When Claire found out she was pregnant, she didn't think much about whether it was a boy or a girl. She was already in love with the tiny life growing inside her.
Her husband, Adrian, on the other hand, had made his preference clear from the start.
"I've always wanted a little girl," he told her, his eyes softening in a way they rarely did. "A princess I can spoil, protect, and walk down the aisle one day."
Claire would just smile and say, "Whatever we have will be perfect."
But Adrian's excitement grew sharper as the months went by. He bought books on raising daughters. He planned her nursery in pink and purple before they even knew the gender. By the time Claire hit twenty weeks, he'd already nicknamed the baby my little Bella.
THE BABY SHOWER
The gender reveal was set in their glass-walled garden room, sunlight pouring in through towering windows. White roses and soft blush balloons framed the space. Staff moved quietly in the background, topping champagne flutes for the guests.
The cake was a towering white masterpiece with gold accents, sitting like a jewel at the center table.
Claire's closest friends gathered around, phones ready to record. Adrian stood beside her, one hand on her waist, the other guiding hers as they cut into the cake.
Pink frosting spilled from the first slice.
The room erupted into cheers. Someone squealed, "It's a girl!"
Adrian's grin was pure victory. He kissed Claire's cheek and whispered, "I told you."
BIRTH
On a crisp winter morning, Isabella Hart was born. The private hospital suite smelled faintly of lavender, and the room was so quiet you could hear the soft whir of the heating system.
When the nurse placed her in Claire's arms, Adrian leaned in close, his voice low with awe.
"She's perfect. Just perfect."
She had a full head of soft dark hair and curious eyes that seemed to follow every movement in the room. She was swaddled in a silk-trimmed blanket before being carried to her own bassinet ,custom-made, with her initials embroidered in gold.
The nursery was fit for royalty: pink and purple walls, a chandelier dripping with crystals, and shelves lined with dolls and storybooks. She had more clothes than most adults—lace dresses, tiny ballet flats, silk bows, all carefully arranged by a hired wardrobe organizer. From the outside, it looked like the perfect start.
But not every beginning came wrapped in silk and crystal.
The taxi pulled away, leaving Joyce standing on the cracked pavement with a baby carrier in one hand and two suitcases at her side. The late afternoon sun dipped behind the rooftops, casting long shadows across the quiet street. Just two blocks away, the gleaming towers of the Harts' mansion rose like another world entirely. But here, in this small apartment complex, life was simpler, rougher, and far from glamorous.
She shifted the carrier against her hip and glanced down at the sleeping infant inside. Ava stirred faintly, her tiny fists curling as though holding on to some invisible thread. Joyce smiled, tired but resolute. "We're home now, baby," she whispered, though the word home felt fragile on her tongue.
The landlord, a stout woman with sharp eyes, handed over the keys after a quick exchange of rent. The apartment was modest—two rooms, peeling paint, and a kitchen barely wide enough for one person to move comfortably. But to Joyce, it was enough. She set Ava's carrier on the small bed, ran her hand over the threadbare sheets, and let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding.
Unpacking was slow, interrupted by Ava's cries for feeding and warmth. Joyce moved about quietly, setting clothes in drawers, lining baby bottles along the narrow counter, and tucking away the few keepsakes she had carried back from the States. Among them was a framed photo of herself with a younger Ava in her arms—no father in sight. Where he was, who he was, remained a truth she carried alone.
That night, as the city lights flickered outside the window, Joyce rocked Ava gently, humming under her breath. She had no mansion, no luxuries, no certainty of tomorrow. But she had her daughter, and for now, that was enough.
8 YEARS LATER
Isabella darted upstairs without a word the moment the front door opened. Her heels clacked against the marble steps before fading into the silence of the upper floor.
Claire stood in the hallway, watching her daughter's back disappear. She didn't need to ask why Isabella looked so tense, she already knew.
In her room, Isabella tugged roughly at the pearl buttons of her dress, her face set in a scowl. Claire appeared quietly in the doorway, then crossed the room to help, her hands steady where Isabella's were trembling.
"Easy, sweetheart," she whispered, slipping each button loose. "It's over now."
Isabella didn't say a word. She only stepped out of the gown quickly and went straight for the navy-blue prince suit she'd hidden away, clutching it like armor.
Claire's heart ached. She knew why her daughter's mood was sharp, why her silence weighed so heavy. It wasn't the dance itself—it was the way Adrian saw her, the way he kept insisting she be his little princess, no matter how much it hurt her.
Downstairs, Adrian hung his jacket over a chair and poured himself a drink. His thoughts weren't on Isabella's tears, but on the next event—his mother's birthday. He could already see it: Isabella dazzling in another new gown, the center of attention.
Later that night, as he lay beside Claire in their dimly lit room, his voice was calm, almost casual.
"Let's find something stunning for her. For Grandma's birthday. I want Isabella to look perfect."
Claire turned toward him, choosing her words carefully. "Adrian, maybe… maybe we should let her choose this time. She's older now. She knows what she wants."
But the memory of his anger, sharp, destructive, stopped her from saying more. She swallowed the truth, pressing it down with the fear of what it could cost.
Adrian glanced at her, then back at the ceiling. "Just something she'll feel beautiful in. I'll trust your judgment."
Claire forced a nod, but inside, dread tightened in her chest. Isabella didn't want beauty on his terms. She wanted freedom. And the longer Adrian refused to see it, the closer they were inching toward a storm Claire didn't know how to stop..
THE GIFT IN THE GOLDEN BOX
Two days later, the Hart mansion welcomed another delivery. The butler brought in a tall, elegant box , ivory with gold edges, tied with a velvet ribbon. It looked less like a package and more like it belonged in the window of an exclusive boutique.
Claire signed for it, curiosity tingling in her chest. She already had a feeling she knew what was inside. Since the Daddy-Daughter Dance, Isabella had been quieter than usual. She no longer rushed to greet her mother after school; she spoke only in short answers. The lightness in her eyes had dimmed.
But Claire had found ways to keep her daughter's spirit alive when Adrian wasn't around. She'd taken to sneaking little outfits from the boys' section into Isabella's closet, carefully hiding them in a large canvas bag tucked at the very back, behind a row of pastel dresses. When Adrian left for work in the mornings, Isabella would change into her preferred clothes, soft cotton shirts, neat trousers, even a tiny tailored blazer. They'd spend the afternoons together, free from the constraints of the princess image Adrian so cherished. And just before his car pulled into the driveway, Claire would help her change back into the "nightwear" he had bought, making sure nothing seemed out of place.
Today, though, there was no hiding from what was coming. Grandma Hart's birthday was only a few days away, and Claire was sure this box was Adrian's latest surprise for his little girl.
She placed it on the marble kitchen island and untied the ribbon slowly, as if undoing a secret. The lid lifted to reveal a gown unlike anything she had seen before, even in her own years of high-society galas. It was breathtaking: layers of shimmering fabric in soft champagne gold, embroidered with delicate flowers, the bodice adorned with tiny pearls. The skirt fell like liquid light. It was, without question, the kind of dress that would stop every camera at the party.
Claire couldn't help but run her fingers over the fabric. It was perfect, too perfect. And she already knew it was the exact opposite of what Isabella wanted.
Her phone buzzed on the counter. Adrian's name lit up the screen. She answered quickly
Adrian: "Has my baby's dress been delivered, honey?"
Claire: "Yes, love. It just arrived. I'm going to show it to her now , she just got back from school."
Adrian: "I'm sure she'll be so excited to see it. It's fit for a queen."
Claire forced a light laugh, ending the call.