Melisa stepped out of the washroom as if nothing had happened—flawless, elegant, every inch the trophy wife she never applied for. The faint redness around her eyes? Oh, just a trendy eyeshadow. Totally intentional.
Her expression was calm. Maybe even bored. Like she hadn't just been sobbing into a tissue roll questioning all her life choices.
Note to self: never underestimate the power of waterproof makeup. She gave her reflection one last glance. Hair, perfect. Smile, weaponized. Sanity? Debatable.
Back to the battlefield.
The party hadn't changed one bit—same fake laughter, same glittering glasses, same people who wouldn't notice if you vanished mid-sentence. And yet, Leonard was still in the same spot. Waiting. Watching.
Melisa blinked. Seriously?
If this was an act, he deserved an award. If it wasn't… well, that was worse.
She paused, pretending to check the hem of her dress just to avoid looking at him. It wasn't cowardice—it was strategy. Or maybe a little cowardice. Who's keeping score?
"Melisa?" Leonard's voice reached her ears—soft, restrained, but oddly persistent.
She lifted her eyes halfway. "What?" she said, brushing nonexistent wrinkles from her skirt. Classic deflection move #3.
Leonard took a step forward and gently tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. His fingers were barely there—like he was scared she'd break.
"Did something happen?"
Her laugh was dry, almost airy. "Relax. It's just makeup. Got into my eyes."
She didn't meet his gaze. She was too busy pretending that the ceiling lights were suddenly fascinating.
"You're fidgeting," he said. Not quite a question, not quite a judgment. Just… an observation. But the kind that makes your spine itch.
Melisa stilled. For a second. Then, she smiled the way one does when they've run out of bullets but still want to look dangerous. "And here I thought fidgeting was free."
Leonard didn't bite. He just kept looking at her, gaze steady and unreadable. "Let's go home. The party's winding down."
Now that made her blink.
"Winding down? It's ten o'clock. People haven't even started getting drunk yet." She cocked her head, suspicious. "What are you, allergic to social interaction?"
A beat passed.
"I just need some air," she added quickly, dodging whatever this was turning into. "I'll be back in a few."
Leonard scanned the crowd before offering, "I'll walk you to the balcony."
"No need. I'm not allergic to fresh air." Her voice came out lighter than she felt. "Besides, it's right there. I won't get lost."
He didn't insist. Just watched her walk away, his eyes a little too quiet for comfort.
Melisa stepped onto the balcony, heels clicking against the stone floor. The night air wrapped around her like silk—cool, perfumed with roses, and blessedly free of small talk.
It should have calmed her.
Instead, her mind stirred like a kicked hornet's nest.
She leaned against the ornate railing, eyes skimming the garden below. Laughter drifted up, soft and scattered, like it belonged in someone else's life.
And then she heard it.
"Don't worry, I'll make her apologize when she comes home."
Melisa's breath caught. The voice was familiar—too familiar.
Below, her father stood with Olivia, gently holding his beloved daughter's hand, like he hadn't just casually decided she was replaceable.
"She doesn't want to come back…" Olivia whispered, her voice thick with tears.
Melisa could practically see the trembling lips and downcast eyes. The award-winning performance was still going strong.
"She's just throwing a tantrum," their father replied, voice annoyingly steady. "She'll apologize later. She always does."
Melisa froze.
And then… it hit her.
She had always apologized. Even when it wasn't her fault. Especially when it wasn't her fault.
Why?
Because she didn't want to be left behind. Because she thought maybe if she behaved well enough, if she was small enough, quiet enough, maybe they'd notice her. Maybe they'd love her.
Turns out, she wasn't unloved.
Just unlucky.
Unlucky enough to be born first. To be the prototype. The warm-up act. The draft they didn't bother to edit.
She pressed a hand to her lips, but the laughter burst out anyway.
Not polite laughter. Not the kind you use to fill awkward silences. This was wild, cracked, edged with something sharp. The kind of laughter that made people uncomfortable.
And it echoed.
The guests below looked up, startled. Olivia stiffened. Her father's expression turned to stone, his pride cracking like cheap porcelain. Embarrassment, fury—both swirled behind his clenched jaw.
Melisa didn't stop.
She laughed like she had nothing left to lose. Because honestly? She didn't.
Let them look. Let them whisper.
She wasn't the one who should feel ashamed anymore.