd perfected over years of being watched.
Mrs. Morgan studied her for a moment longer, as if trying to determine what had pulled her daughter's attention away. But before she could ask anything else, Mr. Dickson launched into another conversation about business partnerships and upcoming events.
Hours later, when the gathering finally thinned out and guests began drifting toward the exits, Haley felt a familiar sense of relief. Her mother bid a cheerful goodbye to the Dicksons, promising future dinners and more "family planning." Haley's smile remained fixed, but inside she felt hollow.
The valet pulled up the Bentley, and both women climbed in. As the car pulled away from the glowing mansion, Haley leaned her head lightly against the window, watching the passing lights blur into gentle streaks.
Her mother spoke first.
"Timothy is such a well-mannered young man, don't you think?"
Haley hesitated.
"He's… fine, Mother."
"Fine?" Mrs. Morgan repeated, sounding offended by the simplicity of the answer. "Haley, he's handsome, successful, and from a respectable family. Mr. Dickson already sees the two of you as a perfect match. This could be a wonderful opportunity for you."
Haley nodded silently, but her chest tightened.
She thought about Timothy: his polite laughter, his awkward small talk, the way his eyes darted whenever their parents pushed them together. He seemed kind, but he didn't spark anything in her—not curiosity, not excitement, not even comfort. He felt like another expectation wrapped in a suit and tie.
But then her mind drifted back to the girl on the bicycle—the wind whipping through her dark hair, the free, effortless way she moved, the contrast she created against the polished world Haley lived in.
Why had that moment stuck with her so sharply?
She didn't know.
But she couldn't let it go.
"Haley?" her mother asked, noticing her silence again.
"I'm just tired," Haley whispered, keeping her eyes on the window.
The car continued through the quiet streets, humming softly beneath them. Haley let the rhythm of the ride pull her into her thoughts—thoughts of freedom, of choices, of a life not handed to her prepackaged and predetermined.
She wondered what it would feel like to ride down a street without anyone expecting perfection from her.
She wondered who that girl was.