The city always felt different once I put distance between myself and the Hart estate.
Out here, no one knew whose daughter I was. No one cared how intelligent my sister was or how efficiently my father ran his empire. I was just another girl walking down the sidewalk, blending into the movement of people who had places to be and lives to live.
I liked that.
The noise wrapped around me—cars honking, vendors calling out, footsteps overlapping in a chaotic rhythm that felt strangely grounding. I adjusted the strap of my bag on my shoulder and walked without rushing, letting myself exist without calculating how I was perceived.
This was the version of myself I trusted most.
I stopped at a small café a few blocks from Hart Enterprises, one I'd discovered months ago during an errand and quietly claimed as my own. The barista smiled when I walked in.
"The usual?" she asked.
"Yes, please."
No title. No comparison. Just preference.
I sat by the window, coffee warming my hands, and pulled out my phone again. The Milan email was still there, unchanged but potent. I reread it, slower this time, letting the reality of it sink in.
A tryout.
Not a guarantee. Not salvation. Just a door cracked open.
And doors, I had learned, didn't stay open forever.
Tomorrow, I would be eighteen.
The thought surfaced again, heavier now that I wasn't distracted by marble halls or measured praise. Eighteen meant adulthood in the eyes of the law—but in my family, it meant something else entirely.
Eighteen meant expectation.
Miranda had been given responsibilities. Introduced to board members. Groomed openly. Her birthdays had always felt like milestones, each one celebrated as proof of her inevitable ascent.
Mine would be quieter.
It always was.
I took a sip of my coffee and stared out the window, watching people pass by—friends laughing, couples arguing softly, a woman scolding a child with affection threaded through irritation. Ordinary lives. Ordinary problems.
I wanted that kind of ordinary.
Not power. Not dominance. Just space to breathe.
After finishing my coffee, I headed toward a modeling supply store across town, the one place I allowed myself to linger without guilt. Inside, mirrors lined the walls, reflecting bodies in motion, posture and confidence dissected into teachable moments.
Here, my body wasn't something to minimize.
It was an instrument.
I practiced walking, adjusting my posture, correcting small habits I'd trained myself out of years ago. In this space, I wasn't an Omega or an afterthought. I was potential. Unfinished, yes—but visible.
That mattered more than I liked to admit.
By the time I stepped back outside, the afternoon sun had softened. My phone buzzed—my mother, checking in with a message that was polite and impersonal.
Dinner at eight. Don't be late.
No mention of tomorrow.
I didn't reply right away.
Instead, I walked.
I let my feet carry me through streets I'd memorized over years of small escapes. With every step, I reminded myself why I was doing this. Why endurance had become second nature. Why I had learned to swallow hurt without choking on it.
Because depending on others had always cost me more than it gave.
Adrian had been the exception.
And exceptions, I'd learned, were dangerous.
I hadn't spoken his name aloud in years. Not even to myself. But sometimes, memories didn't need permission. They surfaced quietly—his presence at my side during tense dinners, the way he used to listen without interrupting, without correcting.
He had never promised me anything.
That, perhaps, was why it stayed with me.
By the time I returned to the estate, the sky had begun to darken. Lights glowed softly through the tall windows, the house resuming its familiar role as something impressive from the outside and suffocating within.
Dinner at the Hart estate was never loud.
It wasn't the kind of table where people talked over one another or laughed with their mouths full. Conversation was measured, cut into precise portions like the food on our plates. Even the clink of cutlery sounded deliberate.
Miranda sat straight-backed across from me, perfectly composed in a tailored dress that subtly echoed the company's brand colors. My mother dabbed her lips with a napkin, already halfway through explaining a concept I knew by heart—not because I cared, but because I'd heard versions of it a hundred times.
"The campaign needs to feel dominant but reassuring," my mother said. "We don't want to unsettle long-term investors."
My father nodded, slicing into his steak. "We announce expansion first, then the philanthropic angle. Strength paired with benevolence."
Miranda leaned forward slightly, eyes bright. "What if we tie the launch to a private gala? Invite select partners, media heads. Make it exclusive. Scarcity creates demand."
My father's mouth curved into a pleased smile. "Exactly. That's thinking ahead."
I chewed slowly, the food tasting like nothing. My fork hovered over my plate as they spoke, voices weaving over one another with ease. They didn't look at me. They didn't need to.
"…and we'll position it as a new era for Hart Enterprises," my mother continued. "A clean transition into international dominance."
Miranda nodded. "We can announce it within the family first. Make it symbolic."
Something tightened in my chest.
Within the family.
I set my fork down carefully. The sound was soft, but it cut through the conversation like a thin blade.
They didn't notice.
"…tomorrow evening would be ideal," Miranda added thoughtfully. "Everyone will already be gathered."
Tomorrow.
The word echoed in my head, louder than it should have.
I looked at them—really looked. My father, already calculating outcomes. My mother, mentally arranging optics. Miranda, radiant with purpose.
None of them were cruel in that moment.
They were simply… unaware.
The pressure built too quickly this time. Too sharply. I felt it rise up my throat before I could swallow it back down.
"Do any of you know," I said suddenly, my voice cutting through the air, "what tomorrow is?"
Silence.
Not the polite kind. The startled kind.
My mother blinked first. My father paused mid-motion, knife hovering above his plate. Miranda's brows drew together slightly, confusion flickering across her face.
"What do you mean?" my mother asked.
I laughed—once. Short. Bitter. It surprised even me.
"My birthday," I said. "Tomorrow is my birthday."
The words hung there, exposed.
My father frowned faintly, as if searching his memory. "Is it?"
That was it.
That was the moment something cracked.
Miranda's expression shifted first—not guilt, not concern, but calculation. She glanced between our parents, then back at me, lips parting as if to smooth things over.
"Well," she said lightly, "that actually works perfectly."
I stared at her.
"If we're all gathered anyway," she continued, warming to the idea, "we could combine it. A small acknowledgment for Evelyn, and then transition into the campaign announcement. It would feel… efficient."
Efficient.
My mother exhaled in relief. "That's not a bad idea. It keeps the evening streamlined."
My father nodded. "Yes. No need for separate occasions."
Something inside me went very still.
"So," I said quietly, "my birthday would be… a segue."
Miranda tilted her head, faintly impatient. "I didn't mean it like that."
"But that's what it is," I replied. My hands clenched beneath the table. "A footnote."
"That's not fair," my mother said, though her tone lacked conviction. "You know how busy things are right now."
I stood up so abruptly my chair scraped loudly against the floor.
"Busy," I repeated. My voice shook now, no matter how hard I tried to steady it. "You're always busy. And I'm always… convenient."
No one spoke.
Miranda looked uncomfortable now. My father's jaw tightened. My mother reached for her napkin, folding it with unnecessary care.
"I didn't ask for a party," I said. "I didn't ask for anything. I just—" My voice broke, and I hated it. "I just thought someone might remember."
I didn't wait for a response.
I turned and walked out of the dining room, my footsteps echoing too loudly against the marble floor. I didn't look back. I couldn't.
Behind me, I heard my mother say my name—once—but it was too late.
In my room, I shut the door and leaned against it, breathing hard.
Tomorrow, I would be eighteen.
And tonight, I finally understood something with brutal clarity:
I was not overlooked by accident.