Fiona was late.
The moment she opened her eyes and saw the time glowing on her phone, her stomach dropped. She shot up from the bed, her body aching from the blood loss, but panic pushed her forward. She grabbed the red dress and slipped into it as fast as her trembling hands allowed. The moment she looked into the mirror, heat rushed to her cheeks in a wave of embarrassment.
The dress was tight. Too tight. Her arms looked bigger than she remembered. Her chest looked too round, too full, pressing against the fabric in a way that made her feel exposed and awkward.
Her waist wasn't smooth the way she imagined, and her tummy looked round.
She swallowed hard, forcing herself not to cry.
"It's fine… it's fine…" she whispered, pressing her palms gently over the dress to smooth the fabric. She wasn't beautiful like Natasha, but she could try…
She combed through her hair carefully, letting the soft dark strands fall over her shoulders. The curls brushed gently over her collarbones, hiding the bare parts of the dress she didn't want others to notice. Then she sat down in front of her mirror and began her makeup, taking her time with each step even though her hands shook with nerves.
When she applied her lipstick, a deep bold shade, her reflection shifted. She blinked in surprise.
Her eyes looked striking. Feline.
The green in her irises shone more brightly under the dark liner, her lashes curling upward elegantly once she brushed mascara through them.
For a moment, she allowed herself to smile. She liked her eyes.
She inherited them from her biological father, someone she never met, someone she didn't like thinking about. That whole story left an uncomfortable knot in her stomach, a reminder of being unwanted, created from a mistake. She pushed the thought away quickly.
"Not today," she whispered to her reflection. "Not when I want to look happy."
But all the confidence she gathered cracked the moment she stepped outside her room.
Servants paused and looked at her too quickly, too directly. Their gazes ran down her body before darting away, murmuring something softly to each other.
Her cheeks warmed with humiliation.
Do I look too fat?
Do I look ridiculous?
Should I just change?
She bit her lip hard enough to taste a hint of blood, forcing herself not to crumble. Ignoring the sting in her chest, she walked past them with her head lowered.
As expected, no car was available for her. The drivers were always busy, busy for Natasha, busy for her mother, busy for guests. Never for her.
So she booked a cab.
By the time she reached the club, her palms were sweaty with nerves, but the excitement fluttered in her chest again. Jackson and his friends planned this party for her. Today was her happy day. She felt excited.
The second floor of the club glowed with warm lights, the music thrumming gently through the walls.
But the moment she stepped inside, she froze.
Natasha was there.
Sitting on a velvet couch, surrounded by friends and soft golden lights, she looked fragile and breathtaking at the same time. She wore a white dress that hugged her delicate waist, her dark wavy hair cascading down her shoulders like silk. She wasn't wearing a single trace of makeup, but her skin glowed naturally, the kind of beauty that didn't need effort, didn't need enhancements.
She looked like fallen snow.
Soft. Pure. Untouched.
An angel, even in sickness.
And standing in front of her,
Jackson.
Her soon-to-be husband.
His expression was tense as he looked down at Natasha, his white shirt fitting perfectly across his broad shoulders, dark trousers making him appear taller than everyone else in the room. His dark hair was styled neatly, and his eyes, deep and intense, darker than midnight, were fixed only on Natasha.
"Nat, I told you… you didn't need to come," he said, his voice low yet filled with concern. "Why are you so insistent? You should be resting."
Natasha shifted slightly on the couch, her fingers brushing her temple. Even her exhaustion looked graceful.
Fiona stood in the doorway, heart falling slowly, painfully, as she watched the scene unfold.
They looked like a perfect couple.
Perfect height.
Perfect beauty.
Perfect presence.
People surrounded them, smiling, chatting, touching Natasha's shoulders as if she were the center of gravity in the room.
No one noticed Fiona.
Her mind whispered desperately:
Don't disappear again.
Don't stand quietly in the corner.
Don't let her take away your night.
It wasn't jealousy, it was fear.
Fear of being forgotten.
Fear of being unseen.
Fear of her own fiancé not noticing she was even here.
Her palms grew damp, her heart thudding painfully against her ribs. And before she could stop herself, before she could breathe and think and choose dignity, her instincts pushed her forward.
You can't let her take your spotlight.
The voice was tiny but desperate, echoing in her head.
So Fiona stepped toward Jackson.
One step.
Then another.
Her heels clinked softly on the floor. She forced a smile, though her cheeks trembled with nerves. She wanted to look confident, elegant, like a bride-to-be walking toward her groom.
But her body was too tired.
Her steps too unsteady.
And Jackson too unprepared.
She reached him too quickly, too nervously, and her fingers curled around his arm.
"Jack—"
Jackson flinched.
He wasn't expecting anyone to touch him, especially not someone stumbling from behind. His body jerked forward sharply, and for one horrible second he nearly lost his footing.
His friends reacted instantly.
"Whoa—got you, bro!"
"Careful!"
Hands shot out, grabbing his shoulders and steadying him before he could fall straight onto Natasha.
A gasp rippled through the room.
Someone dropped their drink.
Someone else whispered, "What just happened?"
And all eyes, dozens of them, turned straight to Fiona.
Her blood froze.
Her hand slipped off his arm as if burned, her eyes widening in slow horror. Heat rushed up her neck, spreading across her face until her ears throbbed. She felt the humiliation like a physical sting, sharp and deep, settling right under her ribs.
"I—I didn't mean—" she whispered, her voice trembling as she looked at Jackson, guilt clouding her green eyes. "Jack… I'm so sorry…"
She wished she could disappear. She wished the floor would open and swallow her whole. Her chest felt tight, like all the air had left the room.
Jackson straightened, brushing off his shirt, the brief flicker of annoyance quickly wiped from his face. He looked at her, then glanced away almost too quickly, as if embarrassed for her more than himself.
"It's fine," he muttered softly.
But he didn't smile.
He didn't reach for her hand.
He didn't ask if she was okay.
He simply stepped back, closer to Natasha without making it obvious.